Expecting a Revelation on Park Avenue

Today was my first day of my self-proposed challenge, and it was not quite what I thought it would be. To begin with, I took a class at Peridance that was not free, thus breaking the first of the cardinal rules. I thoroughly enjoyed the class. It was a workshop with Tisch Dance alumnus Monica Bill Barnes and choreographer Kate Weare about the meaning of movement. We began with a simple warm-up led by both Barnes and Weare, then began to learn a movement phrase comprised of elementary steps, taught by Barnes. Because of the limited time-frame of the class (one and a half hours), the movement would be kept simple while the focus would be on bringing artistry to the material. To paraphrase Barnes, what we do as dancers is to make people care about moving our bodies on stage; our job is to communicate a kinetic experience we are having to the audience. I largely agree with her, that contemporary dance is about communicating kinetic experience, but I think there is an emotional and intellectual connection that cannot be left out. Weare added to Barnes' statement that there are two ways of expressing that experience, the internal and external. Neither one is more correct, more acceptable, or more truthful than the other. As dancers we cannot sit in either the internal or external camp- that's hiding, and our role is to expose. Artistry comes in the constantly confusing, ever-shifting grey area, again paraphrasing Barnes. In my own experience that is the truth of it- any revelation of truth is here one minute, gone the next, like movement itself.

After class, I had lunch at Veselka with a family friend, Della, who's in town. It was nice to sit down in the air conditioning and talk with an old friend (not that she's old, just our friendship). We had a lovely time talking, and we covered just about everything. We both agreed that everything will work out and, what's more, is working itself out at this very moment though perhaps in ways we did not expect. So that was the attitude I had as I set out on my adventure to visit the Scandinavian House.

I took the 6 train uptown and got off at 33rd St. I almost walked into the Salvadoran Embassy (the Swedish and Salvadoran flags have the same color scheme, and it was a windy day). When I got to my correct destination, the sleek and industrial Scandinavian House, I opened the doors and felt like I'd walked into the Ikea-decorated version of heaven. Everything was tidy, geometric and brightly accented. Several older couples were sitting in the cafe enjoying Smörgås Chef, a gourmet restaurant with an oh-so-Swedish spin on each dish. However, the real reason I had come was for the gallery. I asked the receptionist where the gallery was and she told me I'd have to come back tomorrow. I laughed and said I would.

With nothing else to do today, and my intentions side-lined by the conspicuous schedule. Instead, I walked back downtown on Park Avenue, feeling like a flaneur. Now, I don't use this flamboyant French word to demonstrate my prodigious vocabulary. A flaneur is an idler or lounger according to my MacBook dictionary. He is someone who walks around (usually an urban environment) without purpose or schedule, simply observing the actions of his environment, without ends or agenda. This last part may remove my flaneur status because I do confess I was using the walk so I could write about something. As much as I tried to find new and interesting things to see, and open up my senses to a revelation I'd witness on Park Avenue, it just didn't happen like that. The revelation came as I got home and started typing this, realizing the serendipity of events. Maybe I don't have to try to be a flaneur, or act like one. I can just be me and see the city that I live in.