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The Perks of Being an Artist

~ Because demented people need love, too.

The Perks of Being an Artist

Category Archives: dance

Searching For My Soul

09 Tuesday May 2017

Posted by emilypageart in art, dance, painting, Uncategorized

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abstract, abstract expressionist, art, artist, dance, dance art, dance painting, dancers, Emily Page Art, expressionism, oil painting, painter, painting, Raleigh artist

In my effort to not leave you totally hanging while I’m living the good life as the youngest person on a boat cruising down the Seine for the next couple weeks, I’m randomly posting some of my paintings for your viewing pleasure. Several years ago, I photographed a group of young dancers to paint from, and I let them all name the paintings. This little dancer had a flair for the dramatic. She chose to call hers “Searching for My Soul.”

Searching for My Soul_compressed

Searching For My Soul 36″ x 24″ oil on canvas

Original available here. Prints and other cool merchandise available here.

 

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Freak Show

06 Monday Mar 2017

Posted by emilypageart in dance, kindness, music, Uncategorized

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ani difranco, David Bowie, freaks, freakshow, halloween, Monday morning, music, music to start your day, savage, the goblin king, The Labyrinth, timmy trumpet

Today is all about freaks. Why? Because I said so. So here are 3 freaky things for your viewing and listening pleasure. This outta help you start your day off right.

First, several years ago, I was David Bowie from The Labyrinth for Halloween. Because David Bowie:

David Bowie.jpeg

Yes, that is a rolled up sock (actually MULTIPLE rolled up socks) stuffed down the crotch of my pants.

Second, I give you the first song I started my day with: Ani Difranco’s Freakshow. This is an excellent song to screamsing to.

And third, I give you the the second song I started my day with: Timmy Trumpet and Savage’s Freaks. This is an excellent song to stompdance to.

Good morning. Now go about your freakish day.

***********************************************************************

Thanks so much for reading my ridiculous thoughts! If you’d like to see my ridiculous thoughts translated into art, visit my website, or follow me on Facebook and Twitter. Know a caregiver, or someone with dementia, or someone who knows someone with dementia, or someone who knows someone who knows someone else who’s a caregiver? Or heck, do you know a person? Well, you should tell them about my book, Fractured Memories: Because Demented People Need Love, Too. Part memoir and part coffee table art book, I recount my family’s heartbreaking and hilarious journey through my father’s dementia. Available to purchase here (this is my favorite way if you live in the U.S.), here if you’d rather get the eBook than a print copy, and here (especially if you want a hard cover copy).

book-cover-1

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Dance Swag

03 Saturday Dec 2016

Posted by emilypageart in art, dance, painting, Uncategorized

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art, artist, ballerina, ballet, ballet art, ballet merchandise, ballet swag, christmas present for dancer, dance, dance art, dance merchandise, dance swag, dancer, dancers, Emily Page, Emily Page Art, gift ideas for dancers, male dancer, paint, painter, Raleigh artist

While I’ve been posting a lot of fun merchandise with my art on it, I haven’t highlighted any of the dance art yet. Here’s where I remedy that. As you’ve probably already seen, I’m offering a calendar with some of my dancer paintings, but I’ve also created several black and white dancer “sketches” and added them to all kinds of cool stuff on RedBubble and Fine Art America. Click on the caption below each picture to purchase and/or see more options:

dance-a-line-dress

Leaping A-Line Dress

dance-clock

Crouch Clock

spark iv pillow.png

Spark Throw Pillow

dance-drawstring-bag

Primal Drawstring Bag

dance-laptop-skin-1

Crouch Laptop Skin

dance-pouch

Leaping Pouch

dance-spiral-notebook

Primal Spiral Notebook

spark-scarf

Spark Scarf

dance-tank

Arabesque Contrast Tank

dance-throw-pillow-1

Balance Throw Pillow

dance-tote-bag-1

Balance Tote Bag

dance-t-shirt-1

Crouch Unisex T-Shirt

exuberance-a-line-dress

Exuberance A-line Dress

dance-t-shirt-dress

Balance Graphic T-Shirt Dress

dance-shower-curtain

Arabesque Shower Curtain

Leaping II a-line dress.jpg

Leaping II A-line Dress

arabesque-onesie

Arabesque Onsie for your future dancer!

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Black Friday Cyber Monday Last Call

01 Thursday Dec 2016

Posted by emilypageart in dance, painting, Uncategorized

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art, artist, ballerina, ballet, ballet art, black friday art, cyber monday art, dance, dance art, deal, Emily Page, Emily Page Art, paint, painter, painting, Raleigh artist

Guess what?! I ignored my artistic hatred of Black Friday and offered a deal! *gasp* And then I was lazy and used the exact same coupon code for Cyber Monday. Same deal, different day. This is officially your last chance to take advantage of said deal. Until 12/2/16, I’m offering 20% off of any purchases of $150 or more. I KNOW. Just use the coupon code BlackFriday2016 to save! Shop now at http://shop.emilypageart.com/ and wake up your walls!

Double Arabesque 36x60

Double Arabesque 36″ x 60″ oil on canvas $2,200

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Mondays With Muddy

05 Monday Sep 2016

Posted by emilypageart in dance, humor, kindness, music, Uncategorized

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Beatrice Allen Page, Beatrice Page, crushes, growing up, journaling, Landscape with Figures, Mondays with Muddy, summer love, unpublished manuscript

This is the next installment of Beatrice Allen Page’s unpublished manuscript, Landscape With Figures. I know this one is longer than normal, but it’s my favorite excerpt from the book. It’s poignant and funny and sweet and sad and glorious, all at once. Enjoy:

At the Prescotts’ cocktail party yesterday their young daughter Tina helped serve the hors d’oeuvres. She is about twelve or thirteen, childhood virtually outgrown but with traces of ‘little-girl-ness’ still lingering in the budding figure and the small, rather triangular face with its slightly tiptilted blue eyes.

I was talking with a good-looking young college student I’d just met, when she approached us. Approached him, I should say, because it was clear that she had no interest in me beyond politely offering me a canape. They obviously knew each other. He greeted her as if he were truly glad to see her, without any adult-to-child condescension; he told her he liked the way she was wearing her hair, and when she moved off toward the next knot of guests he called after her, ‘Don’t disappear till we get a chance to talk, Tina.’

She turned back toward him with a shy smile that seemed to hint at a secret between them, and lifted those kitten-blue eyes to his face for just a second. The expression in them was kittenlike, too – both guileless and sensuous.

The twinkle in the young man’s eyes as he faced me again showed that he had known all along what I had just discovered in the fleeting glance Tina had given him: that she was naively and passionately in love with him. I had seen and felt it with a little shock of recognition; it had reopened a chapter of my own life, long closed and almost forgotten. The sudden uprush of recollections was so vivid that it seemed to me that I could read Tina’s future for the next few months or years on the basis of them. I knew all the exaltation and sweet suffering, the hours of revery and yearning that lay in store for her, and the inbreak of reality that would eventually and inevitably wake her from the lovely and disquieting dream. I knew the confusion that would follow, the groping and growing before she reached some equipoise between the forces tugging at her from different sides. I knew because I, too, had fallen passionately in love with an ‘older man,’ i.e., a young man in his mid-twenties, when I was about Tina’s age. I would happily have died for him – provided, of course, that he was on hand to witness my sacrifice and hold me in his arms as I drew my last quivering breath.

It’s no doubt a common pattern for adolescent girls. Calf love, puppy love, a crush, we call it from a vantage of adulthood and smile indulgently. How can we so easily forget our first ‘serious’ love with all its heights and depths of feeling? Of course we don’t really. We just let it sink out of sight until something like that glance of Tina’s I intercepted pulls it unexpectedly up to the surface again.

There was that summer in my own life when I fell in love with Gavin McCaig. Until then I had never wanted to grown up. I remember wishing on my ninth birthday when I blew out the candles that I could stay that age forever. It seemed to me I had learned a great deal since my eighth birthday and so I was glad to be nine. Beyond that, however, I saw no need to grow; at nine I knew enough. Not in the sense of bookish knowledge, but in the wisdom that comes simply from having lived. Or, to express what I felt a little more accurately perhaps, it was as if I had not been fully awake at eight years old but at nine I was. Then when I reached ten, it seemed to me I had not been fully awake at nine, but now at ten I certainly was, and I wanted to stop right there.

I hated the idea of being an adult because I felt, without being able to put it into words clearly, that grown-ups had to carry heavy responsibilities which literally weighted them down like a physical burden. They could no longer run, skip, play hopscotch, jump rope or even lie down on a grassy bank and roll to the bottom. In addition, they were constrained by all manner of senseless rules and customs. They had to keep their hands and faces clean and their clothes neat all the time. They couldn’t walk along the street singing or eating a peanut butter sandwich. They couldn’t go up to someone on the beach they’d never met and say, ‘What’s your name?’ They had to wait to be introduced and then they had to make polite conversation instead of asking things they really wanted to know such as: ‘How’d you get that little scar over your eyebrow?’ or ‘Have you ever seen kittens being born?’ or ‘What would you do if you woke up and found a burglar in your room?’

There was one great disadvantage to being a child and that, of course, was having to obey and conform to the irksome dictates of parents. Meals had to be eaten at the same time every day even if you weren’t hungry or wanted to go on readying a book. You had to go to bed at the same time every night even though you weren’t sleepy. The only advantage I could see to growing up was that I would be free of all these parental restrictions. Yet I was afraid that as a grown-up I, too, might get caught in a routine similar to theirs, hemmed in on all sides by responsibilities and the established way of doing things. It was preferable to hang on to childhood as long as possible.

I was still trying to hang on, although knowing I was waging a losing battle, when Gavin McCaig began to play a part in my life, or in my imagination at least. Then suddenly I couldn’t wait to grow up. Instead of looking upon my developing figure with dismay, I wondered impatiently how long it would take before adults would accept me as a grown-up woman.

Gavin bore little resemblance to his mother, of whom I was so fond, either mentally or temperamentally. He was a squarish, solid-looking young man – the epitome of masculine strength it seemed to me – whose principal interests were sports and jazz. He was ‘taking the summer off,’ ‘deciding what he wanted to do.’ He may have been something of  a ne’er-do-well but he had more than his share of what would be called ‘charisma’ today.

He was a friend of my parents, like his mother, but the difference in our ages seemed to me no barrier to romance. He was the first man who ever stood up when I entered the room, and when he shook hands it was with a firm handclasp, a warm smile and a direct look which I chose to interpret as having special significance for me. When he dropped in on my parents I was certain he had really come to see me. I imagined he was secretly in love with me but could not speak of it because I was admittedly young for marriage and one did have to observe the conventions. I was sure, however, that he was just biding his time and I fabricated endless daydreams of the momentous day or night when he would declare himself.

He certainly must have known I was in love with him. I conveyed it to him quite intentionally by meaningful glances, by letting my hand linger in his when we shook hands (which I saw to it we did not only on every occasion of our meeting but of our parting as well), by ‘accidental’ brushing of my shoulder against his arm. Be it forever to his credit that he never betrayed his amusement to me or as far as I know to anyone else.

I continued to go on bird walks with his mother. Being friends with her gave me a good excuse to drop in a the McCaig house on the pretext of having come to see her. Sometimes I was lucky and found Gavin there but the house was too full of people for us every to be alone. I assumed this disappointed him as much as it did me.

One evening toward the end of summer my parents went to see friends next door. I was up in my room ostensibly reading but actually scrutinizing my face in the mirror in the hope of finding I looked older than I had at the beginning of the summer. On my bureau was a vase of snapdragons from Mrs. McCaig’s garden, which she had given me, and the faint breeze coming in the open windows would waft up the scent of them in little tufts. It is a fragrance that will forever associated in my mind with Mrs. McCaig, but more with her son Gavin (because I pretended that he had given them to me) and the bliss of my newfound love – and with a certain sadness, too, because before that evening was over I was to take my first tentative step out of the wold of childhood and would never be able to enter it wholeheartedly again.

I had never gone to the McCaig’s house in the evening. It suddenly occurred to me I could slip over there and back before my parents got home. It was already dark but still early. I could pretend I had come to borrow a bird book from Mrs. McCaig. As I approached the house I could hear someone – and I knew it w as Gavin – pounding out ‘Limehouse Blues’ on the old upright piano. Laughter and singing and chatter floated out on the soft air. Gavin hardly paused between pieces. Jazz has three predominant moods: sensual, melancholy and exuberant. Though I could not have named them then, I was tossed from one to another as I stood listening under the willow tree for several minutes before I could muster up my courage to enter the house.

When I finally did go in and stand just inside the door tentatively, Gavin looked up with his cordial smile, his eyes squinting from the smoke floating up from the cigarette in the corner of his mouth, and waved me a welcome. All Mrs. McCaig’s children radiated hospitality, even to a child, and someone indicated a chair and invited me to sit down. I did, shyly, half hiding in the shadows.

The music went on. Gavin played by ear and ‘could play anything.’ My feet began to tap on the floor; he cause my eye with an understanding look that urged me on, and suddenly I flung off my self-consciousness and was out in the middle of the room, dancing with wholehearted abandon, imitating dances I’d sen in the movies and throwing in a few innovations of my own. For perhaps a minute and a half I was the center of all eyes. It was a taste of glory I had never before experienced. I heard one of Gavin’s brothers say, ‘The kid can really dance!’ and my idol nodded in agreement. My cup was too full to contain. I turned and darted out the door with the applause still sounding in my ears. My heart was pounding not with exertion but with excitement. I was elated, distracted, miserable altogether and I could not have said whether what I felt was closer to anguish or joy.

Weaving a little dizzily I wandered around to the other side of the house. Here the sound of the music and voices was muted, and the night filled with the sound of crickets and katydids. Instead of the smell of cigarette smoke and whisky, the soft scents of the garden hung on the air, and overhead millions of stars floated in a dark bowl. Mrs. McCaig was sitting on a stone bench in the garden. She did not speak but I knew she had seen me and was silently inviting me to join her. I sat down beside her and for just a moment she laid her hand upon mine in what I took to be a gesture of greeting but which I suspect ow was a gesture of farewell because she sensed I was no longer the same child who had tagged along on her nature walks.

We sat in silence for awhile, and the night and her quiet presence began to calm me down, to fill me with a sadness and a longing which I could not then have explained. After awhile she began pointing out various constellations to me: Cassiopeia, Cygnus, the Pleiades. Paradoxically, while she usually had a somewhat detached, impersonal attitude toward people and things close at hand, she had a familiar attitude toward the distant. It was as if she could hold out her hand and say, ‘Come,’ and a star would drop into it and nestle there.

I felt as if I were being torn apart. I wanted on the one hand to linger as long as possible in the realm of the simple, sensuous delight in nature, of freedom from adult responsibility, in the domain which Mrs. McCaig shared with me; on the other, to step forward into a new world of parties and romantic excitement, of music and dancing, of moonlight sails with my true love, or driving around in a convertible with my hair blowing in the wind – Gavin’s world. I could not bear to give up the one I’d explored with Mrs. McCaig; neither could I bear to let go the one I’d just briefly set foot in.

Perhaps we really never make decisions. They are made for us – by events, by time, by obscure motives and processes within ourselves. Summer came to an end and we went our separate ways, back to the cities where we lived in the winter. As the weeks passed, it was not the nature walks with Mrs. McCaig which I missed. It was Gavin I longed for. Once he called my parents long-distance. They were out and I enjoyed the bliss of having him all to myself on the telephone. Small wonder I imagined that I was the one he really wanted to talk with, because with his usual kindness, and no doubt secret amusement, he let me keep him on the phone for almost ten minutes.

I could not sleep all night for joy. I went over every word of our conversation, injecting cryptic meanings into the most obvious remarks. I was more certain then ever that my love was reciprocated and that he was just biding his time until I was old enough so that my parents would accept the situation. So strongly did his image possess my mind that one winter evening when a car drew up in our driveway and a man got out and Mother wondered who it could be, I, looking out the window and nearly suffocating with rapture said, trying to sound casual, ‘Why, it looks like Gavin McCaig.’

But it wasn’t. Suddenly I was frightened. If my mind could play such tricks on my that I could mistake a man who bore no resemblance whatsoever to the one I loved…I sensed danger. I felt a need to right myself, to shake myself out of the dream world which had become so real to me. And with that effort there came with devastating clarity the realization of the truth: I was still a little girl in Gavin’s eyes, he was not in love with me and never had been, and I was a victim of my own deluded wishes.

When we came back to Stoneleigh the following summer, the McCaigs had not arrived. I found myself suddenly caught up in the social activities of my contemporaries. I sailed; I went to the well-chaperoned Yacth Club dances; I had hot, hushed conversations about boys with my girlfriends.

The days passed and the McCaigs did not return. I was secretly relieved and at the same time inexplicably a little sad when I heard their house was up for sale. I never saw any of them again.”

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If Muddy Could See Dance Now

01 Thursday Sep 2016

Posted by emilypageart in art, culture, dance, death, family, MOndays with Muddy, music, Uncategorized

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art, artist, Beatrice Allen Page, contemporary dance, dance, dance art, dancer, dancers, grandmother, Jacob's Pillow, lyrical dance, modern dance, paint, Ruth St. Dennis, So You Think You Can Dance

Obviously, I’ve been watching So You Think You Can Dance (SYTYCD) again this season. While I love it, it makes me miss my grandmother, Muddy, terribly. Before she met my grandfather, Muddy (Beatrice Allen) was a dancer. In fact, she met my grandfather while she was in Germany touring with Ruth St. Dennis. When she decided to settle down and get married at the ripe old age of 19, she gave up dancing professionally and got rid of all of her photos and other mementos from her dancing days. This, obviously, saddens me because I’d love to see that stuff. But what saddens me more, and what makes me miss her more acutely, is watching the dance shows on TV now, particularly SYTYCD. The variety of styles you get from the myriad of choreographers would, I think, overwhelm her, delight her, sharpen her. When you look at what these dancers are capable of now compared to what was asked of them in her early dance years, it reminds me of looking at footage of early gymnasts compared to now. Hell, to be a dancer now, you have to also have a pretty good arsenal of gymnastic tricks, too. If you don’t have a front aerial, you’re going to have a hard time working.

But I just wish that she were around now so that we could watch together and discuss what we were seeing. I would love to share that with her because I know her insight would be incredible. As you’ve seen on this blog from the Mondays With Muddy posts, you know what a thoughtful and thought-full person she was. I know she would have helped me see each dance, dancer, and choreographer from a different angle. I know it’s just a reality show, but there is real art happening there.

Having moved away from doing so many dancer paintings, I think maybe I’m feeling the gap between Muddy and myself more acutely than normal. So perhaps it’s time to figure out how to revisit that work in a new way. I’m thinking maybe I need to combine the realist work with dance imagery. Still trying to flesh out what that will look like, but definitely a direction I want to pursue.

As an aside, be sure to read next week’s Mondays With Muddy post. It’s my favorite from the whole manuscript, and, indirectly, talks about the first time people said she was a good dancer.

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I’m a SYTYCD Kind of Artist

30 Tuesday Aug 2016

Posted by emilypageart in art, blog, culture, dance, dementia, Fractured Memories, gratitude, painting, technology, Uncategorized

≈ 11 Comments

Tags

art, artist, Beatrice Allen Page, dance, dance art, Emily Page, Emily Page Art, paint, painting, realist art, So You Think You Can Dance, SYTYCD

As a young artist fresh out of college, I was told by multiple galleries that I needed to “pick a style.” Every time I showed them my portfolio, that’s what they told me. My art had too big a range for them to consider me. They didn’t know how to represent me. Having worked in art galleries since then, I understand their point of view. They need to know that I will continue to produce work in a style that sells for them. The problem with this, though, is that it doesn’t suit my personality as a person or an artist. I have too many ideas that make my brain itch and twitch, and there isn’t one style that can encompass all of them. My hands and my brain get bored repeating a single formula in a variety of ways.

This is not to say that there’s not a benefit to being forced to create series of works that can be grouped together. I have found great reward in creating first the Thanatology series, then the dancers, then the works about dementia, and now the realist work. But I like to dip my toes into other art forms and styles periodically to test the water to see what the next new series will be. I also like having the freedom to revisit past series when a new idea comes along, like when I did a the new dancer painting by letting you all “crowd source” each stage. And when you do several pieces in a certain style, you can start to get followers who look for that particular work.

I was watching So You Think You Can Dance (SYTYCD), and it occurred to me that their all-stars must be, in some ways, like me. The fact that they return to the show means that they enjoy dancing outside of their “own styles.” They like to stretch, literally and figuratively. And each new style, each new dance, each new partner helps grow their abilities and add to their repertoire. And so it is with me. For example, taking watercolors along on my trip down the Danube helped me expand my own artistic vocabulary. I have a feeling I’ll return to them periodically, particularly because there are so many more styles to try within that medium. Branching out and illustrating my friend’s children’s book was a new way to stretch for me, and makes me think that I would actually consider someday illustrating the beautiful stories my grandmother wrote for my dad and uncle.

There are just so many possibilities with art.

Sometimes I get overwhelmed by them all, because I want to do everything, make everything. When I see an artist whose work I like, I mentally file the style for use later to express my own ideas. And there just isn’t enough time in the day to work a job, promote the art I’ve already made, and make everything that I want to make. That being said, I’m grateful that I’m living in the technology age, where I’m not dependent upon galleries to represent me in just one style. I can throw everything on my website, SYTYCD style, including the stuff that doesn’t fit neatly into a single body of work. I call that stuff my untamed art. I can promote various styles and subjects through various online venues. But I get bogged down in the tedium of promotion. I just want to create, and I want a fairy godmother who will magically find homes for my creations. Le sigh.

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Stoopid Farming Equipment

22 Tuesday Mar 2016

Posted by emilypageart in art, dance, DIY, Eerieville, Haunt, humor, Uncategorized

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

attaching tractor implements, corn maze, deadly jazz hands, drive shaft, farming, first position, flooding, Haunt, haunted attraction, haunted trail, planting corn, shaft, tiller, yoga

As any of my regular readers know, we’re building a haunted attraction south of Raleigh. My regular readers also know we’ve faced tons of flooding issues on the property. We were supposed to be open about 3 years ago, but still aren’t because of various issues like the flooding. Last year, we had planned to just open during the day with a corn maze and other family friendly activities on the part of the property that doesn’t flood, but the guy who was supposed to plant our corn bailed at the last minute, screwing us.

This year, we bought the equipment and are going to try it ourselves, so on Tuesday, we tromped out to the tractor to disconnect the bush hog equipment from the tractor and connect the new tiller. Five hours later and more cursing than I care to admit to, we gave up when we realized that the damned drive shaft they gave us was too long. That’s right, I know what a drive shaft is. And it’s not nearly as much fun as it sounds (can you imagine how disappointed people are going to be when they google “shaft” and come across this post?). Fuuuuuuuuuuck. So S went to the place we purchased it from yesterday and one of the workers is going to come out and hacksaw the blasted thing to the right length so we can actually use it.

The only thing that kept me from killing someone (and by someone, I mean S, since he was the only person around) was the laughter I got every time I looked at the warning labels on the equipment. I want my new job to be creating the drawings for warning labels. Here are two of my favorites from Tuesday:

tractor bucket warning

Warning! Do not bop naked dancing hippies on the head with the front end bucket! They can’t help it. They’ve just dropped too much acid.

drive shaft warning

If I was this flexible, I would teach yoga. But I’m not. So fuck you, Yoga. Also, if I die a horrible death via rotating driveline, I hope I have the wherewithal to flash jazz hands and keep my feet in perfect first position.

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Today’s Dance Party

08 Tuesday Mar 2016

Posted by emilypageart in dance, music, singing, Uncategorized

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Anais Mitchell, ani difranco, dancing away the sad, folk opera, Hadestown, music, musical

My dance jam this morning is from Anais Mitchell’s folk opera, Hadestown. This album is freaking awesome. So creative and varied and sexy and heartbreaking. Plus it’s got Ani Difranco on it, so you can’t go wrong. I highly recommend it for long car rides. And, obviously, dancing away the sad:

 

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Mondays With Muddy

07 Monday Mar 2016

Posted by emilypageart in dance, MOndays with Muddy, Uncategorized, writing

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Beatrice Allen Page, Beatrice Page, dance, journal, Landscape with Figures, unpublished manuscript, writing

Welcome to another installment of Mondays With Muddy. I had an interesting talk yesterday with a minister who knew my grandmother, Beatrice Allen Page, in the late 70’s early 80’s and who had struck up a friendship with her, despite her being about 40 years his senior. It was perfect timing for him to stumble across my blog and reach out. Talking with people who knew your loved ones helps you feel in some ways like you’re getting little pieces of them back. And if I’m getting a piece of Muddy back, I feel in some way like it’s one more connection to her son, my dad. Fortuitous coincidences make the world go ’round.

Here is the next excerpt from my grandmother’s unpublished manuscript, Landscape With Figures:

“When I was walking over to the village today, a man stopped his car to ask me for directions. ‘I’ve been looking for a sign,’ he said, ‘but I haven’t seen any.’

‘We’re all looking for signs,’ I said, giving in to the playful impulse, ‘but few of us ever see any.’ When he looked at me blankly, I explained with a smile, ‘Signs and portents.’ He still looked blank so I quickly gave him the directions he wanted and he drove off, probably reflecting on the odd characters one meets in an out-of-the-way New England village.

I walked on speculating about the human weakness for looking for auguries, for clues to one’s destiny, whether in the entrails of animals or the Delphic oracle, whether in the stars or the palm of the hand, whether in the tarot cards or a crystal ball.

I remember, when I was a child, kneeling by my open window on cold winter nights, trying to draw my bare feet under my flannel nightgown, shivering half with cold and half with fear as I gazed up at a sky filled with stars and prayed God for a sign. I’m not sure what kind I expected, whether the appearance of an enormous angel with wings outspread across the heavens, or a word written in huge letters, or just a flash of fire. It was not that I wanted proof of God’s existence – I took that for granted. It was rather that He was so infinitely remote, and with all those billions of stars in the sky and all the billions of people on earth, could He single out any special planet, any special person, namely, one little girl with my name? In other words, when I prayed for a sign, all I wanted was proof that God knew of my existence.

It’s not so very unlike much of our adult behavior, the difference being that as adults we try to force recognition not from God but from other human beings, which is in line with what I was thinking recently about the need to impress people. Hence this struggle to ‘make a name’ for oneself. Anonymity makes our lives null and void.

Yet I recall an experience I had several times in my early days as a dancer, which contradicts that assertion. I was a member of a group, all of us anonymous except for our names in very small print on the program, and more or less indistinguishable from one another. Not that we were just a row of duplicates as in a chorus line; we moved as part of one whole but in individual patterns. Nevertheless, it would have been impossible for the audience to have attached the right name from the program to the right dancer on the stage. I had no desire to stand out. It was the very anonymity that gave me a sense of vitality I’ve never know in quite the same way since. I was part of something greater than myself, sustained by it, freed by it, intensified by it, even exalted by it.

It had nothing in common, so far as I know, with the reinforced energy one presumably feels as part of a rioting mob, or with the exuberance of being one of the crowd at a football game. I can only describe it as a feeling of deepened relatedness to all of life that was tremendously liberating. I’m sure it could only be released through discipline, harmony, form.

Those qualities are also essential to a dance performed alone. Yet the power I felt on occasion as a soloist, which is exhilarating and gratifying to the ego, and what most of us probably strive for most of the time, was entirely different from that which I felt within the group.

If I were given a choice now of experiencing one kind of power or the other, I should certainly choose…no, I’m not sure. In all honesty, I’m just not sure. Even though I know that the anonymous kind was more deeply satisfying than the self-assertive, the ego persists in wanting to be singled out and valued about others.”

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Emily Page

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