When the previous dancer mentioned Valarie, I knew that she was the one for the role.
Valarie and I met five years ago during our senior year of college. She was a student at Stanford at the time, while I was going to Smith. My mother teaches in the religious studies department at Stanford, where Valarie was writing her thesis about post 9-11 hate crimes, which later turned into her feature-length documentary film Divided We Fall. It was during this same year that Valarie took her first Kathak class, which eventually inspired me to take up the dance practice myself. From the time we first met, we connected very deeply. Although our friendship was mostly long-distance, we would exchange extensive e-mails discussing love, life, art, and the universe. When we were able to meet every once in a while, we had long magical conversations. We would often bounce creative ideas back and forth and give each other moral support through the trials and tribulations of our various artistic undertakings. I had always considered her my sister in creativity, so of course it was only natural that she be one of the first to know about Sagar. I sent her a long e-mail as soon as I got the idea. It was several weeks before I received any kind of response. And when I did finally hear from her, it was not in answer to the e-mail I sent.
"You may have noticed that I dropped out of the world for a little while," she wrote. "I lost my phone, let email go, closed my ears to the news, and instead turned my attention to the sea. Every morning, I walk to the ocean so that it may teach me things. I am just beginning to listen, but I still have anxiety to work out of my body. So I dance and do yoga and stretch my arms to the sky."
"Wow," I thought. "What an amazing and bizarre coincidence. I have been envisioning a girl dancing out at the ocean, while she has been living it." But did she know about what I was trying to do? From the tone of her e-mail -- which was sent to a few different friends, not just me -- it sounded like she did not. Just shortly after receiving this e-mail, we spoke briefly on the phone.
"Did you get my e-mail?" she asked me.
"Yes," I told her. "Did you get mine?"
"I haven't checked my e-mail for a very long time," she said.
I told her to take a look at it when she got the chance. Hopefully, she would understand and appreciate my idea. At the very least, she would probably be intrigued by the coincidence. It wasn't too long before she sent me another e-mail:
"Karuna, I have chills. Do you know - for the past month - that I have been taking a wooden platform out to the sand in the morning, wrapping my ghungroo around my ankles, bowing in pranam to the ocean, and dancing? It has become a deeply spiritual practice for me. And afterward, I lay down on my beach towel, and imagine going out to the ocean, the waters running down my neck and back, washing away the pain, healing me. I imagine the ocean lifting me into the sky - and disappearing. Before I return again.
Karuna, your story, your vision, and what will soon be your film - is exactly what I have been experiencing.
I have no words. I take it as a sign. That you must do it. And we will talk about it."
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Prolific progress, simultaneous setbacks
Now that the choreography was starting to solidify, it was time to begin storyboarding. Maya, Ken, and I met at Lake Merritt. I performed the choreography while Ken got out his sketchpad and Maya took still photos to see what angles would and wouldn't work. By the end of the session, we had a plethora of material to serve as the building blocks for our storyboards and shot list. We reviewed the photos over dinner. For the first time, the project felt real. I was no longer doing abstract preproduction activities on my own. We were a team, and we were actually planning out what we'd be doing on the shoot. This was the artistic part. This was the reason I was doing the project to begin with. The obstacles had finally cleared, and now it was time for us to move forward. This is how I felt, but only for a moment.
I was still in the meeting with Maya and Ken when my phone rang. The caller ID told me it was my dancer, who had just returned from an intensive Kathak retreat. After she got back into town, we were to meet with Sam to go over the movements she'd already choreographed and then collaboratively work out the rest. But, as I would soon find out, these plans were about to change. "I have some news that you're probably not going to like," she started to say. From the sound of her voice, I knew it couldn't be good.
Before she had left town, I told her about what had happened with the dance school (to which she still belonged). I assured her that we were not going to step on their choreography; that we were creating movements that were totally new. I did, however, want to use a few Kathak steps that were definitely not property of this particular school. At the time, she agreed that she would be willing to incorporate these steps. After the retreat, this all changed. She said that, when the teachers at the Kathak school found out she might be using these steps, "they didn't say no, but they didn't look like they exactly approved." Not wanting to do anything that the dance school would deem disrespectful, she opted to bow out of the role. Of course I was disappointed, but I understood how long a relationship she'd had with her teachers and how important this practice was to her. Not wanting to do anything that would jeopardize these things, I agreed that her leaving the project was the best idea. But who would be my dancer? There were very few people I knew -- if any at all -- who could fill such a specialized role.
"You could ask Valarie," she said. "I'm sure she'd be willing to do it if she had the time."
A light bulb went off in my head at that moment. Why didn't I think of that before?
I was still in the meeting with Maya and Ken when my phone rang. The caller ID told me it was my dancer, who had just returned from an intensive Kathak retreat. After she got back into town, we were to meet with Sam to go over the movements she'd already choreographed and then collaboratively work out the rest. But, as I would soon find out, these plans were about to change. "I have some news that you're probably not going to like," she started to say. From the sound of her voice, I knew it couldn't be good.
Before she had left town, I told her about what had happened with the dance school (to which she still belonged). I assured her that we were not going to step on their choreography; that we were creating movements that were totally new. I did, however, want to use a few Kathak steps that were definitely not property of this particular school. At the time, she agreed that she would be willing to incorporate these steps. After the retreat, this all changed. She said that, when the teachers at the Kathak school found out she might be using these steps, "they didn't say no, but they didn't look like they exactly approved." Not wanting to do anything that the dance school would deem disrespectful, she opted to bow out of the role. Of course I was disappointed, but I understood how long a relationship she'd had with her teachers and how important this practice was to her. Not wanting to do anything that would jeopardize these things, I agreed that her leaving the project was the best idea. But who would be my dancer? There were very few people I knew -- if any at all -- who could fill such a specialized role.
"You could ask Valarie," she said. "I'm sure she'd be willing to do it if she had the time."
A light bulb went off in my head at that moment. Why didn't I think of that before?
Monday, November 12, 2007
Back at the beach
Sam and I met briefly at her house. I played her the song, told her my ideas about the concepts and timing of the choreography, and left her to brainstorm by herself for a few days. We agreed to meet the following Monday. She suggested we review the choreography on the beach, since that was the only way to know whether or not it would work on the actual shoot. Logistically, it was a brilliant idea. And it felt really right to return to the ocean, since the ocean was the essence of the piece.
A few days later, we drove out to the windswept Albany bulb, a lovely little beach lined with running dogs, tall eucalyptus groves, and wild junk art. It was a beautiful sunny day. We found our spot on the sand, and she showed me what she had. It was exactly the style of dance I was looking for. She had not copied the Kathak choreography, but had clearly been inspired by it. She also drew inspiration from the lyrics of the song; highlighting a few words that spoke to her, stringing those words together in a poem, and transforming the reconstructed poem into a dance. Additionally, we devised themes for each of the verses. Since there were five sections of choreography for each verse, we decided to make the first verse a tribute to the elements and the second a tribute to the senses. Again, we were taking Kathak-related themes, riffing off them, and creating our own original choreography. She taught me the steps, which I learned so I could perform them for Ken, the storyboard artist, and Maya, the DP, in order to brainstorm storyboards and shots.
After Sam and I parted, I excitedly listened to the song, re-envisioning the music video with the new choreography. I had found my choreographer at last. My troubles were over, and the project would prevail. At least, so I thought.
A few days later, we drove out to the windswept Albany bulb, a lovely little beach lined with running dogs, tall eucalyptus groves, and wild junk art. It was a beautiful sunny day. We found our spot on the sand, and she showed me what she had. It was exactly the style of dance I was looking for. She had not copied the Kathak choreography, but had clearly been inspired by it. She also drew inspiration from the lyrics of the song; highlighting a few words that spoke to her, stringing those words together in a poem, and transforming the reconstructed poem into a dance. Additionally, we devised themes for each of the verses. Since there were five sections of choreography for each verse, we decided to make the first verse a tribute to the elements and the second a tribute to the senses. Again, we were taking Kathak-related themes, riffing off them, and creating our own original choreography. She taught me the steps, which I learned so I could perform them for Ken, the storyboard artist, and Maya, the DP, in order to brainstorm storyboards and shots.
After Sam and I parted, I excitedly listened to the song, re-envisioning the music video with the new choreography. I had found my choreographer at last. My troubles were over, and the project would prevail. At least, so I thought.
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Reinventing the dance
After getting the e-mail from Maya, I quickly wrote a new e-mail to Salman and the Sagar production team, telling them that perhaps I pulled the plug too soon and this project may still have a fighting chance. I then immediately began the search for a new choreographer.
Auspiciously enough, I simultaneously received a phone call from an old friend who used to be a dancer at the Kathak school. I told her my predicament, and she suggested I contact a friend of hers -- a dancer/choreographer who also happened to have studied some Kathak. We met and discussed the project, and she told me that although she found the project very interesting, she didn't feel that stylistically she was the right person for the job. After watching a few film clips of her work, I agreed that our aesthetics -- though similar -- did not quite match up. I’d had such high hopes for the project after hearing Maya's idea, but I was now coming to realize that finding the right choreographer might be harder than I’d originally expected.
But there was one other hopeful candidate -- Samantha Blanchard. Sam Blanchard and I had worked together twice, on the two productions of The Faith Project -- a collaborative play about religion and faith. We had done the first production in the summer of 2004. We then put the project to rest for a year, after which time we spent nine months completely reworking it and adding new cast members. We performed it again in spring 2006, and during that performance I actually delivered a spoken word poem recounting my experience at the Fort Bragg sand dunes. Having already worked closely with Sam, I had a pretty good idea of her movement style, and thought it might be just the right fit. Also, because Sam had heard my dunes poem so many times, she knew the story well.
I got a call back from Sam, telling me she was interested. I told her what I was looking for, and she said she'd see what she could come up with. Would this be the dance? Would she be the one? Only time would tell.
Auspiciously enough, I simultaneously received a phone call from an old friend who used to be a dancer at the Kathak school. I told her my predicament, and she suggested I contact a friend of hers -- a dancer/choreographer who also happened to have studied some Kathak. We met and discussed the project, and she told me that although she found the project very interesting, she didn't feel that stylistically she was the right person for the job. After watching a few film clips of her work, I agreed that our aesthetics -- though similar -- did not quite match up. I’d had such high hopes for the project after hearing Maya's idea, but I was now coming to realize that finding the right choreographer might be harder than I’d originally expected.
But there was one other hopeful candidate -- Samantha Blanchard. Sam Blanchard and I had worked together twice, on the two productions of The Faith Project -- a collaborative play about religion and faith. We had done the first production in the summer of 2004. We then put the project to rest for a year, after which time we spent nine months completely reworking it and adding new cast members. We performed it again in spring 2006, and during that performance I actually delivered a spoken word poem recounting my experience at the Fort Bragg sand dunes. Having already worked closely with Sam, I had a pretty good idea of her movement style, and thought it might be just the right fit. Also, because Sam had heard my dunes poem so many times, she knew the story well.
I got a call back from Sam, telling me she was interested. I told her what I was looking for, and she said she'd see what she could come up with. Would this be the dance? Would she be the one? Only time would tell.
Let's give it another go
So I sent the e-mail out to the group, letting them all know the situation with the dance school. Despite my disappointment immediately after the phone conversation, by the end of the evening I had reconciled myself to letting the project go.
"If it happens a year from now, great. If that happens 10 years from now, great. If it never happens, that's OK too. But I have the strong belief that this creature should not be put to rest so soon. And if and when it does reappear in another incarnation, I'm sure it will be all the richer for everything that has happened in between."
This is what I had written in the message, and I truly meant every word of it. I got a few nice e-mails back from members of the crew, as well as Salman, who said, "have passion,detachment,finesse and timing...all will be revealed." Indeed was right, though the revelation came a lot sooner than I expected.
One of the e-mail replies came from Maya, who -- as always -- had an excellent idea. He suggested that instead of completely killing the project, we could find somebody else to choreograph the piece, thereby moving forward without having to gain the approval of this particular dance school. Although I had sentimental attachments to the Kathak movements I had learned, I was open to the idea of other choreography. It would give us more freedom, more creative license. And perhaps we would surprise ourselves and come up with something even better suited to the project. But it couldn't be just any choreographer. It had to be somebody who truly understood the story, and could capture its essence through movement.
I set up meetings with a couple of choreographers to see who was interested and whose work might stylistically fit the peace. At this point, I still wasn't sure whether or not to continue the project. We were, after all, trying to meet the Scary Cow Round 3 deadline, and time was running out. And if we were creating a completely new dance, that would make our schedule all the tighter. I decided that the choreographer would be the deal breaker. If I found the right person within the week, we would move forward. If not, I would once again call the project off.
"If it happens a year from now, great. If that happens 10 years from now, great. If it never happens, that's OK too. But I have the strong belief that this creature should not be put to rest so soon. And if and when it does reappear in another incarnation, I'm sure it will be all the richer for everything that has happened in between."
This is what I had written in the message, and I truly meant every word of it. I got a few nice e-mails back from members of the crew, as well as Salman, who said, "have passion,detachment,finesse and timing...all will be revealed." Indeed was right, though the revelation came a lot sooner than I expected.
One of the e-mail replies came from Maya, who -- as always -- had an excellent idea. He suggested that instead of completely killing the project, we could find somebody else to choreograph the piece, thereby moving forward without having to gain the approval of this particular dance school. Although I had sentimental attachments to the Kathak movements I had learned, I was open to the idea of other choreography. It would give us more freedom, more creative license. And perhaps we would surprise ourselves and come up with something even better suited to the project. But it couldn't be just any choreographer. It had to be somebody who truly understood the story, and could capture its essence through movement.
I set up meetings with a couple of choreographers to see who was interested and whose work might stylistically fit the peace. At this point, I still wasn't sure whether or not to continue the project. We were, after all, trying to meet the Scary Cow Round 3 deadline, and time was running out. And if we were creating a completely new dance, that would make our schedule all the tighter. I decided that the choreographer would be the deal breaker. If I found the right person within the week, we would move forward. If not, I would once again call the project off.
The let-down
I had a clear vision. I had a great production team. I even had a rock star who believed in my idea; enough so to fly across the country -- maybe even the world -- to help me make my dream come true. It seemed like this project was meant to be. Then, one little phone conversation changed it all.
When I first got the inspiration to do the music video, I contacted several key people to let them know of my idea. Among this group was the dance school where I had taken Kathak classes. It was, after all, the dance of the Kaliya-daman that has inspired me to jump in the ocean that fateful day on the Fort Bragg Dunes, so I wanted to make sure I could get proper permission to use the school's choreography. I had heard rumors that they were very careful about maintaining the dance's sacredness and authenticity. In my e-mail, I had emphasized the fact that I had the utmost respect for this dance form and wanted to stay true to its original intent. For a long time, they had not responded to my e-mail, and in the meantime I felt the need to move forward with my production plans. Finally, the day after my first production meeting and my auspicious e-mail from Salman, I got an e-mail from the school informing me I needed to call one of the teachers ASAP.
Often, I get overly worried over things I should not get worried about. I thought that this may be one of those occasions. Perhaps I just needed to relax, hope for the best, and stop anticipating the worst. But something about the tone of the e-mail sounded foreboding. Indeed, they did not seem welcome to my idea, nor did they seem happy with my incorporating their choreography. I pleaded my case, doing my best to make them understand that this was not a Bollywood spin-off but a vision that came from a spiritual experience, one that I believed in the bottom of my heart. At the end of our conversation, they had told me that for now the answer was no, but that maybe once the head teacher came back from his travels they could try to work something out.
By the time I hung up, I was devastated. All that hard work, all that inspiration, all those good wishes from all those amazing people, suddenly down the drain. I did not feel angry at the dance school. I understood where they were coming from, and certainly -- as someone who has studied and come to respect the dance -- did not want to do anything that would be deemed disrespectful. More than anything, I felt hurt by the fact that I had been moved so deeply by this dance, and had meant for the project to be a tribute to it; a way for me to reciprocate the inspiration by my own means of creative expression. But perhaps it wasn't meant to be -- at least for now. I e-mailed everybody on the production team, as well as Salman, to tell them that the project was off.
When I first got the inspiration to do the music video, I contacted several key people to let them know of my idea. Among this group was the dance school where I had taken Kathak classes. It was, after all, the dance of the Kaliya-daman that has inspired me to jump in the ocean that fateful day on the Fort Bragg Dunes, so I wanted to make sure I could get proper permission to use the school's choreography. I had heard rumors that they were very careful about maintaining the dance's sacredness and authenticity. In my e-mail, I had emphasized the fact that I had the utmost respect for this dance form and wanted to stay true to its original intent. For a long time, they had not responded to my e-mail, and in the meantime I felt the need to move forward with my production plans. Finally, the day after my first production meeting and my auspicious e-mail from Salman, I got an e-mail from the school informing me I needed to call one of the teachers ASAP.
Often, I get overly worried over things I should not get worried about. I thought that this may be one of those occasions. Perhaps I just needed to relax, hope for the best, and stop anticipating the worst. But something about the tone of the e-mail sounded foreboding. Indeed, they did not seem welcome to my idea, nor did they seem happy with my incorporating their choreography. I pleaded my case, doing my best to make them understand that this was not a Bollywood spin-off but a vision that came from a spiritual experience, one that I believed in the bottom of my heart. At the end of our conversation, they had told me that for now the answer was no, but that maybe once the head teacher came back from his travels they could try to work something out.
By the time I hung up, I was devastated. All that hard work, all that inspiration, all those good wishes from all those amazing people, suddenly down the drain. I did not feel angry at the dance school. I understood where they were coming from, and certainly -- as someone who has studied and come to respect the dance -- did not want to do anything that would be deemed disrespectful. More than anything, I felt hurt by the fact that I had been moved so deeply by this dance, and had meant for the project to be a tribute to it; a way for me to reciprocate the inspiration by my own means of creative expression. But perhaps it wasn't meant to be -- at least for now. I e-mailed everybody on the production team, as well as Salman, to tell them that the project was off.
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