Artists on Making Art  (other posts here, info/contributing here.)

The Practicing Human

I was one of those annoying little brats who had no qualms about correcting the grammar of my friends, family, friends’ parents; “ahem, you know it’s actually pronounced tuh-MAH-toh.” One of the things that used to drive me crazy, was when I’d overhear parents talking about picking the kids up from “play practice” or “dance practice”; “ahem, it’s called rehearsal.” You’ll be happy to know that I’ve removed that bug from my ass, but I still cringe a little when I hear it. Why? Well, I definitely know that during my childhood-through-undergraduate years I fancied myself as quite the artiste who could only acknowledge activities of the highest intellectual caliber and the loftiest humanistic aims. I just could not be involved with anything so banal as a “play practice.” It was too utterly pedestrian, too common, too ordinary to deal with; maybe too much like me.

Even though the phrase still brings out my inner art snob, I now have a different relationship with the notion of rehearsal AS a practice. Although there is usually a presentation to prepare for and something to create, I think the “practice” element of a rehearsal should encompass these lofty intellectual and humanistic aims I held so dear when I was younger, and still do. If we look to art to inspire us to a greater humanity, in fact elevate us, what as artists should we be practicing during rehearsal? How can we truly create a practice out of rehearsal and what are we practicing?

If art and the human condition are inextricably linked (as they should be, ahem), and if art is supposed to remind us of and challenge our humanity, then it should follow that the rehearsal/creative process IS the practice of celebrating and questioning that utterly pedestrian, common, ordinary thing called a human being.

As anyone who has ever gone into a room with a paintbrush, a computer, or group of dancers and hoped to come out of that room with something more can tell you, just going into the room is a practice of humility, faith, and courage. Staring into the emptiness of that room or a page, attempting to create something that you and others will find truthful requires us to hone our skills for locating something so personal it’s universal; digging deeper than ego and the approval of others, and hoping to strike something so close to our bones that other people will feel it in theirs (and not always like it.)

Our practice can include honing tools for listening to others and ourselves; being sensitive enough to recognize the pitch perfect ring of truth. We practice casting off our hard shells of irony so that we may be able to bear the intensity of vulnerability, and therefore become more compassionate. If we can go into that scary room and condition our minds to concentrate and be flexible, increase our endurance, and learn to hold ourselves accountable for exploring the truths we find, we can think more expansively and trust that we are capable of realizing our most daring of visions.

When we practice these things in the studio, it shows up in the art and the humans.

Cory Nakasue is writer, director, and choreographer who lives in Brooklyn www.spineart.com. She is a movement consultant who works with performers and directors for live events and video, and she teaches Pilates and yoga all over NYC. Her latest video collaboration will premiere at the Berkshire Fringe gala this summer at the Berkshire Fringe Festival.