The Desire to Dance

I remember once going to a fundraising ball and watching a couple in late middle age sailing gracefully round the floor: he leading, she following, both gliding between less experienced dancers with the easy grace of Rogers and Astaire.

We, on the other hand, trailed round holding each other tightly in case we fell over. So we became determined that we wouldn’t shuffle off this mortal coil without learning a few basic steps.

Early this year a mutual friend told us she’d started going to dancing classes. Coming into them a bit late, at week three, we found a number of other learners of various ages still attempting to get their feet to do as they were told. Without looking at them. While smiling.

We thought it would be really difficult, and there were times when it was, but in those first few weeks we discovered the most important thing: it doesn’t take a lot of talent to dance. Most people have the ability to move in time and get the steps right. It just takes practice, like any other art. It helps that our instructor keeps telling us we’re the best class he’s ever had. And means it. And that there’s no sense of competition. Everyone here, both the graduates who’ve gone past this first level, and the newbies, encourages everyone else.

Nothing Simple Here

When we went to the class we thought they would teach us some basic ballroom steps, with a few sequences thrown in for good measure. (So that we could perform like the couple I mentioned above.)

Nope: these people do “Round” dancing. (That’s right, as opposed to Square.) Round dancing uses common steps – so far we’ve learnt the cha cha, the rumba, and the two-step – but that’s only the beginning. Each basic step comes with a seemingly infinite number of variations, and in order for you not to have to keep all these steps in your head in a particular order, a caller tells you what variation to perform a moment or so in advance, and you get on and perform it.

So, allied to the art of keeping your feet from tripping over themselves or your partner, is the art of remembering what these variations require you to do. Many of their names bear little relation to the movement you perform. The Fence Line does involve something of a line because the arms are stretched out before and behind, but in the New Yorker you fling your outside arm back and your inside foot forward. It’s an easy step once you know it, but the reason for the title must be lost in the mists of choreographic history.

And Remembering Weird Names Too

The movements for the Sliding Door, the Scissors and the Hitch (not hitching your trousers up, gents) have links to their names, but the Fan that moves into the Hockey Stick is a bit of a puzzle, as are the Alemana and the Aida.

In the early stages connecting the intended movement to a number of arcane names wasn’t too difficult. But now that we’re doing the two-step, we find we’re piling variations on variations. First we learnt the basic box-step, and then the reverse box, followed by progressive boxes (which is a misnomer), left boxes (which go full circle) and a broken box – which isn’t. It’s frustrating at times, but also enlivening, and shows that old brains are as good as new ones at learning. If you practice!

Practice!

And that’s the key, as with learning anything new. There’s only one way the brain absorbs information, and retains it, and that’s through making it work hard at doing so. This involves repetition. What we think is boring, the brain delights in, laying down lines inside your head so that next time you want to do that pattern, you don’t have to “think” about it: the process is already set.

Even though I’ve played the piano for years, I still find the way the brain enjoys repetition is an amazing thing. It gives me the feeling that I could learn anything in the world if I was prepared to put enough effort into it, that the brain would happily work away for hours at repetitive tasks until it had absorbed them for good, and they became automatic.

However, the problem with practicing at home is finding enough room. Certain dances, especially the earlier ones we learnt, don’t move too far from the starting place, but the two-step grazes all over the field. By the time we’ve done an eight-step crab walk, we’ve squeezed through the door of our lounge and into the hall. The following steps take us to the front door, and, because it’s wintertime that’s where we stop, and go into reverse. Maybe in the summer we’ll open the door, trip lightly down the front steps and out onto the street where there’s plenty of room.

And did I mention exercise? A dance workout is ideal for getting all those stiff body parts moving. One of the “graduates” – the people who partner us when we’re learning – is in his eighties, has had a hip operation, and still manages to dance the light fantastic.

I dream of dancing when I’m eighty, too – though I could do without the artificial hip.

The picture is entitled: No Known Restrictions: Square Dancing by Ben Shahn, 1937 and can be found on Flickr.