Dancing in the Chequered Shade

Darkness draws us in. But as soon as you try and think of the dark exclusively, then you realize how essentially connected it is to many of our concerns. The more our modern world is lit up, so that little distinction appears to exist between the day and the night, then the more we come to desire shadow, and the pitch black night - for a less demanding state, where we are no longer so dazzled by the shock of brilliant colour, and by the overpowering presence of chaotic neon light. We may long to enjoy the peace of the dark. Increasingly, vision is treated as the dominant, all-important sense, and thus what we hear, or smell or taste or touch, are all treated as less significant. But darkness has not gone away - far from it - and its threatening presence continues to divide opinion. Some are frightened of the dark and go to great lengths to avoid it, made nervous, perhaps by an electricity cut, or by a visit to the countryside where there is no street lighting. There are historically well-founded reasons for such fears, but our responses have often become automatic, assuming danger where there is none, or moved, not so much by rational concerns, as by our wildest, most clichéd imaginings. There are many who dislike what darkness seems to represent, as something we are not used to, suggesting what is secret , shameful, even evil. Yet there are others, thankfully, who are more drawn to this shadowy domain, delighting in its uncertainties and wonder, attracted by all the associations of folklore and legend, by the siren call of the mysterious, of what may or may not be as we first assumed in the cruder light of day.

Our languages are steeped in the imagery of darkness and of light, so that we can hardly say anything at all, without calling on its metaphorical lexicon. You might say, ‘she’s in a dark place at the moment’, or in contrast that, ‘he needs to get away from the bright lights of the city to rest’; of a child who was hard to understand you might say, ‘they’re a dark one’, which might imply criticism or possibly recognition of qualities you were inclined to admire, but did not understand. The complex network of interrelated terms to do with the dark includes all the age-old subtleties of racial terminology: sometimes aggressively discriminatory, but also, sometimes, as a way of celebrating beauty and distinction. Darkness can seem a romantic idea, and at other times a state pleasingly empty of interruption, so that we can at last think more clearly, or simply it is a condition when sleep comes to us more easily. I may shut my eyes at moments of intense emotion, or equally I may do so in order to absent myself from what is happening, like the myth of the ostrich, burying its head in the sand.

Our languages are steeped in the imagery of darkness and of light, so that we can hardly say anything at all, without calling on its metaphorical lexicon. You might say, ‘she’s in a dark place at the moment’, or in contrast that, ‘he needs to get away from the bright lights of the city to rest’; of a child who was hard to understand you might say, ‘they’re a dark one’, which might imply criticism or possibly recognition of qualities you were inclined to admire, but did not understand. The complex network of interrelated terms to do with the dark includes all the age-old subtleties of racial terminology: But what, you may ask, has darkness to do with dancing? Isn’t darkness a state of absence, whereas dance in all its many forms fills the world of our senses with energy and event. Isn’t dance all about demanding our visual attention? So, perhaps dancing in the dark, or about the dark, is a strange and contrary idea? Yet all such questions about darkness seem peculiarly relevant to a medium as dynamic, as essentially kinetic as the art of dance. And so – as night follows day - it was a delight to find that this was to be the subject matter of Tanz in Bern, with darkness as its central, guiding theme. It may be that such a marriage – of dance and of darkness - gets to the essence of our curiosity about the dark. Dance that plays in and out of our vision, and in abstract terms concerns what is openly perceived, as against what is held in secret.

Our languages are steeped in the imagery of darkness and of light, so that we can hardly say anything at all, without calling on its metaphorical lexicon. You might say, ‘she’s in a dark place at the moment’, or in contrast that, ‘he needs to get away from the bright lights of the city to rest’; of a child who was hard to understand you might say, ‘they’re a dark one’, which might imply criticism or possibly recognition of qualities you were inclined to admire, but did not understand. The complex network of interrelated terms to do with the dark includes all the age-old subtleties of racial terminology: Now, of course, because of the Covid pandemic, many of us will have to experience what is on offer online, alone in solitary splendour – with the Internet’s pervasive blue light drawing us in, intense and appealing, yet risking us turning into passive, dry-eyed observers. The dancers will either have to perform to a much-reduced, safely-distanced live audience or have their work sent on video from another place entirely, and not be able to respond to the atmosphere that an audience can provide. However, I would like to suggest that for all the difficulties Covid has caused, these restrictions may turn out to be something of an advantage, forcing us to dig deep into our imaginations, connecting with the choreography through the force of our common will, a - glimpsed in the dark – shining find of gold.

But to practical matters, surely the art of dance needs light to reveal itself? Surely, darkness obscures, and what would be the point of that? When we think of dance we imagine movement and changes of tempo: perhaps frenetic as a whirling tarantella; or assured breath-taking leaps into thin air that seem to defy gravity; flexibility that somehow draws attention to our own more limited physical capabilities. We need to see the dancer, and vision of course requires light. But it is out of the shadowy regions of a traditional stage’s wings, or emerging from a darkened space when the dancer is gradually made visible, or is suddenly lit, so that the dancer is more dramatically revealed. Like a photographic image that magically appears on film, they may appear from out of the dark and then disappear, as mysteriously as a candle flame, extinguished – only a hint of smoke remaining.

In practice we inhabit a liminal world, hardly ever in complete darkness or complete light for neither state would be possible for life to exist. But I would like to emphasize that it is darkness that comes first, the unending dark of the universe, our earth semi-lit or semi-dark according to a single star: to the sun itself, and to the reflections of the moon. Apocalyptic ideas of a destroyed earth begin in flame, but they end in total darkness.

In practice we inhabit a liminal world, hardly ever in complete darkness or complete light for neither state would be possible for life to exist. But I would like to emphasize that it is darkness that comes first, the unending dark of the universe, our earth semi-lit or semi-dark according to a single star: How have people reacted to the idea of the dark in dance? The Kwakiutl tribe of North America are pictured in 1914, dancing around a smoking fire in the half dark. The photograph reminds us of our shared experience of open-air fires, from childhood memory perhaps, one that has died down yet the glowing remains still pulse with life in the growing dark. As a child we fancied all manner of possibility, wild creatures lurking in the shadows, or fairies, spirits and ghosts. The flickering flames are the stuff of magic and storytelling, as powerful for early humanity as they are for us today. The Kwakiutl dance as an invocation, calling on a sky creature to sneeze and so free the moon, which they believe the beast had swallowed. This play, between the extremes of incoming night and the pulsing source of light, gives their dance its immediacy and power.

In practice we inhabit a liminal world, hardly ever in complete darkness or complete light for neither state would be possible for life to exist. But I would like to emphasize that it is darkness that comes first, the unending dark of the universe, our earth semi-lit or semi-dark according to a single star: Only a few years after the Kwakiutl were photographed in their dance, but in a very different mood, Josephine Baker was becoming renowned for her Danse Sauvage at the Folies Bergère, performing with her wild cat pet, a cheetah, dressed in her skirt of artificial bananas. It is a joyous, self-conscious act, making use of the associations her skin colour conjured for a Parisian public eager to enjoy the exotic. Furthermore, in a metaphorical association with the dark - in the sense of darkness being associated with what is hidden - in the Second World War Baker attended Embassy parties all over Europe, acting as a spy for the French Resistance. It must have been satisfying for the cabaret dancer, roundly rejected because of her race in her native North America, to find herself able to use the persona she had developed as a comic ‘native’ performer, to deceive those whose secrets she sought.

In practice we inhabit a liminal world, hardly ever in complete darkness or complete light for neither state would be possible for life to exist. But I would like to emphasize that it is darkness that comes first, the unending dark of the universe, our earth semi-lit or semi-dark according to a single star: We are creatures driven by our desire for contrast and change, like a coup de foudre, or even like a sudden falling out of love, such experiences are well expressed in dance, just because to some extent they are not so easily the stuff of words, of clarity or definition. All the rich language of darkness can be incorporated into choreography, in all the many decisions made by a single performer, in the slightest angle of hand or foot, in the just so flexing of a spine. The use of muslin, for instance, in a dancer’s clothing, may express something unclear and fragile, but flimsy and semi-transparent it can also suggest the imaginary realm of what may not be there at all, a challenge to our everyday imaginations.

In practice we inhabit a liminal world, hardly ever in complete darkness or complete light for neither state would be possible for life to exist. But I would like to emphasize that it is darkness that comes first, the unending dark of the universe, our earth semi-lit or semi-dark according to a single star: Dark forest, and overgrown nature that threatens, are a common conceit of classical ballet, as in Swan Lake and The Sleeping Beauty, for example, or later in Ballanchine’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Like Dante’s dark wood, the natural world can seem to represent disorder and chaos, a place where we may lose our way. So it seems that in dance, darkness has come to signify both welcome potential and also the dangers of being led into a wilderness which we cannot control, where the dark represents not fluid opportunity but something fixed, to quote Dante here, in a ‘solid darkness stain’d’.

In practice we inhabit a liminal world, hardly ever in complete darkness or complete light for neither state would be possible for life to exist. But I would like to emphasize that it is darkness that comes first, the unending dark of the universe, our earth semi-lit or semi-dark according to a single star: Imagine for a moment whether dance might represent both of these two extremes? One interpretation could be represented by the Persian philosopher Avicenna’s Floating Man, a human being, but without any of our five senses. They would be cut loose, floating in senseless oblivion without any sense experience – but thereby, be better able to think entirely individual thoughts. Such a person, holds Avicenna, would have to be aware of their own existence, and therefore a perfect embodiment of Descartes’s later ‘I think therefore I am’.

In practice we inhabit a liminal world, hardly ever in complete darkness or complete light for neither state would be possible for life to exist. But I would like to emphasize that it is darkness that comes first, the unending dark of the universe, our earth semi-lit or semi-dark according to a single star: There are many forms of darkness. Consider the experience of a dark night sky in all its endless beauty as against our perception of the depths of the oceans, or of the inner core of the earth itself. Compare that with a sudden claustrophobic moment, waking in the night from a bad dream, or suddenly thinking that there is a stranger in our dark bedroom? Unable to find the light switch, we are rigid with fear. Alternatively, we may close our eyes to have a moment’s absence from our busy lives, or mask our eyes in order to avoid seeing something distressing. All such responses are fuel for the choreographer and for a dancer’s individual imagination, calling on our shared responses to seeing and to not seeing, to the eternities of the dark.

In practice we inhabit a liminal world, hardly ever in complete darkness or complete light for neither state would be possible for life to exist. But I would like to emphasize that it is darkness that comes first, the unending dark of the universe, our earth semi-lit or semi-dark according to a single star: As I write this I am aware of the importance of the parallel role of music in the experience of dance, and its relationship with the dancer. Music as a wordless, imageless pure form of expression might be thought to be in direct contrast to the bodily experience of physical dance movement. So many of our associations with the dark come today from what we remember from filmic imagery and the music that accompanies it, as with Count Orlok’s demonic shadow, like a great bird of death, as he mounts the stairs in Nosferatu. The music here is melded to the experience of his fractured progress into the castle. Thus another factor is to consider whether there is such a thing as dark music. On the one hand, music is described as being ‘full of chiaroscuro – of the interplay of light and darkness, clarity and cpshadows’, but on the other, Immanuel Kant insists that a work of art should be independent of any practical concerns. I do wonder then if he would think dance too involved with practical concerns of the body’s capabilities and limitations? It is rather like the example of the Floating Man again, where some dancers might be capable of absenting themselves from their bodily restrictions to reach some abstracted state, as abstract as our potential experience of music perhaps?

In practice we inhabit a liminal world, hardly ever in complete darkness or complete light for neither state would be possible for life to exist. But I would like to emphasize that it is darkness that comes first, the unending dark of the universe, our earth semi-lit or semi-dark according to a single star: As peaceful as night on a gentle sea, as safe as an infant in its bed; but darkness as an idea can also be frightening. Darkness can represent good and evil, gentle peace but also ugly, menacing violence, and that is its extraordinary breadth and power.