Dances are made in time and space, a minute or an hour in a dancer’s life never to be seen again. Dances do not last—they have to be made new each time and evaporate as they are appearing. Today, small freedoms—moving, gathering, and connecting—have been restricted to limit the movement of a virus that, whether we want to admit it or not, is showing us just how connected we are.
Katherine Disenhof
Terence Marling
“We have to get through this, until we get to the time we can gather again, and I can open Common back up. I really can’t wait for that day.”
“This version of the world is temporary,” she continues. “It requires an enormous amount of inconvenient maturity from many people, including me. When we are again in a position when we can gather together, the same thing will happen that happened two days after 9/11: the studio is going to be packed. But for now, take a deep breath, have a good lunch, learn a new platform.”
“I’m paying my staff right now, paying my dancers, paying the teachers—but I don’t know how long I can do that. If we keep going for three weeks with no revenue coming in, I don’t know. But what I think affects me most is, who has money coming in right now? So many people are out of work—all these dancers—every artist—can’t get paid right now.”
