Good Ole Days Opus Three: Dancing

I hope you never lose your sense of wonder
You get your fill to eat but always keep that hunger
May you never take one single breath for granted
And God forbid love ever leave you empty handed
I hope you still feel small when you stand beside the ocean
Whenever one door closes I hope one more opens
Promise me that you'll give faith the fighting chance
And if you get the chance to sit it out or dance
I hope you dance, I hope you dance
................................................ LeeAnn Womack

I love to dance! I've always loved to dance. When I was four, my mom took me to see the Ballet Russe. I danced in the aisle for the entire performance. No one complained so I guess we were in the cheap seats. Consequently, mom and dad signed me up for ballet lessons. The school was called The Metropolitan Opera House of Russian Ballet. I don't remember much about it; I suppose I was in classes with other ballet-mad kids. I believe we must have given recitals, because my Grandma Jennie made me a fabulous tutu. I don't recall any of it. And then one day when I was maybe seven, I was delivered to an adult class into the hands of a Russian dancing master. This I remember. He had a cane or a stick of some kind -- I always think of it as a cane. He paid a lot of attention to me, using the cane to hit my legs to make me lift them higher or turn them out more or whatever. I remember that he terrified me. I didn't know why I was there. I heard him tell my mom that I had to come to more classes several times a week. Later that evening, I told my parents I didn't want to dance anymore. They whispered about it. My little brother was two years old and it was inconvenient for mom to take me to class as many times a week as the school wanted me to attend. I know that I thought I was not a good dancer because of that incident; that I had been put in that class as a punishment. It would be like 50 years later before I had the epiphany: I was put into that class because I was a good dancer. The Master wanted me to be properly trained by attending at least four times a week. I remember everyone in the class watching me. Might it have been a company class? Was I being considered for the Nutcracker? Tra-la! I'll never know. Maybe I could have been the next Maria Tallchief!! (Ha! A contendah!!) My parents decided (with someone's advice?) that perhaps I needed a less structured class. And with the further advice of whomever that someone was, I found myself at The Neighborhood Playhouse School of the Theatre where I would study modern dance and elocution every Saturday for the next eight or nine years.

My teachers were members of the Martha Graham company. Miss Graham didn't have a permanent home for her company yet, and was in residence at the Neighborhood Playhouse. My first teacher was Natasha Newman. The second year my teacher was Majorie Mazia. She would be my dance teacher until I went off to college.

(When Marjie left the Playhouse to open her own school in Sheepshead Bay, I went with her.) Martha Graham would often step into the classroom, and we would be directed to greet her with reverence – never really knowing who she was. The dance forms were a bit strange to me; they were a blend of ballet, Pilates, yoga, and a strong philosophy of movement that would make Graham a legend. (in photo: Sophie Maslow at left facing photo; Marjorie Mazia at the right.)

Marjorie was married to Woody Guthrie. We weren’t aware of Woody’s renown either. When Woody was in the city, he’d come to Marjie’s classes and she'd introduce him as just Woody. He's sit on the floor and play his guitar and together they'd make up songs for us. Marjie would choreograph little dances to go with the songs and we’d perform them on open school days. One Saturday morning I arrived early at the dance studio. Woody was playing his guitar for a tiny little girl who was dancing her own choreography. I've always remembered that picture because the little girl was like a sprite; slightly unreal and ethereal. Not long after, Marjie didn't come to class for several weeks. Sophie Maslow taught us. Then we learned that the lovely little girl, Cathy Ann, was Marjie and Woody's daughter; she had been caught in a fire in their Mermaid street apartment. She died in hospital the day after.
The inspiration for the children's songs that Woody and Marjie wrote was Cathy Ann, who'd make up little rhymes that became the basis of many of the songs: Let's go Riding in my car car, Don't you push me down, My Dolly... and many others recorded in the album Songs to Grow On . I still own the original record; I used to play it for my kids. It's available today on a cd called Woody's Grow Big Songs. And my classmates and myself were part of the creative process, improvising to the songs so they could see what would work. (the photo: the Saturday school of the Neighborhood Playhouse School of the Theatre, 1947)
One year, when I was a bit older, I had an hour between dance class and drama class. Marjie asked me to babysit her little kids, who were always crawling around or running around in diapers. One of those kids of course grew up to be Arlo Guthrie. We were in a parent waiting room, and it was my job to keep the babies from crawling out into the hall. Well, as they say in New York --"Ya nevah know!"

Because I grew up in New York in the hub of the "business," my dance teachers were almost always stars (or eventual stars) in their field. All friends of Marjie, they'd come out to Sheepshead Bay to teach at her school. As a teenager and then on holidays and summers when I was in college, I'd take classes at Marjie's studio. Bill Bales, Donald McKayle, Merce Cunningham, Ronnie Aul, Sophie Maslow, and others were my teachers. Today I’m very impressed. Back then (and probably a good thing) they were just my teachers.

Why didn't I go on to study dance professionally? Well, my mom spoke with Marjorie about it when I was 16 and entering my senior high school year. Because I still expressed an interest in making it my profession. Marjie told her that I didn't have the technique, and that I was an excellent and exciting dancer but would have to perform my own choreography. This was convincing. I majored in theatre in college. One of the summers when I took a series of classes at the Sheepshead Bay studio, several teachers rotated teaching the program. In the first class, Donald McKayle approached me during our barre warm-up. He told me I could get my leg up higher. I told him I didn't think so. Heck, I was like 19 years old and had been studying dance for --what? -- 15 years. Obviously, I was a hobbiest. Then, as I raised my leg in a forward attitude, Donny gently pressed that leg at the hip joint and it shot up another six inches into the air. So once again, I was at a woulda, coulda, shoulda moment. I let it pass but with a lovely, warming inner knowledge. I danced at Marjie's studio whenever I was in New York, and at the New Dance Group Studios in Manhattan. I danced at Carnegie Tech with my teacher Cecil Kitkat (who had been with Graham for a brief time). I performed as a dancer in productions at Tech and taught dance in summer camp. I choreographed the musical shows at The Acting Place and at the Boston Children's Theatre.

When I was living in New York a few years ago, I had the opportunity to teach a couple of acting classes one Saturday at The Neighborhood Playhouse. It was like a day in a time machine; and everything was really very small -- the rooms, the entire building. When I stepped into the dance studio for a moment, I could almost hear the music, the soft guitar, Woody's voice, Marjie's gentle prodding. It delights me to say I didn't cry. It was such a gift to be there one more time.

I don't have photos of me dancing. I realized that with some dispair as I looked through the albums. Hmmmm.... didn't anyone in my family come to our concerts?
With a camera? The only one I can find is from Carnegie Tech where I'm choreographing a dance for the Scotch 'n Soda Theatrical Club. I don't even remember this one. All I do know is that I miss it. A lot. My God, how I loved to dance!