Structured Improvisation: A Dance Between Logic and Spontaneity

Across my activities, I greatly value dialogue between logic and clear structure, unpredictability and the unexpected. By this, I refer to a clear, linear flow of ideas that anchors the work, with room for flexibility and inclusion of non-conventional elements when it seems relevant. These features can be literary or performative. The intention is to draw on my depth of knowledge and desire for spontaneous interaction to allow for moments of surprise and play to bring material to life in engaging and fun as well as serious, informative ways.

Influencing this perspective are innovative approaches to performance composition I experienced in the Department of Performance Studies at NYU with Richard Schechner, as well as learning about structured improvisation and real-time composing in various dance classes, hip-hop pedagogy through Daniel Banks and the innovative teaching of colleagues such as Jennifer Fisher at UC, Irvine. I believe that while we constantly live in educational environments where we are shaped and guided by pre-existing norms and conventions, such as how classrooms are designed and the length of class periods, there remains the ability to question those constructions and conventions. I strongly advocate for agency and individual choice. My preferred methods of intervention include unexpectedly shifting directions, going with associations that come to mind in the moment, and making room for students or others to influence the direction of the class, text, or event. And perhaps, above all, the satisfying engagement of the imagination, play, story-telling and performance.

Respect, Care and Discord; Balancing the Group and Individual

Based on my extensive research on ethics, I’ve become increasingly interested in the quality of interactions across my various activities. I value demonstrating respect and care and, at the same time leaving room for students, colleagues, participants, and myself to express honest feedback and allow for places of disagreement.

My interest in care not only stems from a desire to be a decent human being as well as a ‘great artist/scholar’ stemming from my childhood. It also arises from observations and research over the years of the many kinds of abuse and discrimination that exist in the dance field. These can be emotional or physical in nature, and include everything from an irate choreographer dragging a dancer by the hair across the floor in a rehearsal to a performer verbally attacking an audience member; a critic enlisting favors from a choreographer whose work they will review, an agent working with one of the presenter friends to ensure a company they represent is in a coveted festival, and many more.

Feminist ethics, also known as relational ethics, ethics of care, or care ethics, recognizes the countering of this legacy and the importance of considering our relationships with those around us. Such theorists as Carol Gilligan, Nel Noddings, and Margaret Walker, plus Edward C. Warburton in dance and Martin Buber in philosophy, foreground empathy. They see it as one’s responsibility to attend to the perceived needs of others in a mindful, respectful manner that strives to avoid harm and helps to improve each other’s lives. It is an ongoing relational stance that takes effort and is a shared, two way responsibility.

My desire to cultivate a decent community that also leaves room for individual differences, and preferences, is something that in the past has been less consciously applied in my efforts but because of extreme divisions around racial/ethnic politics across the university and in the wider culture, has become more significant for me in the last few years. It is closely connected to my encouragement of respectful debate and honoring of individual perspectives, drawing on my detailed knowledge of the complexity of dance history and identity.

The Importance of Debate and Critiquing the Status Quo

One of the greatest motivators for my work is a love of debate and questioning the status quo derived from my family upbringing. I often choose topics that involve critiquing a set of arguments or that probe entire paradigms to carve out new realms of inquiry. This includes questioning ‘canonical’ readings of dance history, exploring why certain people and works have been privileged over others (such as ballet over hip-hop), and the roles of critics, presenters, educational institutions, and others in that process. In other words, I am drawn to the non-formulaic.

I also want to reveal places of harmony and places of tension in existing scholarship as well as choreography. This involves revealing complexity and avoiding predictable narrative arcs or cliches, whether of a written or choreographic nature, and whether they be more rational or intuitive. To this end, I frequently play devil’s advocate—asking questions and generating awareness of multiple perspectives. I have my own point of view, but I also want others to question and reflect and come to their own conclusions. I strive to own my opinions, and, in expressing them, explain why I hold them. Such a perspective is the product of a long career in academia informed by many teachers and my own observations throughout this journey.

Teaching: Living Performance, Expertise, Risk-Taking

I’m driving to the university. As the asphalt unfurls below and I admire the palm trees, which still seem so exotic after all these years far from my birth place in Eastern Canada, my mind travels to the dance history class I’m about to teach on Romantic ballet. My PowerPoint is ready with its facts, illustrations, and links to videos. Not too complicated, but not too plain either. It is a template that I can riff off. As I ride along, I enjoy reflecting on what might spice things up.

Somehow it comes to me. I will start the class by having the students reenact a tableaux characteristic of the period. A female-presenting student can stand in a low arabesque with both arms stretching forward in a “third position” typical of the Romantic style (when it comes time, there happens to be a table in the classroom that she stands on to emphasize the “ethereal” nature of the heroines of the time). Then, I’ll invite a male-presenting student to play the ‘male’ role with his right arm reaching upward toward the woman and his gaze raised towards her with yearning. His left leg will extend behind him with his toe pointed resting on the floor. What do the students see and what associations do they have? I’ll have the volunteers reverse positions, with the man on the table and the woman reaching upward towards him, and again question the students for their observations. Did this change influence how they interpreted the image? Why or why not? We play a bit more with the image as more volunteers of varied backgrounds assume the roles. After thanking the volunteers, I proceed with the lecture, which will deal in part with the changing gender roles during the 19^th century in which the male came to symbolize the earthly, everyday realm from which he was striving (unsuccessfully) to escape by chasing the unattainable, ethereal female, newly elevated through the development of the pointe shoe and flying machines.

I approach many of my in-person classes this way. I consider each class as a performance that I’m directing. I map out a plan for the class, with the ability to insert less structured and more improvised moments. Sometimes I discuss the plan with trusted colleagues, and they inspire as well as help me with the shaping. The basic structure for the class is often rooted in the form of a PowerPoint. This is because of the PowerPoint’s possibility for information to be provided in a clear manner – with core points laid out and information on choreographers and dancers, often in a largely chronological manner. I explain terms and jargon as the need arises. In the case of history classes, I usually jump ahead and include examples of other versions of the choreography that are more recent to illustrate the ways in which works can be reimagined and as an inspiration for the dance majors in the room (my classes are often a mixture of dance majors, minors, and others from across the university). For instance, in the class on Romantic ballet, I show excerpts of other versions of the ballet Giselle like Creole Giselle, and those by Mats Ek and Akram Khan. Dance history is ALIVE and constantly reimagined. Some of the less structured moments include performative experiments like the one described above. In dance history classes, I have students try to reconstruct dances from written texts or provide pseudo-reenactments of pieces by different choreographers. In my Dance and Ethics course, there are many classes where the students reenact situations that raise ethical dilemmas.Footnote ¹ These generate rich discussions, offer varied perspectives, and often lead me to play off students’ observations either verbally or by showing videos that I hadn’t planned to. Sometimes the students themselves surprise me with fresh possibilities.

In this way, the structure and my subject expertise give me the confidence to share moments of the unknown, take risks, and co-build the class as a living experience that is generative of knowledge, relationships, and ideally, community. An example is a class I taught on the complex dynamics of the dance-presenting world for my Dance and Ethics course. I randomly gave students pieces of paper providing backstories of their jobs—such as a US major presenter of a large institution, a European presenter, a manager of a mid-size company, an independent artist seeking a space to present their work, etc. As the students mingled around the classroom striving to ‘buy’ or ‘sell’ pieces, I circulated, drawing on my research to offer observations.Footnote ² A moment of surprise came when a group decided to work together and form a collective that would collaborate. When it came time to reconvene and share perceptions as a class, it was interesting to hear why they decided to work together rather than compete for limited resources.

There have also been moments when I have embraced unplanned moments that occur as the result of an external source:

The letter is dated 1937 and on the top are the names and addresses of other people who will be invited to participate in the performance. The activity aims to have the students act as “Dance Detectives” (an actual assignment for later in the semester), and in so doing, get a taste of primary sources and the unexpected places they can take you as well as understanding the important role minorities have played in the evolution of modern dance.

The next 15 minutes are electric, as there is a kind of call-and-response between the students, Loretta, and me. A young African American student in the class explains she thinks the document has something to do with Alvin Ailey because the addresses seem to be near or in Harlem, the names of several of the individuals sound as if they are African American, and the title of the performance also suggests something related to Ailey. Loretta jumps right in. “I have a question—how do you know all this?” The young student explains that she is African American and has been interested in the history of African Americans and dance. Loretta is impressed.

I gear the conversation towards more information about the letter. I ask everyone if they can figure out what the YMHA stands for. Loretta immediately says that it must be like the YMCA. I say, yes, but what was the “H”? Some people think it was for Harlem, and then one of the students says Hebrew. I say, yes, it was a Jewish community center, and it was also known as the 92nd St. Y. Our guest excitedly states that she knew the 92nd St. Y and had been there.

I then elaborate about the origins of the letter and the vision of William Kolodney, who was the Jewish educational director at the Y who believed in bringing the arts and culture to the general community. I speak of how the Y had been a launch place for many African American, Jewish, and other minority dance artists: the importance of the Negro Dance Evening, and the role of the Y in presenting Ailey when he was just starting out.

At this point, Loretta introduces her granddaughter, who is lurking at the threshold of the classroom.Footnote ⁴ She explains that her granddaughter is trying to decide whether to take this class. She asks the students whether they would recommend this class, and most raise their hands. I observe that we would also like her to take the class. She laughs and we hug warmly.

Improvisation and spontaneity, the unexpected and unplanned. As stated earlier such moments interrupt the idea that material is fixed and singular, a topic I will return to below, when discussing in more detail the place of debate. The idea of structured improvisation offers both a pre-established paradigm (some may call this the canon), but in a critical, multi-vocal, and imaginative way.

But first, let’s discuss the hug that I mentioned above between myself and Loretta Avent. In chapter 3 of my book Dance and Ethics: Moving Towards a More Humane Dance Culture (Reference Jackson2022), I go into detail about the value of feminist and relational thinking, especially around care and compassion for the dance field. How can teachers and students foster these ‘virtues’ and approach care in classrooms?

In the case of my hug with Loretta, it was the result of sharing a special and unique experience. However, how do I relate to my students? I think about one student, who I didn’t know especially well at the time, and who approached me before a class and asked for a hug. Without knowing the reasons why she was requesting this, I enfolded her in my arms. As the course progressed, I got to know her better. I learned she was not a dance major, but had always been interested in dance, and she shared personal information about her life over the semester.

When I reflect on it, I realize that my ‘care’ for students varies greatly and is highly relational, in the sense of also depending on how they relate to me. While I aim to respect all students and act decently, certain factors make me care differently about specific individuals. There exists a continuum between those who I have a natural rapport with, and those for whom there seems to be an impenetrable wall. It also matters the extent to which students demonstrate interest in the class through interacting in class or through emails, and/or whose writing is thoughtful, clear, and detailed. I express my appreciation of their efforts through comments, both written and verbal; and provide resources that come to mind and opportunities to present at conferences.

As the years have passed, I have become more curious and open—more generous and less judgmental. With fewer expectations and more acceptance of my limitations.I am also willing to grow and learn, having taken workshops that provided some valuable information on the barriers facing students. These workshops opened my eyes to the overwhelming nature of the experience of dealing with stated, as well as unstated, norms at play.

I have since had the most success with trying to make time to really listen to students and learn about their interests. It leads me to understand students who have lived and live very different lives from mine. I provide detailed guidelines on how to approach assignments as well as models as examples. I give extra credit to those who work with others on assignments or use the university’s writing center, and offer to meet with them to go over their writings. I lend or give books from my collection. Sometimes, it is just not possible to make a connection, and I admit this honestly. The most I feel I can do in these situations is direct students to resources that might capture their attention, including other faculty with whom I believe they will have a better rapport. It is something I continue to reflect upon.

I have come to recognize, however, just how difficult it is for a single professor to make a difference for some students, even those with whom one has a rapport. I can think of two cases of highly talented, original thinkers -who simply could not succeed in my class or the program. I met with them to encourage them repeatedly, but ultimately it seemed simply like a drop in a tsunami of self-doubt and/or the pressures of life outside the university. It was tragic to witness.

A student has just completed their presentation in my Dance and Ethics course. The intent of this class is to reflect on the nature of truth in art. The student’s presentation has focused on the dance artist John Henry, who died of AIDS, and the documentary Singing Myself a Lullaby, based on a staged version of the piece that he performed until close to the end of his life.Footnote ⁵ A revelation occurs: that a claim Henry made during a dramatic highlight of the work was factually false. He had asserted that he had fought in Vietnam, and even performed a dramatic solo related to the horror he had witnessed there. It was only after his death that his collaborators) learned in a letter from his longtime partner that, while he had been on a plane to go there a few times, he had never actually been.

In the documentary, a variety of perspectives are presented regarding this revelation by his collaborators as well as family members, dance critics, and choreographers who knew his work. Once the student’s presentation is finished, I open the topic for discussion. What do the students think about this situation and its relation to ‘truth’ in art versus ‘real life’?

There is a wide variety of opinions shared. Some see the dance as a performance and inherently make-believe, so what he did was acceptable, while others take the stance that it is irresponsible of Henry to have presented something so important as true when it was factually false. Two students in particular assume this perspective. One is the daughter of an American who fought in Vietnam. The other is the daughter of Vietnamese immigrants whose father experienced the other side. In both cases, the young women spoke of the trauma their fathers had experienced. They thought that if Henry was going to include the section, it should have been made clear to the audience that it was fictional. It was a striking moment when something potentially abstract and distant became concrete and personal.

Many of my classes involve making room for discussion. This can range from simply seeking feedback to holding debates on specific topics. Such debates are not formal but involve students working in groups with chosen representatives to make opening statements, rebuttals, and closing remarks. The point of these activities is to provide opportunities for different perspectives to be expressed.

There are also many times that I will praise people’s points while purposefully playing devil’s advocate to challenge them to think in different ways about a topic. I also distinguish between my own opinion and that of an author we may be reading, as well as assist students in doing the same thing. This is an important way of teaching students not to confuse the two, retain a critical distance from the material they are learning, and recognize personal biases along with those of authors and myself. I admit when I do not have an answer to a question and encourage them to research the topic and I also do the same.

In a Philosophy of Dance course, a graduate student who had passionately declared one perspective about a subject matter at the beginning of the class stated the exact opposite point of view at the end of the class. When I pointed this out, everyone, including the student, laughed, as we realized how much the open discussion and hearing multiple perspectives of peers as well as the instructor can shift perceptions. I often hear that animated discussions spill out after my classes into hallways, coffee shops, and dorm rooms, as students excitedly continue to argue the issues raised. These experiences are deeply satisfying– they feed me intellectually and emotionally.

Delight and humor play an important role in my teaching, where they establish possibilities for resolving potential conflict and building a supportive learning community. Indeed, contradiction and different perspectives provide opportunities for students to establish where they stand on issues and provide the freedom for them to change their minds. They also can lead to greater empathy for other perspectives, or at least expose them to different views, even if they remain steadfast in their own attitudes.

More recently, I have also begun courses with one or both of the following: a TED talk by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie titled The Danger of a Single Story, and videos on Nonviolent Communication (NVC), a system for communication that was developed to resolve conflicts in a caring and empathic manner by Marshall RosenbergFootnote ⁶. These videos and discussions establish from the beginning the importance of civil dialogue and that individual lives and cultures are composed of many stories. If we only hear or experience a single story, we risk critically misunderstanding the nuances and complexities that make up any subject matter.

These additions arose from my witness of reductive thinking and divisive rhetoric both on campus and in faculty meetings, especially around issues of race/ethnicity. In contrast, within my classes, I was able to establish a community of openness and curiosity that was respectful. I learned of NVC from a long-term union representative for dance companies on the West Coast, Nora Heiber, while researching my ethics book. While initially I learned about it in conflict situations, I soon realized its power as a way of communicating that avoids a win-lose paradigm, and instead recognizes the basic human needs we all share as a means to a collaborative approach to problem-solving.

Aside from the kinds of methods discussed above, these values are emphasized through online discussion posts that provide more choices than in-person classes. In my courses, there are days devoted to asynchronous tasks. Students are asked to answer a series of questions, but I provide a range of dance artists or styles for them to choose from. I make sure that these represent diversity and under-represented forms.

Another way that I emphasize the idea of “multiple stories” and critique a canonical approach to dance (especially in my dance history classes), is through assignments that reveal inconsistencies in sources, those that allow students to conduct oral histories of someone of their choice, including non-professionals such as mothers and grandmothers, as well as the “Dance Detective” assignment introduced earlier. With this activity, I send students individual clues based on what I’ve learned about their interests. These clues can be photographs, videos, facsimiles of original programs of concerts, etc. Once they have figured out the clue, they write a short paper on their discoveries.

I encourage students to dive deep into those who have been overlooked or under-represented for various reasons, whether it be historiographical or merely time constraints in trying to teach dance history in one semester. Many students particularly love this assignment because they use a variety of critical thinking skills to figure out what the thing depicts and discover someone or something they had never heard of. One example is a black-and-white photograph of a woman standing with a skeleton in front of a bunch of students. Two students collaborated on this clue and discovered that it was a photograph of Margaret H’Doubler, and since they were dance education majors, they were delighted to learn about this influential woman.

Curation: Generating a shared space of discovery, care and future collaborations

In 2005 and 2018, I curated two international conferences. The first was on dance and human rights and took place in Montreal, Canada in collaboration with Dena Davida under the then-active organization CORD (Congress on Research in Dance), and the second on Jews and Jewishness in the Dance World in Tempe, Arizona with Liz Lerman (sponsored primarily by the Centre for Jewish Studies at ASU). When I think of the way I approached each of them, it is as a scaled-up version of my teaching, but with a focus on the development and expansion of a particular subfield, and with colleagues rather than students. Drawing on my large network and constantly searching for possible new presenters, I sought to expand the discourse of these fields, designing a format for discovery with the courage to relinquish the reins during the time of each conference, out of trust in the organization and respect for the participants.

In both cases, I was the lead programmer. I mapped out a vision for the conferences, with clear themes and known speakers, while leaving room for lesser-known individuals, unstructured conversations, and unusual activities. The format arose through collaboration with my co-organizers, other trusted colleagues, and participants themselves. In the case of the 2018 conference, I oversaw almost all the programming aside from an evening of live performance, which was Liz Lerman’s purview, and an evening of screendance that I asked Ellen Bromberg to curate. This left me a lot of room to create a structure that reflected my values as outlined above.

I’m sitting on the floor with post-it notes of different colors surrounding me. There are large pages laid out with the dates of the conference. Some of the post-its represent keynote speakers who I have invited as special accents for the rhythm of each day. They are artist/scholars whose work I am very familiar with and highly respect. They represent different perspectives on important themes related to Jewish identity that I want covered at the conference.

Other post-its represent roundtables, panels, lecture demonstrations, and workshops. These are the results of an open Call for Presentations that I circulated widely. I also arranged for a facilitated session on the Israeli-Palestinian conflict relating to dance, in the format of a “fishbowl.”Footnote ⁷ This had not been proposed, but offered an open yet structured opportunity for a wide range of opinions to be expressed.

The 2018 conference can be seen as a structured improvisation in a few different ways. First is the process by which it was designed – including both well-known individuals in the field of Jewish dance studies, as well as those who I had never heard of. It also embraced scholars and practitioners. Also, the process was very non-linear, as I tried out different combinations for panels and roundtables, and made room for more unusual and unexpected activities, such as an area overseen by Rebecca Pappas and Eileen Levinson where participants were invited to make movement poses for a project the two were collaborating on related to folk dance.Footnote ⁸ There was also an exhibition at one of the campus libraries I co-curated with Judith Brin Ingber that included a performance by a local company, an outdoor performance by a Canadian dancer Suzanne Miller at a synagogue, and other such activities.

This cornucopia of options was intentionally designed to provide a web of possibilities for participants that may not have appeared ‘clear’ yet followed a definite logic and that left room for the unexpected and unusual. The overall frame was created by the keynote presentations along with a lecture by Ingber an evening before the conference began and an ending performance by Dan Froot and David Dorfman. Within that I considered the conference a playground of possibilities in various formats and full of potential surprises of their own. From what I observed and testimonies of the participants, this is exactly what they experienced – a playground in which they immersed themselves, both inside and outside of the lines – enjoying many surprising encounters in hallways and during breaks.

Perhaps most unexpected, however, was the impact of the entire experience on the participants. In particular, and much to their surprise, many of the US participants faced their Jewishness for the first time, especially as it related to dance. This was phrased as “like coming out of the closet” as a Jew, which was something they were initially ambivalent about. I heard many times about the hesitancy of someone attending the conference in the first place – how would they fit in? Were they Jewish enough if they weren’t religious? Was it going to make them feel like outliers? Many almost didn’t come.

In addition, many of these same participants suddenly encountered their long-time dance colleagues “as Jews” for the first time: those with whom they had spent countless hours prior without ever acknowledging their shared identities. It was highly emotional and affected them deeply to realize how much they held similar views that they suddenly recognized as connected to this shared heritage. As one of the participants observed, the conference “showed me a dance lineage whose fullness and interconnectedness I wasn’t completely aware of previously.”Footnote ⁹

For some of the Israelis, meanwhile, there were also surprises. In Israel, anything related to “Jewish dance” is connected to dance with specifically religious themes. For these dance artists, the discovery of so many people doing work at the intersection of Jewish culture and dance was a revelation. It also reminded them that the very notion of “Jewish Dance” in its non-religious forms was a construction of the Diaspora—exactly because such an entity was so foreign in Israel. As Gaby Aldor points out, the choreography under this heading is often characterized by memories of a lost Eastern European existence, images of persecution, and impending catastrophe. This was a past that Zionism had long been trying to leave behind.

The outpouring of appreciation that followed the conference is, I believe, a testament to the respect and care with which I facilitated the entire experience. Even before the conference took place, I established a Google group for presenters and anyone who wanted to know more about the event. I provided resources on prior conferences on Jews and dance, along with bibliographies. I also provided short biographies on presenters titled “Presenter Spotlight”, and then increasingly invited people to present their biographies. In this way, a “community” was established even before people met in person.

There was also a point at which I asked for input on the logo for the conference, which would be printed on t-shirts and tote bags. There was a great deal of heated discussion around the options– especially related to whether the text should be in English, Hebrew, or Yiddish. The request for participation was a small but important aspect of the conference that demonstrated my regard for the members of the group and attempts for compromise, with an explanation of why final choices were made.

Perhaps most important was the feedback I received on a post I sent out on October 7, 2018, just before the conference. This post reminded the participants of their role regarding the kind of experience they would have, with an emphasis on care and empathy. It was titled “My Story and A Special Request -- Naomi M. Jackson.” A few excerpts:Footnote ¹⁰

There were several times during the conference that I heard people reference this message, and how it made them shift their perception of the conference. Rather than seeing themselves as distant observers or aloof bystanders without any responsibilities, they recognized themselves as part of the experience and contributors to the well-being of the group.

By the end of the conference, for many, there was a genuine sense of a “tribe”, family, or Mishpocha, as some referred to it.Footnote ¹¹ This is a Yiddish word for “an entire family network comprised of relatives by blood and marriage and sometimes including close friends.” The sensibility was beautifully captured by the closing image of the conference facilitated by David Dorfman and Dan Froot in which participants performed a large, spiraling hora around the space (Fig. 1). This was an embodied image celebrating a community of care.

Figure 1. Final Joyous Celebration, Jews and Jewishness in the Dance World Conference, 2018. Photo: Tim Trumble.

I hadn’t realized until this moment how much this was a deeply two-way, relational experience. At the end of this spiraling hora, when I was honored, I began to cry. Through my tears I said, “I called out for you to come, and you came!” What I suddenly recognized was how deeply personal the conference was—it was not just based on my research on Jewishness and dance. These people were my Jewish community, with whom I felt a deep connection. It related to my parents and the kind of environment I had grown up in. Both were no longer alive, and I missed them terribly. This was something I needed – my family and I hadn’t even realized it.

If this means there were never times of conflict, that would be incorrect. In one particularly telling example, a workshop intended to bring the participants closer instead led one of the co-presenters to become frustrated. The experience is outlined in chapter 12 of the Oxford Handbook reflecting on the experience “I, You, We: Dancing Interconnections and Jewish Betweens.” It was co-designed by Hannah Schwadron and Victoria Marks. Schwadron became irritated and disappointed when participants didn’t seem to understand her instructions and kept questioning her, leading to an aggravation that she had previously experienced at Jewish-centered academic conferences (284).

As they discussed Hannah’s aggravation, Vic asked the question, “What if we look at ‘resistance’ as active participation?” (283) That it was “how one participates when no other options seem viable and where there are not yet words to explain what stands in the way.” Hannah observes, “I like this perspective…as necessary complexity and multiplicity of perspectives, aims, and desires.” Later, Vic recognized that while most of the people at the conference shared a Jewish identity, there were numerous ways that people “hold and experience that affiliation.” She states that from her perspective:

Such diversity was bound to lead to moments of tension.

This was not a surprise to me. It was my intention from the very beginning to recognize, honor, and critically reflect on this complexity of Jewishness and dance. Just as in my teaching, I wanted to present the fullest range possible of perspectives for differences to be voiced, danced, and debated. Even though at times difficult to experience, especially during heated encounters related to the Palestinian-Israeli conflict, I saw it as necessary to expose participants to just how much existed on the conference theme—from religious women learning dance from secular teachers in the Israeli settlements to religious Jews dancing at raves to Jews and ballet, Flamenco, and hip-hop, and more documented realms such as Jewish influences on modern and postmodern dance. Sephardic, Yemenite, and mixed heritages were also represented; Ze’eva Cohen, a celebrated dancer and former head of the dance program at Princeton, remarked that the conference provided her the unique opportunity to reflect on the Yemenite influences on her dance career for the first time. This is made clear in her reflections in her chapter “Reclaiming my Jewish Yemenite Heritage.”

Editing: Securing Ideas as a lasting legacy for the future

Where does the role of debate and disagreement lie in my editing? This was an interesting question when I started to reflect on it. Many of the presentations from the conference became part of an edited anthology, The Oxford Handbook of Dance and Jewishness (Jackson et al., Reference Jackson2022). This collection, along with other books I’ve edited or co-edited, provides an opportunity to reflect more deeply on my approach to editing and the extent to which it shares similar elements with my teaching and curation or else diverges from them. In editing work by my peers, real discord or instances where I purposely debated with an author rarely arose. Certainly, there were times of frustration, when our ideas did not fully align – but at such points, there were discussions that usually helped resolve issues. If this did not occur, I would ultimately defer to the author on how they wished the article to be read.

In cases where I collaborated with co-editors, including Toni Shapiro-Phim and Rebecca Pappas, there were sometimes disagreements over some aspects of an essay. In those cases, dialogue amongst ourselves was fruitful in offering different perspectives. For instance, while I might find the essay fine as written, another editor might take issue with it. I can recall an instance of this happening in the process of editing the Oxford Handbook. One of the co-editors had real issues with the writing style of an author. She found it opaque, sounding more like a public relations statement. I perceived the poetic style as fine. However, as we talked, I realized that she made excellent points and encouraged her to find respectful ways to help the author reshape the work. It was a difficult line to walk, but my co-editor did an excellent job, and the final work was much better for her efforts.

Where “debate” really happens in my approach to editing is in the the choice and ordering of essays in the anthologies themselves. The anthology on dance and human rights, for instance, begins with a first-person account by a Palestinian dancer, Maysoun Rafeedie, of her humiliating experience at a border crossing in Israel. The book ends with a description of Sara Levi-Tenai’s horrific experiences in the Nazi concentration camps. In the Oxford collection, experiences of Israeli folk dancing are studied in New York at the 92^nd Street Y as a joyful embodiment of Israeliness, while another chapter deeply questions the legacy of the dance form.

In other words, the books share a lot in common with my approach to curation—they provide contrasting views that the reader is encouraged to navigate and reflect upon. Also, artist’s views are presented side by side with scholar’s essays to provide different ‘voices’ in a manner that is unique in scholarly collections. It is important to me to demonstrate the value of embodied knowledge and that dancers/choreographers have much to say about their efforts.

Writing: Making meaning for myself and expanding the dance field

My writing process has various stages. I think of the initial step as taking stock of the landscape. I often begin knowing the topic which I want to write about, then research widely on the subject matter. Once I feel saturated by the material, I usually draw some kind of crude “mind map” that demonstrates the main themes that have emerged and then create an outline.Footnote ¹² In the past, this outline was quite detailed, providing a sense of the argument from beginning to end, including details on thesis statements and examples. More recently, I have worked more loosely with an open structure that allows for points to emerge more organically from one to the next, although I generally know where I am going. This can happen in the moment, or the points can be inserted later as they come to me. As I work systematically through the essay section by section, I often zoom in and work through arguments in more detail and return to sources that illustrate my points. In this way, while the overall process is linear, it is a spiraling route that allows for detours.

An example comes from my Reference Jackson2022 book Dance and Ethics, in the chapter on “Ethics and Critiquing Dance.” At a certain point, I realized that I had been focusing on all the negative examples of critique that failed to be respectful of the artists involved and how demeaning these situations were. However, I hadn’t considered something that I had come to learn about gay ballroom culture in the last few years: namely, the concept known as “throwing shade,” where insulting others can be viewed as an art.

This provided an unexpected contrast to the realms of ballet, modern dance, and theatrical jazz, which were the focus of the book. I not only provided some background on the concept but also a critique by a couple of insiders who observed limits to the practice. I quote them as they discuss how it in some ways mimics the attacks on gay culture from the outside world. One of the insiders noted, “I am not sure that creating and throwing more negativity is useful.” (132)

My point here is that I did not plan to include this section and that it emerged during the writing of the chapter. As such, I see it as an example of structured improvisation. While there are other examples where this is the case, it is something that I want to explore more intentionally in the future.

When I think about the role of care and compassion in my writing, I think about the interesting relationships that exist:

Among these, there is a balance I continually seek between self-care and respect for others. Between these, self-care has become increasingly important over the years. I recognize I have limited endurance. I set my timer and work with one main idea. I try to remind myself to breathe fully and relax my shoulders and stomach. I connect my laptop to a large monitor so that my neck remains in an upright position. When I feel I’m reaching my limit, I finish a thought to the best of my ability and put my computer to sleep (and maybe myself). Sometimes I need to physically pull myself away with an invisible hand. Then I often do something active as a way to balance the sitting and limited blood flow.

Pleasure and contentment are two of the greatest motivations to continue.

I write because I care deeply about the subject matter I’m addressing. I also write because I really enjoy the process – the research, the synthesizing of ideas, the careful weaving together of concepts, and getting the rhythm of the essay just ‘right’ to my sensibility. I write because I want to honor others who have contributed to the field, as well as critique and broaden dance studies. I care about acknowledging those who have influenced and supported my efforts. I do my best to avoid jargon because I find it both pretentious and unnecessary, even though I know that some ‘high theorists’ may find that too simple. I care about having my writing be part of something bigger and in dialogue with others who really take an interest in the subject matter.

When I’m finished with a piece I often feel deeply satisfied and a sense of contentment. It is a job well done that feeds my soul. I have spent hours refining the text and am proud of what I’ve done. I rarely have doubts. Having shared the text during the process with trusted colleagues or an editor, I know that the people whose opinions I care about value what I’ve done.

The connection with others during and following the process is an important dimension of the work. When I worked with a brilliant professional editor on my book on dance and ethics, for instance, she was so in tune with what I was trying to achieve with my ‘voice’ and so kind, caring, and supportive that it motivated me to continue, although this was the most challenging book to write to date. The content was so complex, and I wanted to reach a wider audience, which was new terrain for me. This editor helped me birth the book, and now others are helping me with care and generosity to bring it to life and into different spaces by arranging for dialogues, reviews, etc. All these connections create a compassionate web for which I am extremely grateful. They also offer comments that provide different perspectives that I can consider.

The place of debate…?

Once again, we return to one of my core values regarding multiple perspectives and the place of debate. In my writing, as with my other activities, I value demonstrating complexity and places not only of harmony but also tension. This is to render as complete a picture as possible of a particular subject matter as well as illustrate the range of possibilities across time and place.

A couple of examples. When writing about dance and human rights, I was interested in demonstrating that dancing could not only be used as a form of therapy (MDT) related to trauma, but I also wanted to show that it could just as easily be engaged as a mode of propaganda—as it was during the Nazi regime. In my book on dance and ethics, I also demonstrate that the realm of normative ethics itself has many different perspectives. Theories that strive to distinguish good from bad range from cultural relativism to utilitarianism, Kantianism, and behaviorism (among others). Two people may determine something is a bad or good action for very different reasons.

Something I’ve noticed, however, is that while I stress the plurality of opinions that exist on a topic, I often use the same transitional words or phrases between paragraphs to indicate different points of view. These include:

Such phrases no longer seem satisfying, and too much like signposts that signal a change. I’d like to find other ways to indicate shifts in perspectives that are less predictable. Inspiration comes from contemporary fiction, cinema, and television, where different kinds of editing techniques might be adapted to my writing. I’m drawn to jump cuts that can surprise the reader by taking them from one view to another without warning. Pans or zoom-outs gradually reveal more and more without it being so obvious the direction one is heading.

These reflections motivate me to continue to experiment with all that I do. Especially with my writing, and especially in continued collaboration with others.