You have to love dancing to stick to it. It gives you nothing back, no manuscripts to store away, no paintings to show on walls and maybe hang in museums, no poems to be printed and sold, nothing but that single fleeting moment when you feel alive.
Movement is expressive. I've never denied that. I don't think there's such a thing as abstract dance.
My dance classes were open to anybody, my only stipulation was that they had to come to the class every day.
All these dismal things that are going on in the world - the isolation and the sickness and the governments and the pollution - it's so frightful, over the whole world.
My process has changed over the years. I'd say it has been enhanced.
In using chance operations, the mind is enriched.
The legs and arms can be a revelation of the back, the spine's extensions.
The use of chance operations opened out my way of working. The body tends to be habitual. The use of chance allowed us to find new ways to move and to put movements together that would not otherwise have been available to us. It revealed possibilities that were always there except that my mind hadn't seen them.
I think the thing that we agreed to so many years ago, actually, was that the music didn't have to support the dance nor the dance illustrate the music, but they could be two things going on at the same time.
It is upon the length and breadth and span of a body sustained in muscular action that dance invokes its image.
You can get fixed ideas, and it can get restrictive. So, I try to put myself in a precarious position.
I don't like teaching, because it's so repetitive - especially the beginning of class, which is always more or less the same and has to be carefully done. It's tedious. But I know it's necessary for dancers to keep working on technique.
Dancing has a continuity of its own that need not be dependent upon either the rise or fall of sound or the pitch and cry of words. Its force of feeling lies in the physical image, fleeting or static.