A pocket of strawberry-scented sweetness in a sad, grey world.
Most than anything I admire good movement. This took time to realize. As a reader of books, a watcher of films, a writer for chrissakes, why should physicality win my heart?
There is some precedent for writers worshipping athleticism. At the risk of being too pretentious, author Norman Mailer’s book The Fight thrillingly depicts Muhammad Ali’s rumble in the jungle against George Foreman in Zaire, for example. I might choose something from Hollywood: Gene Kelly Smoothly navigating his honed dancer’s body around a tiny apartment in An American In Paris.
Dance is now part of my story: every week for eight years I have attended a contemporary dance class. It’s in my system and it’s fighting against my bookish script: a lanky, wonky giant straight man shaking his ass towards some kind of strength, rhythm and elegance. I love being able to do little breakneck spin-turns, having supreme comfort with backward rolls and that time I did a handstand in a Nike store. I love getting out of my head and taking possession of my body. Doesn’t everyone?