How can slow movement improve technique?

How can slow movement improve technique?

When we whip through a move or combination at speed, when we do it the easy way, we limit our progress. We might cut corners, or miss small errors, particularly in areas that are difficult or in the outer fringes of our physical abilities. The circle isn’t really circular; the curve has a divot in that area where our hip has a little hitch. The little hunch in our shoulders, the glitch in our balance as we turn goes unnoticed.

Slow movement, movement at a speed Dunya describes as “glacial,” allows us to deeply inhabit every moment of the shape we create. We engage and focus our attention at each moment, feel intimately each tiny increment. Where we might skimp at normal speed, we can anticipate hitches, see them coming, and adjust our trajectory, slowing down even further, so we slip unobstructed through the straits.

When we go slowly enough, we are less likely to trigger pain, so we can complete the arc more graciously. When we find a trouble spot, we can hold it like a pose, motionless, while our bodies sort out balance, line, reaching like flowers for the light of openness and effortless lilt.

We also build myelin, the neural manifestation of skill. Myelin (skill) is an insulating substance that wraps neural circuits and grows according to certain signals (Coyle). And one of those signals is slowing things down. We learn faster and improve more quickly by slowing down. Myelin reinforces the neural pathways that we use—the definition of skills development. So whatever we do, that’s what gets reinforced. If we skimp, that’s what gets reinforced. If we make beautiful, elegant arcs, that’s what gets reinforced.

Breaking things into small chunks and practicing them out of sequence also builds myelin. Taking small, disconnected chunks of technique, feeling them deeply, inhabiting them, slowing them down, making them into a series of elegant poses, that reinforces those neural pathways. Doing the power poses regularly reinforces those neural pathways. And we need those certain signals. Doing things mindlessly doesn’t get us there. We need to be in the sweet spot at the edge of our abilities.

The brilliant thing about this practice is that we are always at the edges of our ability. We are always searching, discovering, intent, focused, spreading our feelers out from every inch of our consciousness. So don’t worry if this is hard. Hard means you are learning. It means you are building myelin. We focus now so we can let go later. We build skills now so that on stage, they will be there for us. Through effort, we attain effortlessness.

Love,

Alia

How to Fall Off the Stage (and how to get back up)

Vegas, baby

Yep, I fell off the stage at The Las Vegas Belly Dance Intensive.

I stepped back one time too many–and down I went. I knew it wasn’t too far, so I grabbed the curtains-and they went right down with me. It was an epic fail.

So what did I do? 

I jumped back up on the stage–laughing. “That’s going to look great on the video,” I said, and went on with my show.

Yes, I was lucky. It was only about 3 feet. I had already been back there, so I knew where I was going. It was Thursday night, so the audience was minimal. Yes, I could have asked them to stop the music. I could have started over. I didn’t feel like it. I just kept going.

And people loved it. Because I laughed and kept going.

And that was Vegas. Intense.

I had never been there before. I had never even been in a hotel as big, cheesy, or loud as the Flamingo. The line to check in was WAY over 50 people–and this was a Wednesday. It took 40 minutes. The lobby is a cross between an large airport shopping mall and a casino. Oh, wait–it IS a casino! Yes, slot machines clatter and jangle every moment.  The Strip is like Times Square on crack with slot machines. Every possible way of squeezing more money out of the marks is in overdrive. A coffee in the lobby costs $3. A banana is $2.75. For the first few days, I was in shock. I did not like Vegas. Not one bit.

Then I started to get the hang of it. I laughed and kept going.  I got to hang out with old friends–Nadira Jamal, Rosa Noreen, and Dhyanis among others. I got to see a show–Nadira and I went to see Cirque du Soleil. I got to meet cool people I know from FB–Treasure Marshall, Mahin from DBQ, and Ustadza Azra. My class went well and everyone was happy. I took some wonderful classes, in particular Jill Parker’s Dancing Warrior. And I saw some performances that totally, completely blew me away. Silvia Salamanca’s triple sword, a virtuosic display of excellence, Helena Vlahos’s gracious radiance, and the best thing I just about ever saw in my life, Nicole McLaren’s Sufi whirling piece–which garnered a standing ovation.

And everyone associated with the Intensive is adorable. Samira Tu’Ala is a doll. Now I know why everyone loves this event.

Overall, it was a helluva good time.

 

(And the fountains at the Bellagio are pretty cool, too.)

Recommended.

thumbsup

 

 

How I learned to Improvise Part II

How I learned to Improvise Part II

Dave Chapelle thought all the standup comics he saw just made up their stuff on stage—that they improvised. So that’s what he did, too. Yeah, he went out there and made stuff up, on the spot (his record is over 6 hours of straight improv).

Chapelle had no idea that most of the comics scripted and honed their material over weeks and months, often delivering the same show night after night in different venues. Impressive, huh?

It was the same way for me and dance. For one thing, I grew up in NYC during the 60s and 70s. The music scene was bursting with creativity and the great jam bands were very much an influence. The highly constructed, heavily produced music that we have today was unknown at the time.

These guys played all night—we left the Fillmore and the sun was coming up. Likewise in jazz and every other kind of popular music. We saw everyone, from Sun Ra and Pharaoh Sanders to Big Mama Thornton and Captain Beefheart, plus the Grateful Dead and the Allman Brothers, with Frank Zappa and Miles Davis for good measure. (We had great drugs, too—but don’t tell anyone). All this music begged for movement. It was a wild and crazy time!

I saw Zappa’s ensemble improvise an entire piece from a comic book. Yes, the musicians all had the comic book on their music stands. We, the audience, even had a role to play—we made some of the big sound effects—KA-RUNCH! Zappa conducted the comic book, and signaled us when it was our turn. (To see this show, I missed a high school band concert in which I was supposed to play. My band teacher never forgave me and later refused to write me a college recommendation. I still don’t regret it.)

Graffiti was reaching the heights of art. Catching a subway in the morning with a freshly-painted masterwork exhilarated all who experienced it. So much was going on everywhere.

So, to me, great art was improvised. When I started in Oriental dance, it was improvised as well. I had no dance training before I began belly dance, so I had no habits of choreography to unlearn. I remember hearing the ballet dancers in Bobby’s classes talking about how hard it was to relax the glutes. Not for me. I was 16 and tabula rasa.

Back in the day, there was a lot of live music in Oriental dance as well. And yes, all of it was improvised. There were songs, and they had a structure, but the musicians played what they felt. Heterophony (the musician’s license to ornament the notes and play around the melody) was in full force. Simple songs became elegant masterworks of ensemble feeling. Polyglot immigrant musicians drenched themselves in their love of their homelands, playing music together and celebrating this love with their audiences—and the lucky dancers who performed with them.

So this is where I come from, in the dance and the music. This is what has shaped my understanding. This is why I can do what I do—let the music in through my ears and transform it into movement with my body.

But it’s not the only reason. With live music I was great, but recorded music was another matter. I knew the zone existed, but with recorded music, I couldn’t reach it consistently. I did pretty well, but it was frustrating to so often feel locked in my thoughts and unable to meld with the music. And we have so much recorded music. It’s not the same thing at all. The brilliant process of discovery and collaboration the informs live music is dead and gone by the time it’s recorded.

Or is it? Like Dave, after a while, I needed more. 

Finding Dunya and Dancemeditation™ made all the difference in the world. Through Dunya’s Sufi practices, such as breathing in time with the music, I learned to open the door to the zone much more easily and consistently. Awareness of breath and an ability to go inside and find my space revolutionized my dance.

And there is even more. 

Tarab, according to Dr AJ Racy (a brilliant teacher, musician, and composer), is captured in recordings. It is still there. Maybe not as strong as during the live performance, and maybe not as intuitive on 34th hearing, but it is there. And this is what we have to do: Find music that speaks to us. Music that has soul, that continues to give us that love. Even if we know every note, we can still regain the feeling of grace the music contains. If it doesn’t move us, we don’t move to it. Look for heterophony. A lot of bands do not understand this principle. The music is empty. There is nothing but the melody—no ornamentation, no richness of interpretation and artistic feeling.

Favor the rich, nuanced, soul-filled songs and you will dance better, and enjoy it more.

Learn to find the zone. It is always there, and you can go there, even to recorded music.

Welcome to the joy!

Love,
Alia

Effortless Improv registration closes Sunday, Oct 19th….