Pointes and Perspective #49 The New You

The New You

Today in rehearsal, I stopped a dancer mid calypso.

It happened quickly. We were deep into shaping a student choreographed piece for our university concert. I was the advisor on the piece. One of the dancers had been given eight counts traveling upstage to self choreograph. She began with a pirouette that opened into a buoyant, high, confident calypso.

I stopped her. “Don’t put a calypso in. Try something else. Something less… competition.” And then we moved on.

But I didn’t. Because I saw her face. That flicker of confusion. That quiet deflation. The “Why?”

She wasn’t wrong. A calypso is not wrong. It’s expansive and athletic and beautiful when done well. It takes courage to throw your body into space like that. It takes years of training to make it look effortless.

So why did I stop it?

I went home thinking about her. Thinking about how frustrating it must feel to be told that something you’ve done well your whole life suddenly doesn’t quite fit. I found myself searching for articles about the differences between competition dance and conservatory performance, hoping to send her something that would explain what I didn’t have time to fully unpack in the moment.

But the truth is, this isn’t really about a calypso. It’s about becoming.

In the competition world, movement often lives for impact. Big moments. Height. Turns that stack on turns. Tricks that make the audience gasp. Choreography crafted for scores and medals and applause. There is discipline there. There is grit. There is undeniable strength.

But in a conservatory setting, the questions change. Not “Is it impressive?” But “Is it necessary?” Not “Will they clap?” But “Will they feel something?”

Here, every step is asked to justify itself. Movement must be integrated, not decorative. A jump cannot simply be high. It must arise from something and lead somewhere. It must belong to the world of the piece. It must carry intention.

A calypso can absolutely exist in concert dance. But if it appears because it is the most obvious or the most dazzling choice, it can feel like punctuation without a sentence. And conservatory training is not about punctuation. It is about language.

I think that’s what she felt. That sudden shift in language. And I understand that feeling more than she knows.

When I was a freshman at Mason Gross School of the Arts at Rutgers University, I arrived with a strong classical ballet identity. Clean lines. Codified technique. Clear expectations. I had attended a performing arts high school and touched jazz and modern, but ballet was my home.

Then I stepped into modern technique. Improvisation. Composition. I remember standing in Claudia Gitelman’s improvisation class feeling completely untethered. I didn’t understand what was being asked of me. I wanted combinations and counts and corrections. I wanted to know the right answer.

Instead, I was told to explore.

To find weight. To initiate from somewhere unfamiliar. To let go of the shape I thought I was supposed to make. Inside, I was frustrated. I didn’t get it. I felt behind. I felt clumsy in a language that everyone else seemed to speak.

So when I saw that dancer’s face today, I recognized it instantly. That look of someone who has been fluent in one dialect her entire life and is suddenly being asked to speak another.

It is destabilizing. But it is also sacred. Because this is the moment when growth begins.

Up until now, many young dancers have lived inside choreography designed to highlight what they can do. The high extension. The explosive jump. The string of turns that earns the trophy. Those pieces are often built around moments. In college, the mission shifts. Now the work is not about proving what you can execute. It is about discovering what you can express. It is about telling a story. Building a world. Evoking emotion. Transporting someone.

Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is remove the trick and see what remains. What if traveling upstage doesn’t require height? What if it requires tension? What if it requires restraint? What if it requires breath?

This is not about doing less. It is about doing deeper.

College is not here to erase what you’ve been. It is here to expand it. The athleticism, the stamina, the stage presence. Those are gifts. They are part of you. But now you are being invited to layer onto them curiosity, nuance, intention, vulnerability.

You are being asked to become more fully yourself.

And that requires trust. Trust that your teachers and mentors are not diminishing you when they challenge you. Trust that confusion is not failure. Trust that discomfort is often the doorway to discovery. Most of all, trust that you are not losing something. You are uncovering something.

There’s a lyric from Stephen Sondheim’s Sunday in the Park with George. A gentle reminder from every college and conservatory dance studio.

“Anything you do, let it come from you. Then it will be new.”