When is it not fun to see people dance with happy, bouncey, big-ballet abandon? I think never. Never, ever. It’s always fun. Every ‘for the sheer joy of it’ dance is a dance of freedom.
Mitch, a masseur for ballet dancers, used to drop into see me when I managed an apartment building in Hollywood. Usually, there was some minor crisis to handle, some broken something to repair, some discord between tenants to relieve.
Once in awhile, though, there was nothing at all and no interruptions and that’s when we’d play a little music. Loud. Very very loud. And always classical. Hall of the Mountain King. Or New World Symphony. Or something from The Planets. Or Khachaturian.
Then we danced. All over the place. We leaped. We pirouetted. We arabesequed. We jumped up and down and spun and made ballet-ishly proper poses with our arms. Well, I did. I don’t really know what Mitch was doing, except when we tried our own version of a pas de deux. He knew real ballet. My stuff was all made up. Really, I’m sorry you weren’t there.
Strange thing about dancing. It appears to be such a physical thing, all about the body and yet it manages to so easily, almost effortlessly, set our minds free. Sweetness!
I think it’d be good if someone opened a dance studio for our heads.