Bleecker Street

We will not begin with complaints. It is useless in these early morning hours when the sun recently tipped buildings with it's fresh light. When sleepy workers rose for another day of strain, profit, and simple, familiar things. The creak of the subway, the smell of fresh coffee, the harsh winter winds on cheek, the pitter patter of feet familial on the kitchen tile.

New York is an entity unto itself. There, I believe, must not be another place in the world with such pace and drive. The thing I like best is the efficiency with which people walk. Feet flowing through and around traffic, traffic moving about pedestrians, rain boots slipping, children lagging, it doesn't matter--people manage to weave in and out and about. There is no right way to walk. If you're slow, people are savvy enough and unconcerned with you to move about you. There is no feeling of angst or interruption.

Merce Cunningham passed away on July 29th, 2009. His studio is located at 55 Bethune St. in the West Village, quite near Bleecker Street. Nearby, are coffee shops, cafes where one can enjoy fancy food, burrito joints, duane reades, (a typical Manhattan neighborhood?) it seems to be situated in a softer part of town. The brownstone's look so brilliant in late afternoon light. His studio is on the top floor of an artist residency. Walking in, you can feel the thickness of recent death still have a hold. The quiet, somberness, of which is never spoken. It's pretty messy, things strewn about, but in the most artistic fashion. The dressing room is open towards the ceiling and filled with dancer's clothes. There are contented voices echoing, laughing in a studio as they stretch. I get the sense, that people here dance. It is what they do, and there is absolutely no question about it. There is no other way. If they did not, a strange death would take hold.

On the wall is a list of rules by John Cage, Merce's lover and collaborator.

seen here >>>>>>http://www.alisant.net/cca/sitespecific/cage.html

In the studio are well worked floors and gigantic mirrors. A stage and old car seats as chairs. Through the windows, one can see the city skyline. The dancers don't say anything to each other. We speak in the language of our bodies. Open and supple, aware and sincere, concrete and strong. We don't know why we do this, we just know that we must. In this, there is unspoken respect.

What does one lose and gain by pursuing adagios in a time of capitalism? We must survive. We must survive. We must survive. It is no longer a physical survival. We sacrifice the comforts (for which there is no bitterness) and steadily progress onward, content, simple, striving, body limber reaching for high arabesques.



"The only way to do it is to do it."

- Merce Cunningham -



Do we need anymore convincing?




___________on the walls are photographs of an island,
a house which my great grandfather built.
there is lingonberry jam in the fridge
enough coffee to kill a brigade of cats.
robust, viking, keep it to the north.
you were built like an ox. a silent cathedral.
living on a boat, by the seaside, you exist
catching fish and laughing:
a hearty, arctic buddha.________________

Lesson for the day: Find a teacher. Ask lots of questions. Practice. Work hard. Never settle for someone else's standards.