Connor Walsh on the "Most Beautiful, and Terrifying," Thing About Being a Dancer

As the incomparable Jiří Kylián said in the documentary Forgotten Memories, “I don’t think there is such a thing as abstract dance because if you put a human being on the stage who has feelings and loves and hates and has experiences, and is made of blood and bones and skin, and has a brain and heart, what’s abstract about it? As far as I’m concerned there is no abstraction whatsoever.” This idea really resonates with me. It is impossible to dance and not share and, I think, discover something about yourself. That is possibly both the most beautiful, and terrifying, thing about what we do.

I feel this deep sense of vulnerability when I dance. Whether it’s during my morning pliés or the most imposing choreography, the responsibility to translate music, mood and imagery makes me become a vessel of human expression. I must listen to what’s within myself, use it and share it.

Like in anything, we are not perfect. In order to improve we have to step outside of our comfort zone and reveal our weaknesses. Sometimes it’s that pirouette on your bad side or an arabesque that refuses to go as high as you’d like. But that’s just the tip of the iceberg. When I watch a dancer, I want to see an authentic connection of their movements and emotions, regardless of the character. I strive to have the confidence to reveal the same.

As I sit in my home through a global pandemic, I take comfort in watching our beautiful community explore the possibilities of how we can share dance with the world. In fact, I find inspiration from it. But what I know now more than ever is that I dance to connect. To connect to music, to myself and to the people around me in a way that no technology can replace. Until we’re through this period, I will slip and slide around my apartment with everyone else. But I will treasure the moment when we all are our most human selves dancing for and with each other again.