Looking Back, Moving Forward: A Dancer’s Reflections on Dancing through COVID-19
Written by Ms. Sasha Rydlizky
Company Member of Alison Cook Beatty Dance
December 2020
Flashbulb memories. These are the moments in history that everyone crystalizes in time and place- the moon landing, JFK’s assassination, 9/11- And perhaps now, COVID-19. However, this generation’s flashbulb memory is different- it has stretched on and on. Maybe for you, it was the stress and uncertainty leading up to it all, the moment of closure, or a moment amid quarantine that encapsulated the whole experience. For me, it was the moment I realized COVID-19 was a real and present crisis. There is a fable that a frog slowly boiled alive won’t feel the pain until it is too late. This slow, creeping calamity creates a clearer picture of my experience. Gradually, almost imperceptibly, the water began to warm, and the news started to build. Some keenly perceptive frogs jumped out early, maybe others are still in there, having not had the realization yet, and some never will. I distinctly remember the moment the water grew too warm; I took decisive action to leap.
The first hint I heard of the impending emergency was in late February from my mom. I offhandedly downplayed her warnings, assuming she was just indulging in her favorite pastime of worrying. In the next few weeks, the water warmed; I began to hear more and more about the situation. However, like many, I assumed this problem might be avoided by vigilant hand washing. By the second week of March, there was a state of emergency over New York State, and trusted sources were taking the affair very seriously, so I did too. Yet, I continued my daily routine, but with increased care and uncertainty. I was in the final week of rehearsals leading up to a “Tribute To Jason” performance at New York Live Arts with Alison Cook Beatty Dance. At rehearsal, we exchanged rumors about the virus, its implications, and the possibility of our show being canceled. At that moment, the case of cancellations seemed unlikely. We bathed in hand sanitizer, danced, and took another bath before we left. Of course, this was before the importance of masks were known.
The last time I took the MTA, Thursday, March 12th, 2020, stands out in memory. As I was on the train, suddenly, all of the mounting uncertainty hit me; what was I doing? Was it worth it to be in a crowded car? Should I turn around and go home right now? Things were beginning to be set in motion. My performance with Alison Cook Beatty Dance was canceled. I was scheduled to work for the weekend and began to doubt the safety and ethics of doing so, especially as a small tickle developed in my throat. My parents began to encourage me to escape the city and come home to Maine. These few days seemed to stretch out.
Plagued by the anxiety and uncertainty of what to do, I regularly listened to the news, fielded calls from my parents, and did my best to assess what was happening. This was the early period where only SOME events and businesses were beginning to close- uncertainty and confusion were the day’s flavors. What was the right decision? What if my analysis of the situation proved different than an employer’s? I decided to call out of my work for the weekend. I got emails from another workplace, wondering if they should stay open and looking for employee feedback, and I told them I wasn’t comfortable coming in. My mom began to beg in earnest that I come home. I continued watching the news religiously, checking stats. I felt the intensity and anxiety mounting. And in a flash, I felt the heat all around me, and I saw the water begin to bubble. I took my mom seriously and decided that I needed to come home. I convinced my boyfriend to join me, whose work was starting to be canceled, and by Saturday, March 14th, we were packed up and in the car driving to my mom’s house in Maine.
My boyfriend and I were ahead of the curve by a day or two- we left right before the seriousness and magnitude of the situation was obvious. We didn’t know if we were overreacting by going, and we fully expected to be back in NYC working in a few weeks, in a month at most. Once we arrived, after eight long hours in the car, I was thrilled to see my mom. As much as I wanted to, we didn’t hug. We were coming from the then-epicenter of the outbreak; she was still working as a PT, seeing patients, so we kept our distance. She predicted we would be there for months- I laughed her off, again assuming overreaction. I should have listened.
As I settled into Maine, even with the obvious negative consequences of things shutting down right and left, I felt a personal sense of relief. It had been months since I had a single day off. As a dancer in NYC, my days were packed with bouncing all over the city from teaching, class, rehearsal, and teaching again. I considered a day where I only had one or two obligations a “day off,” so there was a part of me that welcomed this forced respite. Nothing to do and nowhere to be- even if I wanted to go somewhere. I welcomed the familiar surrounding of my small rural town, with plenty of trees and space, and where life was already a bit socially distanced.
After the first week of much needed, glorious rest, I began to have the energy and motivation to DO things. I watched in joy and amazement as online classes started popping up everywhere. The dance and fitness industry rose to the challenge, and the community’s strength and generosity were inspiring to see.
Soon, Alison contacted the other company members and me to create a video work virtually. The first few sessions were half support group, half rehearsal. We spent much needed time seeing how everyone was managing, sharing financial relief resources, exchanging tips on applying for unemployment, and sharing online classes we were enjoying. We were creating, too, taking the time to research movement ideas and develop experimenting with our new partner- the video camera.
So much of dance is interdependent and relational. We take timing cues by looking at another dancer, we rely upon each other to take our weight as we partner, and we feel each other’s energy dancing side by side. When the whole company dances together, it feels like we become more than the sum of the parts. Dancing together, the coordinated surge of group movement feels like a mighty wave- supportive, energizing, and carrying us all through. The new electronic medium put all this into question. We struggled to feel connected, dancing alone in our own spaces connected only by pixels and electric signals.
Simple acts that we took for granted-all listening to the same music simultaneously, seeing each other’s timing, and communicating with ease- became a challenge. We learned to share our sound and screen, “Zoom lag” became an accepted part of the process, and “you’re on mute!” was the new refrain. Technical issues abounded, but dancers are nothing if not resilient. We slowly learned to not only accept and understand the technology, but to really utilize it creatively. As Alison developed the dance film that came to be called “From My Window to Yours,” she used the new restrictions as inspiration and the structure of zoom boxes to her advantage.
The company took the opportunity of the new online landscape to explore a different kind of community outreach, teaching free online classes through social media channels. The dancers were given the freedom to devise 30-minute classes. There was a whole range of offerings, from artist conversations, to repertory classes, to hula, to my own meditation classes. In the beginning, our biweekly rehearsals in our same familiar rehearsal slot, plus our new weekly courses, were the only reliable and stable thing in my life. The company was a rope to my old life in the original and confusing reality we were all living in.
Just as the company had to adapt and work in new ways, so did I in my daily life. My pre-pandemic life was planned down to the second; it was an essential measure to ensure I could keep up with the NYC freelance hustle of multiple jobs. As I began to settle into this new reality, and with the luxury of more time and less to do, I found that I enjoyed not planning my life down to the second. I began to breathe into this new space in my day, merely living within a loose structure. I picked up new hobbies; running, learning push-ups and pull-ups, a brief and silly stint on TikTok, and reinvested in old; hiking, painting with my mom and reading for pleasure. Slowly, some of my teaching work began to transfer online. Most of all, I was grateful to be in one of my favorite places with people I loved, and most importantly, safe.
During this period, Alison not only created “From My Window to Yours,” but was also in process with “Pieridae” and “Central Park Field 4,” which the dancers in NYC had begun to rehearse outside, and “Because of, In Spite of…The Wallpaper” which Vera, Nika, I, still out of the city, rehearsed online. Once I finally returned to NYC, I joined the dancers on the fields of Central Park. It was joyful to reunite with the other company members and move into wide-open spaces together. After the months of dancing alone in small, constrained areas, the abundance of space and community was beautiful. Here too, there were challenges. Rehearsing an exceptionally athletic piece in the height of NYC heat, the dust of the baseball field swirling around, all while maintaining 6ft distance apart and masks, was no small feat. Add in an hour commute by bike each way (I avoided the subways at all costs), and I was completely drained after each rehearsal. However, I took these conditions as a challenge, an opportunity to grow my strength and endurance. Once more, the company was adapting and adapting well.
By the end of the summer, the company had finished and filmed the new pieces, and as the season began to shift, Alison moved onto “Beat-lero,” “Hope Ashore,” and “Winter Wonderland,” for a total of seven new works during COVID-19. Most of all, when I reflect upon this last era, I am inspired by the prolific perseverance and determination of Alison to keep creating, and the whole company for their willingness and creativity. I am proud to have been a part of it.
As I reflect upon this tenacity and grit in the face of challenges, I am reminded of the stoic philosophy. A primary tenant of stoic philosophy is a refinement to the cliche of “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” They add complexity to say, “What doesn’t kill you provides an opportunity to become stronger. This doesn’t mean that challenging or even terrible events are ‘worth it,’ that you must be happy about them, or that you shouldn’t do all you can to prevent them from happening in the first place. It does point to that even within tragedy, there is a shred of hope, no matter how slim, that if you survive, you can learn to be a more capable and resilient person. We must take care of HOW we survive- it can be all too easy to be hardened and jaded and angry after hardship. But there is always a path forward that deepens the wisdom of yourself, others, and the world, a way that leads to a brighter future. Within each hardship, there is an opportunity to uncover questions and answers that might be painful to unearth. For me, this time has made me question the reasons why I dance and really interrogate my answers. It has brought perspective to my life- how am I spending my precious time on earth? Who am I serving, and why? What are my values, and am I brave enough to commit to them genuinely? On the other side of these questions, I believe there is a more aware version of myself, with more fortitude and freedom.
This is the path I have been struggling to follow. More than a destination to answers, it is a path of growth. This path has room for anyone who wishes to grow, and it seems the company, the dance community, and many others are striving toward this direction as well. This path is not a clear and straight line- it is full of roots and bushes and thorns; it winds and weaves in mazes. It is a far longer journey than is comfortable. It is hard. And (I think) it will lead us all somewhere beautiful.
Author: Sasha Rydlizky
