Little Movements: An Excerpt From Lauren Morrow’s New Dance World Novel

In an excerpt from Lauren Morrow’s new novel, Little Movements, the heroine, choreographer Layla Smart, navigates feelings of excitement and unease as she begins her tenure at the prestigious (fictional) Briar House arts program.

An older woman walked through the doors. A salt-and-pepper bob, slim body swimming in Eileen Fisher. Her tortoiseshell glasses balanced delicately on the bridge of her aquiline nose. She was stunning.

“Margot,” said the assistant. “This is the new choreographer, Layla Smart.”

“Right!” said Margot. She pressed her glasses up to take me in. Sunspots dotted her tan face. “Welcome, Layla! I hope you weren’t waiting too long.”

“Not at all,” I said. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you in person.”

We’d corresponded over email all summer. Margot Mattenberg, the director of Briar House, had shared the requirements: an evening-length piece set on a pickup company we’d select, a detailed proposal of the project—from concept to music to design—a preview event in February, a premiere in May, appearances in their promotional materials, and interviews at their communications director’s discretion. I’d said yes to everything.

“We’re thrilled to have you here this season,” said Margot. “We’ve welcomed some wonderful international artists the past few seasons. This year, we wanted to celebrate Americana! Each artist-in-residence is from the States. The composer grew up in the hills of Appalachia, the visual artist is from Wyoming—she’s doing some really exciting work with watercolors. And then there’s you.”

Americana. A strange category to throw me under. I’d always felt fickle about my Americanness, tried to escape it however I could. I’d spent a semester of college trying and failing to incorporate berets into my look, another twisting my hair into what I thought were Bantu knots but that my friend Kofi—the only other Black dance student in my class at Connecticut College—informed me were simply not. Baby girl, he’d said, go to a salon!

“I first saw your choreography at Montrose back in 2019,” said Margot. “A revival of your original solo show?”

I appreciated the term, as though my work had taken Broadway by storm. I’d had no idea she was there that night. It was a mixed bill, and she’d likely come to see another artist who was on the rise. I’d originally performed the solo, but set it on another dancer for Montrose. It had become clear that my body no longer carried the movement in the way that I, or anyone, wanted.

“The angst in your movement reflects what a lot of people are feeling these days. It was put together beautifully with the text and the soundscape. The duet at the Palmer Center was also quite moving. I loved the power dynamic, with the woman doing all the lifting. A striking commentary. You’re going to bring something powerful to our stage. I hope you’re thinking about where you fit into the canon.”

“The canon! Wow. That’s so flattering. I’m truly just working out my five, six, seven, eights at this point.”

“You should start viewing yourself through a canonical lens. Situating yourself among the greats. Alvin Ailey, Bill T. Jones.”

“Martha Graham,” I said jokingly. “Merce Cunningham.”

“Camille A. Brown,” she said. “Ronald K. Brown.”

All the Browns. All the Blacks. I loved these artists and their companies, of course. Had seen them at the Brooklyn Academy of Music and other major theaters across the city. Ailey was undoubtedly an influence—sharp, explosive movement, intricate musicality, the sweet marriage of hip-slip and debutante posture. But so was Cunningham, his experimentations with rules and randomness that made each performance a game—something fresh, new. Graham, the mother of modern dance, whose raw surrender birthed a movement. Pina Bausch, who brought glamour, humor, and flirtation to the world with her dance-theater. Every underappreciated choreographer who’d made a music video move in the past thirty years—all bombast, and sex, and swag. But I wasn’t a purist. Influence and inspiration were different. My style was guided by dozens of choreographers—it was difficult to pinpoint exactly from which family trees I branched. Placing myself beside any of them felt like a premature act of arrogance.

“I can’t wait to see what you do,” said Margot. “Especially with everything happening in the world now. Everything that’s happened in the past. The pain. The injustice.”

My breath lodged at the back of my throat, preparing for what might come next. A chant of Black Lives Matter. A performance of “We Shall Overcome” by a gospel choir waiting in the hallway. But Margot just stared at me, the next great hope of the Black dance canon.

“Well,” I said. “I’m excited to get moving in the studio. Can’t promise I’m going to crank out a Revelations redux, but I’ll see what I can do.”

“Do see!” said Margot. “Don’t sell yourself short. Your work was moving even when you were working full-time. Now the possibilities are endless. There’s a phrase in Swahili that I learned during my time in Tanzania.”

I pressed my lips together in what I hoped looked like a smile.

“You may know it.”

I squinted.

“Haraka haraka haina baraka.” She stared at me. “Do you know it?”

“I don’t know any Swahili, no.”

“It translates to hurry, hurry has no blessing. The greatest things take time, dear. You’ve got that here. And money! Ask for what you want, and there’s a strong chance we can make it happen.”

What I wanted was to be known. For artistic directors and funders around the country—around the world—to see my name and not have to wonder. I wanted them to want me, to give me funding, stages, and respect. Margot could make that happen. Briar House was part of the Vermont Institute of Ideas, one of the best-funded multidisciplinary programs in the country. The institute was at the forefront of environmental science, public policy, and tech, so Briar House was hardly the centerpiece program. Nonetheless, it was connected, with a powerful board to boot.

I held out a hand as we stood in the doorway. But Margot pulled me in for a hug. Her scent was soft and expensive, her hair like silk against my face.