the pliability of the human body was impressed upon me last night. i remarked to r. how amazing the dancer's body can be, especially one who has the years to bank on for interpreting a piece.

it was a study in comparison. on the one hand, here was a new dancer (we both thought how her make-up stayed on for the two hours, how she didn't sweat), classically trained, had the curves, had her youth. but like any young artist, it is still all technique, not letting go of the rubrics her teachers laid down in front of her, above her, around her.

on the other hand, there was the dancer betrayed by her neck starting to show strains. the visible veins. the skin exposed to various seasons. by most accounts, not the nubile beauty of the first. but she was the master of her body. when she had to drop her weight and act like a dangling branch, she hangs motionless, but you know she had everything to do with that. when she had to cling on for dear life to her partner, she attaches herself like her life depended on it. there was technique, but then there was understanding of her art, her world, her body, herself.

then again, it was a good study in comparison, the two dancers sharing the same space. i sensed the generosity on the part of the older dancer to the novice to not prescribe a singular path of how dance is life. one can only show possible ways and hope for the best.