Therapy with an Audience
I have always needed an outlet. And a physical one at that, elevated by creativity. I believe that all human beings need self-expression. Stifling that impulse snuffs out the light within. The crazy thing about it all is that each person has to find their own unique way to express it. I feel fortunate to be surrounded by artists and performers on a regular basis that range dramatically with their art forms. I have friends in the special FX industry that create massive artworks showcased at Burning Man, friends that do ritual and flesh hook suspension (not for the faint of heart), and I test my own ability to appreciate art by attending as many of these events as possible. Not only does it diversify my personal palette for creativity, but it fuels the vast expanse of possibilities. I, for one, understand the boxes that learning new skills can put us in. We tend to cling to the familiar because of its safety. But nothing can be more pacifying than sticking to what we know. I wanted to share my own artistic evolution through dance and movement, the influence that yoga had on it, and the pits I fell into trying to fit the mold.
“We tend to cling to the familiar because of its safety. But nothing can be more pacifying than sticking to what we know.”
So how did I get on this ride? We’ll go back. Way back to when I was 12 years old, flittering in and out of therapist offices for depression, suicidal ideation, or what some doctors thought were hormones on the fritz. I saw a Psychologist, actually two Psychologists, because the first one died while he was my doctor. I only mention this because to me, this meant I had to tell my story all over again to a white coat with a clipboard, and I found this to be a massive inconvenience. I saw a TCM, or Traditional Chinese Medicine practitioner, that put me on an assortment of supplements and potions to balance my Yang with some Yin. The person I liked the least was a very confrontational therapist named Nadine. She didn’t let me get away with anything, she suggested the facility that I went away to for inpatient treatment for eating disorders and drug addiction. Granted, I was a tough nut to crack and usually put up a fight when I knew I had an adversary like her.
I wish I could tell you some golden nuggets that Nadine told me, but one sentence that stuck out and rang clear as a bell, “this kid needs to be on a stage.” Was it my constant need for attention? Likely. I thought I could get it with my usual methods, pimple-faced boys with too much testosterone or cutting myself. But these were aging out quickly and the patience of my parents was waning. So after some failed attempts at getting sober, I finally landed in junior college with a few days of sobriety and an abundance of insecurities surrounding my body. Naturally, I signed up for a yoga class because that’ll fix things. Over the course of a semester, I was required to attend two two-hour classes per week and teach a portion of a class at the end. I taught my yoga final to TOOL and was later asked to join a dance class by the professor.
“I felt like an old dinner sausage stuffed in pasty-pink tights, limited by the audacity of my parents not putting me in dance class before I could form sentences.”
Listen, nothing is more uncomfortable that joining your first dance class as an adult. It brought me right back to the middle-school-esque terror of not being good enough, not cool enough. I felt like an old dinner sausage stuffed in pasty-pink tights, limited by the audacity of my parents not putting me in dance class before I could form sentences. I constantly scanned the room to see what type of leotard Karen was wearing, and how the hell is Jimmy getting his leg up there, un-phased by tethers of gravity. What I’m talking about here is my first ballet class, that came 9 months after my introduction to Middle Eastern dance. Thank the Gods, most of dancers that I saw in M.E. dance class were like me. Unversed, brand-new and there was every single body type in that room, a very soothing fact that is universal in this dance modality. I actually saw very experienced dancers struggle with Middle Eastern technique, the tight abs and ass, the high center of gravity produced by ballet appeared to be a hindrance. So I kept practicing and practicing until I was asked to come to my first company rehearsal.
Now for the sake of all the parties involved, I’m going to keep some of this anonymous. I am going to skip through a lot of years because ultimately this is about finding my own expression in dance. But in the beginning of that dance company, I was met with a confusing combination of welcoming and passive-aggressive energy. The girls were very good, and I wasn’t. I was placed in the back or wasn’t placed at all. Nothing makes me work harder than the dangling carrot of a principal spot. I ended up dancing for this company for 9 years in total. Anywhere from 10-hours of rehearsal a week and performances every weekend at one point. It was exhausting, I was injured a lot. I got tendonitis in my knees by forcing turn-out to try and keep up with the dancers that had decades of ballet experience. We drove and flew all over the country performing from a rolodex of choreography that I knew like the back of my hand. I knew that at one point it would have to end, I knew the amount of time spent in rehearsals were inhibiting my own ability to support myself.
“Before my exit, the organizer or that final event pulled me into a corner, “you’re making a big mistake leaving the company,” she said. “I’m not sure you’re going to make it as a soloist or do any work that equates to what you can do with…”
When I finally left the company, the divide was messy. I lacked grace in the division and could have communicated clearer. I gave the director 9 months notice and would finish out my final performances of the year to fulfill my contract. Sometimes words and contractual obligations still need some finesse and care. Before my exit, the organizer of that final event pulled me into a corner, “you’re making a big mistake leaving the company,” she said. “I’m not sure you’re going to make it as a soloist or do any work that equates to what you can do with the company,” perhaps my brain filled in that final sentiment. It took a long time to heal that wound, on both sides I’m sure. All the free time and some new avenues of creativity opened my performance life in a new way. Over the past 5 years, I have been blessed to be apart of a new group that celebrates uniqueness and darkness with solo works. I had to bump up against my ideas of what I thought people wanted to see.
Hang up #1: I thought I had to dance in a long skirt for it to be M.E. dance
Hang up #2: Every time I performed I could hear my old director in my head
Hang up #3: I didn’t know what my own style was, so I impersonated others
It took time. My abilities as a yoga practitioner grew, and my frustrations with “traditional” interpretations of Middle Eastern dance grew as well. I felt limited by the skirt and knew that to truly express I needed to do a massive overhaul with the aesthetic of my work. I started to dance in pants, that was a huge relief. I performed a piece at Wastelander’s Ball 2019 to Sylvia Plath’s spoken word “Lady Lazarus” mashed up with Sevdaliza’s “Human”. I performed in yoga pants and a basic turtleneck top. When I watched the video, I thought for the first time in my life as a performer that that was actually me. I have created my own choreography for a while but I wasn’t creating this for anyone but me. If you took away the lights and the audience, it was exactly what I would have done in my living room. I took that feeling and ran with it.
“I wanted to do things that people told me I shouldn’t do. I danced in latex, which is sounds as awesome as sweating in a cornstarch coated balloon does. I took my top off and showed my breasts, revealing a message about sexual consent. I danced in a ball-gag with a blonde wig.”
After performing “Human,” my brain exploded with ideas. I wanted to do things that people told me I shouldn’t do. I danced in latex, which is sounds as awesome as sweating in a cornstarch coated balloon does. I took my top off and showed my breasts, revealing a message about sexual consent. I danced in a ball-gag with a blonde wig. (okay, that was actually just one piece in itself.) Overall I felt like I had found and slipped through the elusive keyhole I was looking for. I wanted people to question if that was actually Tracy Lynn on stage. It took 14 fuckin’ years to get to that moment. It took self-doubt, executing other people’s creative visions, discomfort and deliberate defiance to get here. I would never ever take back the process because that process peeled away the layers to uncover my own art. I look forward to creating and performing more in 2020, and appreciate anyone in the audience watching my public therapy sessions.
xoxo,
TL
Photo credits top to bottom: Jenny Littrell (Ritual Solstice), Mark Matcho (Wastelander’s Ball), Dr. Paul Koudounaris (Wasteland Weekend) and Derrick Bias (Wasteland Weekend).