There are halls, halls, halls & there are stages. There are opera houses with fat cherubs carved into the walls, rich curtains, & spirits in love. There are auditoriums, spacious, voracious, money making machines. There are churches with makeshift stages, feet scuffed floors, and air thick with faith, faith, faith. There are halls, and there are stages, there are roads. In a city like this (which is any city at all), it is on the street you find the modern dancers. There are mothers and children, children and mothers, business men, wallstreet brokers, deli workers, waitresses, writers, lovers, prostitutes, angels, homeless men & woman, and there are dreamers. If the cast doesn't leave you breathless the set will. The artist is heartbroken that much is evident. The skyline is glass and steel, sharp pieces jigsawing endlessly, till they jab acute edges ragged against the human soul & then tower with greater ambition still, schisming the sky itself.
Her name is Gin, she tells you she thinks names are important so please don't forget hers, you nod. She is six & this morning Mumma woke her up early so they could watch sunrise. Mumma picked her up and whispered that "now wasn't that just beautiful, & spectacular, & miraculous, & a little bit, sexy?". Now (lean in won't you it's a secret) you mustn't tell anyone just yet because she isn't sure what all the words mean just yet, but it's who she wants to be. This is the order of things. First Gin decides she wants to be a dancer, then she decides she wants to be the sunrise.
Your car stops at a red light. This means the dance is about to begin. There is a morning swell, the city staggers, slows, stops. The dancers all hold their breathes and synchronize there heartbeats. This moment before the dance begins is part of the dance, it is you delegatory first sip of momentary grace. The dancers you suddenly realize were placed on the set before you arrived, they come to life to the sounds of a choppy rewrite of Ambulance Sirens (In B flat).
Gin is 14 at a dressing table, brushing foundation on to her face.. Gin do you know what the words mean yet? She laughs, turns to you, nods and, asks if she's beautiful. You say yes, because she is. She leans in and asks if she's " a little bit sexy", you nod yes. She leans in closer, you notice a freckle on her nose. Is she sexy? You nod yes again. She leans in even closer, her lips are-. Is she very sexy, you nod, lean in. She's gone, it's air, the floor, the her laughing face looking down at you. You forgive her.
A couple comes out of a car, parked by the sidewalk, they're pregnant. They move together, comforting, soothing, a slow waltz. The music becomes louder, as another set of dancer arrives on to the set. They careen straight into another set of dancers appearing from the other entrance. The next bit is hip hop all fast pace and attitude. Their vehicles of arrival lie devastated, but that's beside the point. This set was nothing but a comedic interlude, back to the main event. The woman is heaving now, quick, measured, controlled, leading in a tango.
At 19 it's temper, temper, temper. Things fly across the room with vengeant precision; pots, pans, dishes. All in all, the entire thing ends up costing a pretty penny in silverware. Gin is in the UFT dance program on a scholarship. You take up a shift at a local deli and nurse a flourishing photography career; you're short on time. You come home to find Gin sleeping on the couch, or crying in the bathroom, or practicing her aim. Somewhere along the way you figure out the problem, it's the school. You watch one of the shows, watch her, fluid measured, cold. "Schooling" is a concept wasted on the ignorant, the unintelligent, and those with natural talent. Schooling isn't just waisted on Gin, it's ruining her. You finally find her passed out on the couch sobbing her eyes out asking again, and again if you love her. Yes you do, you do, you do.
She wakes you up at night, coaxes you out into the parking lot, it's snowing. The Dabke is a dance for lovers, and midnights in the Sahara desert. It's all hips and arms glazing back and forth, back and forth, as though it were a hypnotic pendulum. In the middle of the parking lot, snowing, Gin barefoot in sweatpants and a training bra; you're unsure wether the picture is pretty or perverse. She runs over to you and kisses you, says she's quitting school and joining a dance troupe. When was it the last time you were so happy?
The best part of this set is easily the heightening sense of tension. There are a number of dancers circling around the main act, you switch seats to get a better view. You find yourself not liking the music as you get closer. Have you figured out the point yet though? Here it is: Never wait to long to go the hospital.
Now you really don't see her so much anymore, mostly because she's travelling, mostly because you are too. She doesn't write. She says she doesn't know what to say, you admit to not knowing either. You pursue her for a while, through magazines, newspapers, press cuttings, wish she had facebook. Readers Digest sends you to Palestine for 6 months, then it's on to China. Note: Gin's 21st birthday is coming up. Send her a present.
You don't know when it is that things pick up a rhythm, breath in, breath out. The resolution races toward a climax; it's a girl. The crowd bursts into cheers and applause. Why would we ever get over the miracle of life? You don't stay around to see the beginning. Somewhere else in the city another show is starting.
Somehow a six month stay turns into a year, you don't go to China. You go to Bangladesh and then end up in Nepal. You send pictures back to Readers Digest and realize that you prefer photographs of people. In your minds eye you watch a monk slide into the frame. The camera snaps, he slides away leaving a piece of his soul behind. You send it back to Canada, and it passes hand until it's finally printed into a New York magazine. The art community raves; it's the perfect angles! the perfect lighting! What type of camera was it? What was the zoom set at? You're impressed, who knew photography was so difficult?
You drive a little faster now, you don't want to be late. Every few seconds you turn back, to check on the equipment. Do you expect perhaps that it will dissapear?
You meet in a woman in Tibet. She speaks English, loves to dance, and can't cook. It takes you three months to realize you don't love her.
There isn't any parking, you drive around and park in a school 3 blocks down. Then run back three blocks with the equipment over your shoulders.
You start making money. A Toronto based magazine invites you back to do headshots of celebrities. You think on the plane that there's someone you need to look up.
You don't want to blow this assignment, its important. After the show you have to photograph one of the dancers, they keep telling you she's made a name for herself.
Your plane lands at Pearson. Walking through security it's been 6 years coming, for your past to catch up with your present.
The show is spectacular, the lead is amazing. Your eyes follow her across the stage, trying to memorize her every movement. It all ends to soon. You get up, and go backstage, set up you equipment. The lead sits down in-front of the camera, smiles at you, says her name is Gin. You smile and introduce yourself as well; Nicholos White.
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