Although my body knows Bharatanatyam better than any other movement form, it developed a fundamental disagreement with this classical form earlier this year.
As the intensity of training increased last year in Bangalore, I found myself mentally holding a clipboard against which I would cross-check my technique; is my aramandi deep enough, is my turnout coming from the right place, are my elbows at the right curvature, could I be sitting more, stretching more, moving faster? At any one moment while dancing, there were countless targets to hit. It didn't feel like I had any spare mental energy to devote to enjoying the movement that I was producing. Even more worryingly, I was trying to convince the audience that I had a spectacular freedom in my limbs, while not actually feeling it.
I compared this experience to that of dancing salsa, another movement form that I have devoted some time to. My memories were abound with spontaneous spins, joyful improvisation and confident head flicks. This seemed more in line with what dancing 'should' feel like. I became convinced that it was the classicism in Bharatanatyam that restricted spontaneity, joy, real expression, and ultimately, freedom. How can one feel free when every corner of movement is tied down with rules that define what is beautiful, what is acceptable?
Then that thing happened. You know, when because you're aware of something, you begin to see it everywhere? Everything I came across spoke to me about freedom in a classical art, and I wasn't happy with the answers that I found.
Twyla Tharp, a highly celebrated dancer and choreographer, argues that dancers are masters of illusion. She takes the most undeniably free dancer there is, and coincidentally also my favourite dancer of all time, Fred Astaire, and asserts that "he constructed the illusion of a man who was completely at ease with his body and his movements, as if he were acting totally on impulse, and yet nothing was unscripted, unrehearsed, or out of his control."1
I didn't enjoy hearing this at all. I don't want to trick people into thinking I'm feeling free, I want to feel free. Isn't that a fundamental part of dancing?
Shobana Jeyasingh, the UK's most successful Indian choreographer, who started off in Bharatanatyam, had this direct challenge for me. "There is a special quality to the pleasure that comes from technical achievements governed by strict rules where the achievements are ends in themselves." She even went as far as to say (quoting Arnold Haskell), "it is this classicism that is helping the dancer to express herself, that leaves her so gloriously free, if only she is big enough."2
Ok whoa, so I'm not big enough to manage feeling free? That's depressing. Am I doing something wrong? Hold on though, why have rules in the first place? Why does one need rules in order to dance?
Psychologist Csikszentmihalyi who is famous for his work on 'flow', a state of optimal being which feels like all-powerful freedom, explains how a framework (aka rules) is essential to experiencing this. He argues that it is the crucial balance between challenge and skill that gives way to this feeling of ultimate happiness.
I couldn't deny that there was a unique pleasure to getting something right, noting that for something to be right, the 'rightness' needs to be defined by... rules. But, it was this next encounter with wisdom that broke down my brick wall to understanding Freedom.
Bill Evans, genius jazz pianist is prompted by his interview host talking about freedom: "Improvisation has granted freedom to the musician. Mozart loved improvisation because it was free... a strong element in Jazz is this spontaneous creativity." Evans corrects him with crystal-clarity, "But, no matter how much I find freedom in this form, it only is free in so far as it has reference to the strictness of the original form - that strict structure is what gives it its strength. There is no freedom, without being in reference to a form." The host is enlightened; "Ah yes, if there is no place to depart from, then you can't depart."
He recounts his journey to becoming an improviser as a disciplined and patient one, explaining that for about 22 years, he worked on mastering technical challenges one by one until each was absorbed into his subconscious body. Doing this, he could free up his mind to concentrate on the next problem, and so on; "it was only at 28 that I began to feel a degree of expressive ability - to now let out my feelings freely through my craft."
This resonated directly with me, and reminded me of the first ever piece of freedom-related wisdom I had received six months ago.
My Bharatanatyam teacher Rukmini Vijayakumar (coincidentally noted often for the exceptional freedom in her formal movements) had patiently listened to me complaining about how restricted Bharatanatyam made me feel, and simply told me that I had to practise more. If my mind is still ticking off a technique checklist, then I have not yet perfected my craft to the degree that is necessary for freedom to emerge. Bill Evans recommends taking care of one's craft "with the utmost life and discipline, even if its in a closet, so that someone can one day open the closet and say, 'we are looking for you.'"
5 months since I left Bangalore, confused about which movement form I belonged to and craving a truly joyful experience with dance, today I found myself tasting limitlessness within the formal movements of Bharatanatyam. The words of these experienced artists are ringing in my ears, and I am excited about what liberation is waiting ahead for me.
¹ Tharp, Twyla, and Mark Reiter. The Creative Habit: Learn It and Use It for Life : a Practical Guide. New York: Simon & Schuster, 2003.
² Jeyasingh, Shobana. "Getting Off the Orient Express." Dance Theatre Journal. 8.2 (1990): 34-37.