Here is another true story from my so-called life. How these things happen to me I do not know.
A friend saw a poster for a show at the arts centre at the University where we work.
She told me that it was a break dancing show. I am into amazing feats of strength and acrobatic skill, so we decided to to go.
We paid (PAID) for our tickets and moseyed into the theatre. Something was...odd. The audience didn't feel - right. I couldn't put my finger on it. But whatever it was, they were all staring at the two of us.
I get that a lot, in the UK especially. So I ignored it. We sat down and surveyed the programme.
The title was something like ( I am making it up according to vague memory):
"Bringing Boys into Interpretive Dance"
I was puzzled. My friend insisted that it was break dancing fused with interpretive dance. I read on, and was not convinced. But I suspended all disbelief until the show began.
The curtain came up and there stood before us a horde of six year old pirates in tights. They began to...interpret pirateness via dance. We watched. Our row of seats quaked and puddles accumulated as we silently began to wet ourselves.
At the end of the pirate performance my friend was still trying to convince me that the breakdancing was to follow, possibly because she was afraid I would blame her for bringing me to a kiddies school play set to music. I blamed her.
The next piece was by some older boys and was an interpretation of a Magritte painting. It was impressive. For schoolboys. Now my friend started swearing under her breath. We realised we would have to sit through an entire show of schoolboy interpretive dance.
The strange looks from the audience took on new meaning. I am an Aunt! An aunt of...that one. I picked out a random kid who looked like he knew what he was doing. These parents probably thought we were female paedophiles or something.
The show progressed with a full on interactive get-the-dads-on-the-stage little dance that of course the audience must follow. One of the parents looked like a breakdancer, with the backwards cap and baggy clothes, but he held his skills back lest he overshadow his kid.
By the end of the show I had my favourite kid, who knew all the moves and signalled to the other kids when to go. My friend was in pain. I tried to figure out how she thought this show was related to breakdancing. It is still a mystery today.
We filed out of the show sheepishly, trying to hide our faces from suspicious parents, muttering, hmm, wasn't my nephew good? Then we ran.
I have looked at interpretive dance with new eyes ever since. Uh, and breakdancing too.
A friend saw a poster for a show at the arts centre at the University where we work.
She told me that it was a break dancing show. I am into amazing feats of strength and acrobatic skill, so we decided to to go.
We paid (PAID) for our tickets and moseyed into the theatre. Something was...odd. The audience didn't feel - right. I couldn't put my finger on it. But whatever it was, they were all staring at the two of us.
I get that a lot, in the UK especially. So I ignored it. We sat down and surveyed the programme.
The title was something like ( I am making it up according to vague memory):
"Bringing Boys into Interpretive Dance"
I was puzzled. My friend insisted that it was break dancing fused with interpretive dance. I read on, and was not convinced. But I suspended all disbelief until the show began.
The curtain came up and there stood before us a horde of six year old pirates in tights. They began to...interpret pirateness via dance. We watched. Our row of seats quaked and puddles accumulated as we silently began to wet ourselves.
At the end of the pirate performance my friend was still trying to convince me that the breakdancing was to follow, possibly because she was afraid I would blame her for bringing me to a kiddies school play set to music. I blamed her.
The next piece was by some older boys and was an interpretation of a Magritte painting. It was impressive. For schoolboys. Now my friend started swearing under her breath. We realised we would have to sit through an entire show of schoolboy interpretive dance.
The strange looks from the audience took on new meaning. I am an Aunt! An aunt of...that one. I picked out a random kid who looked like he knew what he was doing. These parents probably thought we were female paedophiles or something.
The show progressed with a full on interactive get-the-dads-on-the-stage little dance that of course the audience must follow. One of the parents looked like a breakdancer, with the backwards cap and baggy clothes, but he held his skills back lest he overshadow his kid.
By the end of the show I had my favourite kid, who knew all the moves and signalled to the other kids when to go. My friend was in pain. I tried to figure out how she thought this show was related to breakdancing. It is still a mystery today.
We filed out of the show sheepishly, trying to hide our faces from suspicious parents, muttering, hmm, wasn't my nephew good? Then we ran.
I have looked at interpretive dance with new eyes ever since. Uh, and breakdancing too.
2 comments:
You, my friend, interest me. Keep being you.
Hehe, thanks. It is not too hard being me, just stumbling from one weird moment to the next.
Post a Comment