All posts filed under: Dancin’

prodigal_dress-45_by_iziliaev

Okay Fine, I Like Balanchine

It’s Thursday night, about seven minutes before curtain. I know this because I’m on my way downtown to meet PIC at the Merriam Theater on Broad Street. He texts me, as we were supposed to meet at 7:15 and I’m just getting off the subway at 7:15, so I tell him I’m just 20 feet away (which is not quite true) and I pick up the pace. Not only do I have to still grab our tickets from the press table inside and introduce myself to the new PR lady but I also have to get chocolate from the CVS down the block. I review a lot of dance. Sometimes as many 8 or 9 shows a month. Some of them are great—some of them make me cry and wish my life had gone a different direction (i.e. that I hadn’t skipped so many ballet classes in college to go to the library and write poetry instead); some of them make me think, some of them are just plain beautiful. But some of them… well …

xray

Betrayed… By My Feet

And now, for some-not-so happy new: last week, I found out that I have a stress fracture. Not one actually but two. And that’s only in my right foot. It started a year and a half ago around Thanksgiving: a little twinge in my right foot near my ankle. It hurt to wear high heels, and it especially hurt to dance in high heels, but I soldiered on. Why? Well, my company had our biggest performance of the year coming up. I knew that if I went to see a doctor, they would tell me I had to stop dancing and there was no way, with the musicians already lined up and the costumes already packed, that I was not going to perform. It’s part of being a dancer. We get injured. All of the time. And the daft amongst us (myself included) wear our injuries like little badges of honor, rattling them off: herniated discs, stress fractures, torn ACLs, and so on… Injuries, you see, come with the territory. Injuries are part of your …

I'm pretty sure if we were still together, we'd look like this by now.

Must Love Dancing

You’ll have to forgive me.  I really do intend to stop writing about TWD eventually but the more I write, the more things make sense and the more things make sense, the better I feel. TWD was a great dancer.  He was the greatest dancer I ever dated and when I saw him dancing at the wedding where we first met, I just knew: I had to dance with him. We went dancing on our first date, and when we flew to Boston for a friend’s wedding a few months later, people actually clapped for us when we boarded the shuttle back to the hotel at the end of the night.  We tried to tone it down after that—we’d hide out in the back of the reception halls whenever we went to a wedding, trying not to detract from the bride and groom, but the videographers always found us and people always stopped to watch. We were the perfect height for each other, and somehow, without even really trying, we always ended up in coordinating …

June 2014 Recital 028

How to Bedazzle Tap Shoes

I have a new system. A new how-to-avoid-murdering-my-loan-officer system to be precise. (This morning I received an email requesting an “explanation of the non-employment deposit of $633.15” made into my bank account on April 8th. Non employment? Really? When a deposit of the same exact amount shows up every two weeks? My first thought was to go the Walter White route and tell them I’m cooking meth. My second thought was to tell them I’m a stripper and that I have some regular customers who tip me in nickels. Fortunately, I came to my senses and sent them a very polite email back instead explaining that yes actually, the deposit is employment related and to please let me know if they needed anything else.  Like you know a sample of my DNA, my eventual first born child, and quite possible some hair follicles while we’re at it.) But back to my new system. It turns out that applying rhinestones to tap shoes with a pair of tweezers is actually quite therapeutic. Especially if you’ve got …

Feet

Notes from the Dressing Room

I blame The Lady Hoofers.  Whenever I don’t post, it’s because of my tap company (or my anthropology students, or House of Cards, or Downton Abbey, but mainly it’s because of The Lady Hoofers).  Last weekend, you see, I co-produced (and co-directed and co-choreographed and co-danced, if there is such a thing) another show.  This means that I’ve spent the past few weeks flipping out and the past few days recovering. I’m glad to report that aside from one quiet and lonely moment in the dressing room, when I realized this was my first time producing a show without my personal Zen machine (aka my now ex-boyfriend) to keep me calm, I was fine. Better than fine, actually. Not in an obnoxious, f*ck you, Gloria Gaynor sense of the word (I’m more sorry than mad, and more nostalgic than sad at this point) but rather in the sense that all of the ridiculous self-help tricks I’ve been trying seem to be working. It probably didn’t hurt that there were fifteen dancers sharing one dressing room …

Backstage

Writer’s Block

I’m having a serious case of writer’s block right now, which is unfortunate because I’m supposed to be writing a review of a performance I saw last night and even though I enjoyed it, I’ve been staring at my computer for the past ten minutes wondering what the hell to say. The problem is that I haven’t been writing enough lately, and writing, like all crafts, must be practiced.  I’ve been writing exams, and lectures, and emails to my students to let them know that they’re really not going to pass my course unless they actually complete their assignments… but not real writing. Not interesting writing. Not fun writing. Not good writing. I do, however, have a fairly plausible excuse.  My tap company, The Lady Hoofers, gave four performances last week, including three on Broad St. at The Wilma Theater and one at the Performance Garage as part of DanceUSA/Philadelphia’s Presenter’s Showcase. Having never taken part in a presenter’s showcase before, I’ve spent the better part of the past month not sleeping, freaking out about …

BalletX

Three for the Price of One

I know, I know: I’m a terrible blogger.  I have nothing to say for myself except for this: This, And this: (Okay, admittedly, this last one wasn’t written by me: it was written by one of my students! So please take a minute to check it out and, if you’re feeling so inclined, to leave a comment because I am one very proud teacher right now.)

tap shoe supplies

A Dance Teacher’s Guide to Parenting

You might be wondering what happened to the fieldwork portion of Fieldwork in Stilettos (and by “fieldwork,” I of course mean dating).  Well don’t worry: even though I’m no longer scouring the internet for single men, I have a plan.  I’m going to become a Mommy Blogger. That’s right: me, Kat Richter, Parental Unit Extraordinaire, Supplier of band aids, moral support and tough, tough, love. Of course, in order to be a Mommy Blogger, one has to be a mommy, but I’m dating a man with kids and if that’s not good enough, I also happen to have approximately 200 students under my care so as far as I’m concerned, I qualify. On Monday night, for example, I drove over to my boyfriend’s house (that would be The Wedding Date to you long-time readers) and made dinner.  Not wanting to repeat the mistake of last month’s adventures in vegan cream cheese (which left his oldest scarred for life and forever skeptical of all things tofu) I made chili.  Thick, hearty, chock-full-of-meat chili.  And let me …