The source of this quote has been the subject of a running discussion on the med-dance list for the last week, with the final consensus being some country song.  But whoever said/sang it first, it speaks straight to the heart of artistic fears.  Writers, musicians, dancers all struggle with the same nakedness in their work; laying out their soul for public comment.  If we thought about it, we'd be paralyzed with the awareness of how little protection we have against rejection and ridicule, and just how much of our heart is playing "pearl in the pigpen" with the audience.

Two of my very dear friends dance at a Middle Eastern restaurant in town and I spend many of my Friday evenings there lingering for hours over Turkish coffee and conversation.  My friends are beautiful, gifted dancers, with a passion for the art that goes beyond a dance style.  They dance inside the music, channeling its emotion into movement with contagious joy.  The venue is small--a converted A&W building--with 8 booths and a couple of tables that are moved out of the way to create a dance space.  The music vibrates the walls, and the dancer is not a stranger on a distant stage like a movie on the screen, but right beside you.   One of you.

For some, that can be an uncomfortable experience.  Being a compulsive observer myself, I've seen the different reactions to such personal art.  Some look away, staring at their food and trying to ignore what's happening.  They raise their voices above the music and focus intently on the person across from them to make idle chatter.  Most are curious but they don't know where to look.  They want to stare but don't want to be rude.  Perhaps some of that is the bedlah costuming (and the shock of seeing exposed stomachs) or a confusion between sexuality and sensuality, but I think it's more than that.  Where do you look when someone shows you their soul?

I have that reaction to certain authors.  There are a handful of beautiful, gifted writers who create with gut-wrenching honesty, holding nothing back, not even a cloak of self-defense.  Jill Barnett, Anne Lamott, Toni Morrison, Sharyn McCrumb, Alicia Suskin Ostriker, Ridley Pearson and others come to mind.  The story doesn't unfold upon a comfortably distant stage.  Nothing is lost to the flood lights.  You can see their eyes, smell their sweat, taste their joy and pain.  They are one of you.

Where do you look when someone hands you their soul?

Inside yourself.

We strive for that honesty in our own art, whether it's music, painting, dance or writing.  But we also know from observation just how thin the illusion of "no one will know it's me" is.  We know some will look away, some will raise their voices to drown out our words, and others will snicker.  So we must dance like no one's watching, and love like it's never going to hurt.  That's where beauty comes from.
 
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