I wanted to release the artist I fantasized about becoming, and embrace the artist I actually became. I talk with a lot of artists, and many—myself included—are haunted by a shadow journey, an imagined artist life. We picture making it big. We envy artists who (seemingly) have what we dream of, certain we would then feel successful, recognized, adequate. We crave approval from Those Whose Opinions Matter; we long for high-visibility accomplishments our non-artist friends and family might understand. We pursue resources built for the default definitions of success in our discipline. Painters need gallerists. Dance companies tour. Films go to festivals. (Galleries and touring and festivals are fabulous in the service of my intentions, but they are, I believe, terrible intentions.) We dream of success in pathways and venues that have nothing to do with our practice or mission. We chase other people’s dreams while overlooking the tangible depth and impact of our actual work. |
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That's me, third from the left, while Judy Collins' cover of In My Life plays. Of course. |
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Meanwhile, incrementally and inexorably, we become the artists we are meant to be. We become ourselves, rooted in place, rooted in practice, rooted in lived relationships, our art making embedded in many other verbs: making a home and making community, teaching and activism, raising kids and raising money. The art stars, the famous and infamous—the artists we might dream of being—get a lot of the spotlight in our culture. But after working with thousands of artists, I can say this: The artists we actually become do the real work. Culture is made, practiced, and deepened by the artists we actually become. |
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The artist I became, singing (poorly) onstage with Kentaro Osamu, Megumi Matsumoto, and Takeshi Yazaki. |
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So I did this ritual. Maybe you will, too. Or just think about it. Or turn it into something more useful. Or maybe you never had a fantasy artist life (bless you! darn you!). |
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Describe the artist you fantasized (or still fantasize) you could be. Be extravagant, unreasonable, over the top. Give that imagined artist every specific thing you dream of. Where are you showing your work? What accolades do you win? What is your reputation? How is your work discussed and praised, and by whom? What happens when you enter a room? Give that artist a name. Describe, generously and specifically, the artist you have become. What specifically have you done? Give details. How do you move through the world and art world? What are you priorities and tendencies? Who are your people? What is your vibe, the energies you bring to your practice and your communities? Give that artist a name. |
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Who did I dream of being? [NOTE: It's been a minute since I actively dreamed of art stardom. But my early fantasies of Importance, Prominence, and Coolness do linger, and for this prompt, I went all in.] A hip, edgy, conceptual, political choreographer whose dances were disruptive and pleasurable, radical and hilarious. I performed at the Brooklyn Academy of Music, and toured Europe, Africa, Asia, and South America. At each stop, I was asked about my political and aesthetic ideas in interviews for highbrow magazines and major newspapers. I sat on panels, wrote op-eds, and was the subject of multiple documentaries, including an experimental film that was nominated at Cannes, where my filmmaker and I refused the prize for political reasons. I collaborated with globetrotting composers and designers, was hired to choreograph operas and avant-garde spectacles. Dancers dreamed of being in my company. I never had time for kids or a long-term relationship; instead I went to glamorous parties which I could shrug off, ending up in a side room drinking from a bottle and laughing with the waiters and non-boring guests. I name him: Shine. |
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The artist I became, with my collaborators. |
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Who did I actually become? A local artist, a Philadelphia artist. A maker of odd and funny and populist dances, often conceptual. A collaborator. An improviser. A community builder. A maker of creative spaces, tangible and intangible. I helped turn three disused buildings into dance spaces, community spaces, and informal performance spaces: a warehouse in South Philly, a hosiery factory in Old City, and a funeral home on Broad Street. I created Dance Theater Camp, a free artist-run festival of interdisciplinary exchange and collaboration. I hosted years of First Fridays, free open shows where my company performed works in progress and talked about dance making with audiences beyond the dance world. I was part of a small and mostly unheralded Philadelphia movement of artists exploring immersion and participation. I had my New York City moment, a New York Times profile, a couple of New Yorker drawings, and a prize you’ve never heard of (Bessie). Also: a Times critic called my work “the biggest disappointment of the evening.” I worked two dozen different jobs to pay the bills. I learned to write grants and landed some fancy ones and a lot of unfancy ones, raising money to pay myself, my collaborators, our dancers, and our landlord. I spent an inconceivable amount of time on my laptop. I acquired skills I didn't want: accrual accounting, database management, and how to repair a crap laser printer every three days. I loaded out shows after midnight. I scheduled rehearsals with impossibly busy people. I danced through injuries. I lay on my back for two months when I could no longer dance through injuries. I built a nonprofit that strove, often successfully, to prioritize artists, community, and humane values; I also landed in the hospital with a stress-induced panic attack. I advocated locally and nationally for artists. I wrote a book, Making Your Life as an Artist, that accidentally became the biggest thing I will ever do. I taught dance to high school students for ten years, and then to college students and emerging artists for five. I nurtured a twenty-year collaboration through hilarity and contention, through money, through loves and losses, through artistic mind-melds and artistic discord. I left my dance company lovingly. I wrote four novels and published two over sixteen years. I am writing my fifth now. My artist wife and I raised two kids. I stayed in one place for thirty years, making Philadelphia, this magical, maddening city, my home and my home town. I name him: Foster (hey, that's a real name). |
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The artist I became, amongst my artist peers (Artists U's first five years in Philly.) |
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I set fire to the description of Shine (yes, actually), turning him into what he always was: flash and smoke, far removed from my body. Two things strike me. Shine sounds like a real a-hole. Meaning: I fantasized about becoming an artist I wouldn't even want to hang out with. And this artist life is long. Decades, not years. I think of something the brilliant David Butler said recently: “If we approach our work with a long-term lens, we will invest in forgiveness.” I am investing. |
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