Twirling with Twyla

Who says fat people shouldn’t dance?

I was going through some old files recently and I happened upon a draft of the essay I wrote for my SATs when I was in high school in the 1970s. I’d completely forgotten that I’d written it, and I was charmed by what I found. I’d written a piece about the joy of dance and the fantasy of being a dancer, even though I really do have two left feet. My essay was good. The voice in the piece was solidly mine, and I found that comforting and still, a bit sad. Sad because I put that voice to bed for almost 50 years. I hardly wrote at all.

My writer’s voice was slightly self-deprecating, and still is sometimes, but I also conveyed my sense of humor, my admiration for others, and my awe of great talent. It contained my hopes and my dreams, and it was also wisely realistic.

I loved the chance to read something written by my younger self. It was delightful and strange, a treat and a much-needed opportunity to see and appreciate the person I sometimes forget I was. I don’t have a collection of old diaries; I didn’t write much as a kid. I didn’t record my life, so very little exists that would point me to that teenager. Most of what I have is stored in my memories and in the greeting cards I wrote to my dad over the years, which he saved. Every single one. I discovered them upon his death.

Reading that essay reminded me of a part of myself who was very much alive in those years. A self who loved to move, to dance. A self who loved mime and studied it with passion. I had a teacher at camp who once wrote the quote from Isadora Duncan in my summer yearbook: “I express the truth of my being through movement.” I carried that wisdom in my heart for years, but eventually I disconnected from it as I aged, as I grew larger and felt shame that I couldn’t move as gracefully as I used to. I became more inhibited as time went by.

I was a fangirl to a few idols in my teen years. Marcel Marceau, Bette Midler, Lily Tomlin, and the innovative choreographer and dancer, Twyla Tharp. They were all people who used their bodies expressively to tell stories. I was fortunate to live only a brief train ride away from the culture capitol of the US––New York City. My parents gave me the freedom to explore all that the city had to offer, and I’d happily jump on the Long Island Railroad to catch a show; standing room tickets were five or ten dollars in those days.

I don’t remember how I discovered Twyla Tharp, but the first time I saw her company dance, I was a goner. I’d never seen modern dance that excited me as much as her work did. It was so different than the choreographers I’d seen before. Her compositions were athletic, fun, and full of humor. The dancers were graceful and capable in a way I’d never witnessed, and Twyla, oh, Twyla was beautiful, serious, and strong. I definitely harbored a massive crush.

Early one Sunday in 1978, when I was in my junior year of high school, my friend Owen called to tell me that Milos Forman was directing the movie Hair, and there was an open call for extras for a shoot in Central Park. It was that morning! He said he was going and wanted me to go with him. We were supposed to dress like 60s hippies. I said yes and quickly pulled an outfit together. It wasn’t really 60s but it would have to do.

Why? Because Twyla Tharp was doing the choreography. Maybe I’d get to see her. Owen and I jumped on the train and then grabbed a subway to the park. The call was huge. Forman had created a “be-in” just like the ones from that era, and as Owen and I made our way through the crowds of extras, we decided to park ourselves by a couple of trailers that belonged to the film crew. We were standing around waiting for something to happen, when I heard a man with a slightly effeminate voice shout out “Oh, Twilla-Twilla, we’ve got food in here.” He was leaning out of one of the trailers, a beige sweater draped and knotted over his shoulders as he called out to my hero. I’d never heard her name pronounced that way––Twilla. I always thought it was Tw-eye-la. I decided that the guy was just an affected boob and was pronouncing it incorrectly. I’ll continue to call her Twyla, thank you very much.

A moment later, I saw her conferring with some of the actors in the film. She was talking with Treat Williams and Beverly D’Angelo and suddenly someone yelled “Action!” and we found ourselves on the edges of the scene, actors dancing, jumping, and twirling, moving to that wonderful music. The day was fun and sweaty, and no matter how many times I watched that film and searched, I never saw myself among that crowd of hopefuls in the scene.

I’ve loved her work for years and she’s still at it, about to celebrate her Diamond Jubilee. Sixty years creating art is an awfully long time.

In the summer of 2018, I was scrolling on my Facebook page and saw a post. An open call for dancers who were amateurs, ordinary people. The call was to participate in a production at a local theater performing Twyla Tharp’s iconic composition, “The One Hundreds.” With Twyla Tharp and her company. With Twyla Tharp. OMG. Twyla Tharp.

“The One Hundreds,” an experimental work from 1970, a moment when ordinary people, doing ordinary moves, had transfixed the dance avant-garde. Tharp was then a powerful dancer who, despite her avant-garde bona fides, loved working with other powerful dancers, and she gave this sixties populism a twist. “The One Hundreds” opens with two trained dancers performing a hundred rehearsed movement sequences of eleven seconds each, in unison, without looking at one another; they are followed by five dancers, each performing a different twenty of those movements, simultaneously, and finally, by an onrush of a hundred ordinary folk, each of whom performs one of the eleven-second phrases. Tharp has called the piece “a study in deterioration.”

~ Claudia Roth Pierpont, The New Yorker

I said to myself:

1. How could I possibly say no to this? Why would I say no to this? Well, let me see:

2. I’m too big to dance in front of a theater full of people.

3. I know they don’t want dance pros, they want people like me, but I don’t dance much anymore. I won’t be good enough.

4. I don’t want to make a fool of myself.

5. I haven’t a thing to wear!

I entertained all my considerations, my lack of confidence, my fear, my feelings of shame. And then I picked up my phone and reached out to the woman who was producing the show. I said, “Sign me up!” I was living by the precept of “You can feel afraid to do something and do it anyway.” And I flipped the fear into excitement, a feeling of gratitude for the opportunity to have a dream come true.

My next call was to my friend Lucia. She’s marvelously creative and loves costuming. I had no idea what to wear and just like my almost film appearance in high school, the request was to show up looking like a hippie or just wear regular street clothes. I opted for the more effortful option, thinking that if I did a little extra, Twyla would love me for it. And I wasn’t really doing anything. Lucia was doing it! I told her what I needed, and she began to brainstorm. I brought her an old lightweight, faded, blue denim overshirt. The day of the show, I went to her house to pick up my garb. She surprised me with wacky white Jackie O sunglasses, a headband, my denim shirt morphed into a sleeveless fringed vest with groovy patches sewn on. I wore my dancer-like black capri leggings and a v-neck t-shirt under the fabulous vest.

I drove to The Orpheum Performing Arts Center in Tannersville, NY, and went inside to be met by members of her company and the grande dame herself. She was wearing an untucked, white oxford button-down shirt, very faded blue jeans, and white sneakers which all went beautifully with her short shock of white hair.

Twyla Tharp

The company dancers gave us our parts, rehearsed us briefly with Twyla adding directions here and there. I was completely mute––starstruck––though I’d imagined chit-chatting with her, my new best friend. That wasn’t the vibe at all. We were in the company of a serious dancer, a serious artist. I was a bit disappointed at first that I didn’t experience her as warm and cuddly. But her persona fit her. The woman is a pro, and she’s dedicated to her art. I let it go, focusing on learning my part as best I could and trying to quiet the noise in my head that kept saying things like “Why are you even here?” “Who are you kidding?” “What must SHE think, looking at you?” “I wonder if she has hates fat people.”

And then, I told those voices to shut the fuck up and listen to the music, and dance your heart out!

I watched her stretch and do her warm-ups. I witnessed her pain and tightness, so many years doing seemingly impossible, gravity-defying, athletic dance. I’m sure there were injuries along the way and so much stress to her body and the bodies of the other dancers. But even with the apparent wear and tear, the aches, her age; she was in fine fettle.

I have trouble learning steps in dance. I get mixed up, the concept of right and left lose all meaning. I can’t always hold the rhythm, sometimes I stop hearing the music. BUT I still love to dance.

The show started, and I watched from the wings and waited for my turn to go on stage. I blew the cue by a couple of seconds, was out of sync with the people in my group, but I made up for it once I got out there. I did what I could do and had so much fun.

Then it was over.

Except it wasn’t. The finale! Twyla came out on stage, and we all danced together to Jerry Lee Lewis’s version of “Whole Lotta Shakin’ Going On.” I’ve posted a snippet of video here, and if you look behind her, you’ll see me, dancing and concentrating hard and trying to look relaxed as if I knew what I was doing. I came away from that day awfully proud that I dared to be great, that I felt my fear, my shame, and then jumped in and did it anyway. For a small part of one afternoon in a lazy Catskills town, I was a member of Twyla Tharp’s dance company.

I launched my podcast, The Next Write Thing: Real Life Stories by Nan Tepper just last week. It’s a benefit for paid subscribers, so now’s the time to upgrade to paid. I’m keeping it free for awhile and I’m still posting it here as well as on the podcast page. My sale is still on until Friday, so there’s still time to upgrade.

Substack, Spotify, and Apple Podcasts, here I am! It’s audio for now. But who knows? Maybe video is the next right thing!

Buy me a cuppa or become a paid subscriber if you’d like to support my writing! That would be swell.

To celebrate my first year on Substack and as way to extend my thanks a little further Friday is the last day I’m offering annual memberships for $25. That’s a 50% savings! If you’ve been thinking of upgrading to paid, here’s a chance to do it at a great rate!

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