The intriguing link between writing and dancing has occupied my thoughts recently, a connection I am eager to explore further. While the relationship between music and writing is often discussed, the synergy between dance and prose feels somewhat overlooked, perhaps due to its seemingly counter-intuitive nature. Yet, for me, these two art forms are deeply intertwined. Dance, in its expressive physicality, offers profound insights into the creative process of writing itself.
A piece of advice intended for dancers, famously articulated by choreographer Martha Graham, resonates deeply with writers as well. In her biography, Graham urges, “There is a vitality, a life force, an energy, a quickening that is translated through you into action, and because there is only one of you in all of time, this expression is unique. And if you block it, it will never exist through any other medium and it will be lost. The world will not have it. It is not your business to determine how good it is nor how valuable nor how it compares with other expressions. It is your business to keep it yours clearly and directly, to keep the channel open.” This powerful statement serves as a reminder for both dancers and writers to embrace their unique voice and creative flow, unburdened by self-doubt or comparison.
What can the art of words learn from an art form that transcends verbal expression? I contend that observing dancers has been as instructive for my writing as reading itself. Dance provides invaluable lessons in position, attitude, rhythm, and style, some readily apparent, others more subtly absorbed. What follows are reflections on these lessons, drawn from the world of dance and applied to the craft of writing, culminating in an exploration of contemporary icons like Beyonce Dance and her powerful embodiment of movement and message.
Fred Astaire and Gene Kelly: Grounded vs. Floating in Style
“Fred Astaire represents aristocracy when he dances,” Gene Kelly astutely observed, “and I represent the proletariat.” This distinction, while seemingly simple, unveils a profound truth about contrasting styles. Astaire, with his tall, slender frame, exudes elegance. Kelly, more muscular and athletic, embodies a grounded physicality. The visual cues are immediate: Astaire in top hat and tails versus Kelly in a T-shirt and slacks. Yet, even when Astaire shed the formal attire, his movement remained elevated, as if effortlessly gliding across any surface. Kelly, conversely, maintained a lower center of gravity, his movements rooted, connected to the earth.
This difference in physical presence translates into distinct artistic approaches. Astaire’s detachment from the ground mirrors a detachment from the everyday, a movement through the world with fluid grace. Kelly’s groundedness reflects a connection to specific places and communities. Cyd Charisse noted the physical toll of dancing with Kelly – bruises a testament to his vigorous style – compared to the effortless grace of Astaire. Astaire’s aloofness extended to his partners; his on-screen pairings with Ginger Rogers, while harmonious, lacked overt sensuality. Kelly, in contrast, exuded a palpable earthiness, particularly evident in his sensual dance with Cyd Charisse in Singin’ in the Rain. This earthiness brings with it a certain undeniable vitality and passion.
In writing, this duality manifests as a choice between the “grounded” and the “floating.” “Grounded” language is the language of the common sphere – television, supermarkets, news – familiar, accessible. Some writers embrace this language, dissecting and repurposing it. Others, like Nabokov, an aristocrat in both lineage and aesthetics, largely eschew it, crafting prose that is deliberately “literary,” distant from everyday speech.
Literary language, in its artifice, acknowledges its constructed nature. Commonsense language, however, often masquerades as natural and conversational, yet is frequently as manufactured as any artifice, shaped in boardrooms and political offices. It can be simultaneously sentimental and manipulative. (Consider phrases like “The People’s Princess” or “Make America Great Again.”) While claiming to reflect natural speech, true attention to authentic dialogue often leads writers towards categorization as stylists, satirists, or experimentalists. Beckett and George Saunders exemplify this. In dance, Bill “Bojangles” Robinson provides a parallel. His tap-dancing on stairs, seemingly mundane, became surreal in his signature routine featuring two staircases intertwined – a staircase to nowhere, echoing Escher’s impossible geometries.
Astaire, while not experimental like Twyla Tharp or Pina Bausch, transcends reality. He poses a fantastical question: what if a body moved through the world with such effortless grace? It remains a dreamlike question, as no one truly moves like Astaire in reality.
Kelly, however, mirrors our own potential for grace. Watching French children emulate his movements from On The Town on the High Line or seeing New York kids swing on subway poles, one recognizes Kelly’s embodiment of everyday grace. He demonstrates the poetic potential within the prosaic, achievable through dedication. Astaire, conversely, seems to defy effort, embodying “poetry in motion,” his movements so otherworldly they set a limit on aspiration. Few expect to dance like Astaire, just as few realistically aim to write like Nabokov.
Harold and Fayard Nicholas: Representation vs. Joy in Performance
Like dance, writing is accessible to those with limited resources. Virginia Woolf famously noted that for a pittance, one can acquire enough paper to pen Shakespearean plays. The only essential tool for dance is the body itself. Many dance legends hail from humble backgrounds. For Black dancers, this often carries the added weight of racial representation. On stage, under scrutiny, the question arises: what persona to present? True self? Idealized self? Representation? Symbol?
The Nicholas Brothers, children of educated musicians, weren’t from the streets, yet lacked formal dance training. They honed their skills observing performers on the “chitlin circuit,” the Black vaudeville scene. In films, their dazzling performances were often structured to be easily excised for screenings in segregated Southern theaters without disrupting the narrative. Genius contained, yet undeniable.
Sammy Davis Jr., another chitlin circuit alum from modest beginnings, declared, “My talent was the weapon, the power, the way for me to fight. It was the one way I might hope to affect a man’s thinking.” This sentiment resonates within communities where talent becomes a primary asset. The mantra of being “twice as good” is a familiar one, a parental urging to overcome systemic barriers through exceptional ability. Watching the Nicholas Brothers, one witnesses this pressure made manifest.
They surpassed expectations, exceeding any reasonable measure of skill. Fred Astaire hailed their Stormy Weather routine as the pinnacle of cinematic dance. Their descent down a grand staircase, performing splits as if it were commonplace locomotion, is breathtaking. Impeccably dressed, they transcend mere representation, embodying excellence itself.
Yet, a subtle difference between Harold and Fayard emerges. Fayard embodies the responsibility of representation. His demeanor is formal, his technique flawless, projecting an unassailable propriety – a testament to his race. Harold, however, surrenders to pure joy. His hair, initially slicked back, gradually loosens with his movement, his natural afro curls escaping, unrestrained. The lesson: between propriety and joy, choose joy. This resonates powerfully with the spirit of Beyonce dance, which, while meticulously crafted and powerful, ultimately exudes joy and liberation.
Michael Jackson and Prince: Legibility vs. Temporality in Icon Status
YouTube dance-offs between Michael Jackson and Prince present a stark dichotomy. It’s not about relative skill; both were exceptional. The choice lies between opposing values: legibility versus temporality, monument versus mirage.
Both were physically similar – slight frames, long necks, lean legs, power emanating from the torso. Both were indebted to James Brown, borrowing splits, spins, glides, and head jerks. Yet, their dance styles diverged dramatically. Prince’s dance is elusive, ephemeral. Recalling specific Prince dance moves is surprisingly difficult. Spinning, splits – generic gestures. What constitutes “Prince-like” dance remains enigmatic. His performances felt intensely personal, almost private, despite stadium crowds. Their greatness was fleeting, confined to the moment of performance. To be a Prince fan was to feel a unique, personal connection.
Jackson was the antithesis. Every move was legible, public, endlessly imitated – a meme before memes. He conceived dance in images, across time. He meticulously outlined each movement, like a forensic sketch. His signature neck-forward lean, shortened trousers highlighting ankle movements, groin grabs emphasizing gyrations, a single gloved hand punctuating rhythms – all designed for clarity and impact.
His later stage costumes further amplified legibility. They resembled armor, delineating each body part, ensuring no movement went unnoticed. Straps visualized joint flexibility; a metallic sash accentuated shoulder shifts; a belt defined hips, highlighting torso-leg separation; even a silver thong amplified groin movements. Subtlety was absent, but legibility reigned supreme. Michael Jackson’s dance legacy is enduring, his moves eternally replicable.
Prince, precious and elusive, embodies a different artistic truth: elusiveness holds a deeper beauty than the easily decipherable. Like Keats compared to Byron in literature, Prince represents fleeting inspiration, an ode to a passing sensation. He adapted with shifting moods, a crucial lesson in artistic fluidity.
Monumental status lacks freedom. Better to be the artist jamming at a house party, whose essence evades capture despite ubiquitous phone recordings. Prince, in his departure, escaped definition once more. His image may endure, but its clarity will never match Jackson’s. From Prince, writers learn the power of elusiveness, the beauty of the ungraspable.
Janet Jackson / Madonna / Beyoncé: The Command of Collective Movement in Beyonce Dance
These three artists transcend mere imitation; they demand it. They move beyond legibility into prescription. They command armies of followers. Like military leaders, they inspire synchronized, collective movement. The uniformed dancers mirroring their every gesture become an anonymous corps, precisely replicating the general’s commands. This is powerfully evident in Beyonce dance performances.
Beyonce’s Formation tour vividly illustrated this. Raising her arm like a shotgun, miming a trigger pull, accompanied by gunshot sound effects – a stark, commanding gesture. This is not intimate dance; it operates as a franchise, a ruling idea – “Beyoncé” – disseminated across cells worldwide. At a Wembley concert, much of the audience faced each other, not the stage. Watching Beyonce herself became secondary; her essence was internalized. Gym friends formed circles, pumping fists; hen-party groups mirrored “Beyonce” moves; Beyhive members shouted lyrics at each other. The concert became a public display of allegiance, a collective embodiment of the Beyonce dance ethos.
Janet Jackson initiated this phenomenon; Madonna continued it; Beyoncé is its apex. Here, dance becomes a declaration of female will, a tangible expression of its reach and power. The message is clear: “My body obeys me. My dancers obey me. Now you will obey me.” The audience, in turn, imagines being obeyed, a potent fantasy fueled by the commanding presence of Beyonce dance.
Literary counterparts exist: Muriel Spark, Joan Didion, Jane Austen. These female writers inspire similar devotion (albeit in smaller circles), offering comparable qualities: complete control over form, limited freedom for the reader. Compare them to Jean Rhys or Octavia Butler, beloved but rarely imitated, offering too much freedom. Every Didion sentence proclaims: “Obey me!” Who runs the world? Girls! And in the realm of performance, Beyonce dance emphatically answers.
David Byrne and David Bowie: The Art of Not Dancing in Expressive Awkwardness
The art of not dancing is a vital lesson. Awkwardness, inelegance, jerky movements – being neither poetic nor prosaic, even “bad” – holds expressive power. It explores alternative bodily possibilities, challenging conventional aesthetics, disrupting expectations. Intriguingly, both Byrne and Bowie employed their “worst” dance moves in their “blackest” musical explorations. Byrne, in oversized trousers, sings “Take me to the river,” observing his own awkward hip movements as if disowned. “This music is not mine,” his clothes suggest, and his movements amplify this: “Perhaps this body isn’t mine either.” This leads to a liberating realization: perhaps nothing is truly owned.
Excessive possessiveness over “heritage” or “tradition” can stifle creativity, especially for writers. Preservation has its place, but should not impede freedom or artistic appropriation. All aesthetic expressions are universally accessible, under the banner of love. Bowie and Byrne’s evident affection for what was “not theirs” reveals new facets in familiar sounds. Before witnessing their unconventional dance, the idea of resisting a drumbeat’s curve with anything but harmonious, sensual movement seemed foreign. But resistance – angularity, spasms (Bowie), questioning one’s own limbs (Byrne) – becomes a valid expressive choice.
Luther Vandross, backing vocalist for Bowie during “Young Americans,” observed Bowie’s flailing with curiosity. Perhaps initially questioning, Vandross, and audiences, soon grasped the point. Something different, something old yet new, emerged from this deliberate awkwardness.
Rudolf Nureyev and Mikhail Baryshnikov: Inward vs. Outward Facing Performance
When facing an audience, where does one direct their focus? Inwardly or outwardly? Or a blend? Nureyev, fiercely intense, vulnerable, captivating – like a deer caught in headlights – is resolutely inward-focused. “You can’t take your eyes off him,” yet watching him is almost painful. He seems fragile, on the verge of collapse or explosion. He never does, but each leap carries a sense of potential disaster, akin to high-strung athletes. With Nureyev, the audience becomes privileged onlookers, granted access to witness a miracle. It is an honor to watch Nureyev, even in grainy YouTube videos. He embodies a kind of miracle, aware of this status in his performance.
Baryshnikov dispels such anxieties. He is outward-facing, seeking to engage and please his audience, succeeding fully. His face dances as much as his limbs. (Nureyev’s face remains lost in internal emotion.) Baryshnikov aims to charm, to entertain – comic, dramatic, cerebral, clownish, adapting to audience needs. He is both loving and loved. He navigates high and low art, soft and strong poses, always directed outwards, towards the audience.
Meeting Baryshnikov, star-struck, I managed to ask if he’d met Fred Astaire. He smiled, recounting a dinner meeting: “Yes, once, at a dinner. I was very star-struck, I hardly spoke. But I watched his hands all the time, they were like a lesson in themselves – so elegant!” This anecdote encapsulates the enduring power of dance to teach, to inspire, and to connect artists across disciplines and generations, from Astaire’s elegance to the commanding presence of Beyonce dance. Dance, in its myriad forms, continues to offer invaluable lessons for writers, enriching our understanding of rhythm, style, presence, and the very essence of human expression.
