By Larry Sousa

I live in Los Angeles, where trendiness is next to godliness. In a town that serves up 20 versions of the same sitcom and 40 clones of the same “reality” show, artists are paid handsomely to squelch their creativity. Here, it’s de rigueur for creative types to copy the copycats, so they do. It’s enough to make you want to catch the next wave right out of town—so I do, during dance competition season, when I travel the country as a judge. Watching young dancers who are so committed to their art is the perfect salve to what ails me here in Hollywood. And yet lately, on the road, I’ve been noticing a very L.A.-ish trend toward, well, trend. Why is it that I can judge in such disparate locales as Springfield, Massachusetts, Springfield, Missouri, and Springfield, California, and see the same choreography?

It’s not that I’m seeing the same actual dance routines. And don’t get me wrong—I have encountered some very unique work out there. I’ll bet that we can all agree that the art of choreography is a personal thing, like a fingerprint, or our politics, or how a scent vividly recalls a memory. So it’s uncanny that such a large amount of the choreography I’ve seen in dance competitions seems to use similar vocabularies and styles, no matter which corner of the country I’m in. How is it that choreographers can have such different handwriting but produce such similar vocabularies?

Let me emphasize that I do not believe that choreographers “borrow” each other’s work. Instead, I’m convinced that the culture of dance competition coerces us all toward a certain aesthetic trend—a winning trend. I have no idea how this trend is created and by whom—but then again I have no idea why Ugg boots got so hot (and why now they’re so not). As I defiantly proclaim trend-ignorance, it manages to sneak up anyway and hit me where it hurts—in my subconscious. I’ve been known to begin a new piece for competition, convinced it will be the most unique thing to hit the Marley since the dawn of dance itself. Then somewhere along the way, I remember that my dancers are going to be judged, by my peers—and by others. Confidence dissipates, doubt sets in, and when I finally finish this masterwork, it looks “competition-y.” You know what I mean. Sometimes we all get trapped in the Land of Ordinary. When that happens, I turn to my secret stash of tricks designed to put the “me” back into my work.

A Picture Is Worth a Thousand Steps

Flip through your favorite magazines. When you see a picture that you have any sort of reaction to, rip it out and start a file. For this, I avoid dance images because the last thing I want when creating a dance is to be directly influenced by another choreographer’s ideas. (That’s how we got into this mess in the first place.) I love to pull from nature, sports, auto, and art magazines because there’s so much activity and movement in the images. The idea isn’t to literally stage what’s in the picture, but to be inspired in a sensory way. For me, a photo of giraffes evokes a particular style of movement, while a painting by Jackson Pollack suggests a very different dynamic. When you need some random inspiration, clear your mind, grab a latte, and flip through the file.

Write-ography

Gather your dancers and play a piece of music you plan on using for choreography. (Instrumental music works best because lyrics tend to be too direct, undermining the purpose of the exercise.) On slips of paper, instruct the dancers to jot down any words or phrases that come to mind as they listen. Throw the papers in a bowl, and have the dancers pick and pick until the bowl is empty. Now, have each dancer invent a choreographic response to the words—no “standard” steps (pirouettes, grand jetés, etc.) allowed. Let these movements inspire your choreography. I love this exercise because the dancers interact with the music in their own personal way and participate in the process of creating a physical, literal dance vocabulary. Some of the most vivid words I’ve received are “prickly,” “shards of glass,” and my favorite: “blippidy dippy pip” (which, somehow, is very evocative). Try it with all age groups, and give it a go on your own.

Step Backward

Create a step, then reverse it. I don’t mean in the usual way (like doing a pirouette to the right, then left). Make up a step or a short combination, then literally rewind it with every detail intact, and see what happens. You’re looking to discover vocabulary that you wouldn’t have otherwise come up with. This exercise often yields really awkward steps that don’t work at all. But you’re also bound to discover many that do.

What in the World?

Here’s a rule I live by: Any dance I create must be about something that’s going on the world—self-discovery, power struggles, a social movement, and so on. When I’m feeling stuck in an idea-free zone, I dig for answers to these questions: What in the world gets me mad? What in the world makes me laugh? Or cry? What do I think is unfair? You get the idea. Invent more of these questions to ask yourself. I believe that there’s a dance piece in just about every answer. And keep in mind that you have lots of latitude here. Your piece can be an allegory about how the majority oppresses the minority, or it can be about the thrill of a great kickline. I’ve done both, and I love them equally.

Buried Treasure

Have you ever loved a piece of music and wanted to make a dance to it, but you had no idea what do? I mean nothing—no story, no style, no shape. Well, the obvious choice here is to simply not use the music. But that isn’t an option, because you love it. When my muse has rudely abandoned me, I improvise by establishing arbitrary parameters in an effort to motivate something—anything. For example: Dancers may travel in a grid pattern only; they may use only the right arm for the next four counts of eight; some dancers must work in 3/4 time while others are in 4/4 time, etc. Invent your own parameters, and allow for some nutty choices (like dancers must keep their left foot off the floor at all times). You suspect there’s a treasure buried in there somewhere, so dig to find it.

The Bait-and-Switch

As an adjudicator, I’ve heard many of the same songs over and over . . . and over. As a choreographer, I avoid using Dance Competition’s Greatest Hits since judges have to hear them so often. Yet I love many of these songs. So after hearing one of my favorites, “Hot Honey Rag” from Chicago, about 4,000 times in competition, I finally felt compelled to use it. That music practically orders you to give it a perky Fosse-esque, Charleston-esque treatment just like in the musical, and indeed that is the usual choice—so I did the opposite. I had the dancers (during that famous opening vamp) enter in the most typical “Hot Honey Rag” way, then suddenly sit in a line on the floor, performing precise character-based upper-body choreography throughout the rest of the number. It became the “anti-dance” dance (though the performers will tell you that the movement was as vigorous as any dance on its feet). It was a risk, but hearing the audience—and the judges—react when those dancers hit the floor was a reminder that risks are always worth taking. I called the piece The Sit In (more about that later), and I regularly restage it all over the country. If your students have taken a class from me, it’s very likely that they’ve learned some of The Sit In. Here’s the point: It’s OK to use those popular songs if you wish, but ask yourself two questions: What is the audience expecting to see? How can I give them the opposite?

A Word About Words

Audiences often find it difficult to fully hear recorded lyrics, so don’t rely on words to tell the story of your dance. The steps have to do that. With a critical eye, watch your dance without the song playing. Does the choreography still support your story? As you create the piece, periodically turn the music off and have the dancers recite the lyrics as they perform the choreography. You’re not (usually) looking to mime the lyrics but to create a dance that works thematically and conceptually. For me, this exercise has a magical way of pointing out what is and isn’t serving the dance’s themes. It also helps the dancers examine the song’s ideas, making their total performance richer and more connected.

Be Your Own Beethoven

Consider staging your dance without music at first, then composing the tune yourself. I recently began rehearsal for a new piece with no preconceived ideas at all. Through improvisation with the dancers, a simple idea emerged (individual birds coalescing into a flock). I staged the piece a cappella and videotaped it. Back in L.A. (the studio and I are on opposite coasts), I assembled existing music clips, composed some original ones using Garage Band on my Mac (ask a teenager), and added sound effects, matching it all to the choreography. I sent the composition to the studio along with a video detailing how to marry the music and the steps together, a fun challenge the dancers took on themselves. It was a unique, exciting process for the dancers and for me. With music composition and editing software such as Sound Forge and Garage Band, poof, you’re a composer!

Winning Titles

Don’t be shy about making up a title for your dance that’s different from your song. Your title is a tool to help the audience connect with the story you’re telling. It wouldn’t have made sense for me to use the song title as the name of my sit-down piece because it has nothing to do with the number. My own title, The Sit In, planted an idea in the minds of the audience before the number even started. You have a very short time to draw your audience in. Let your own descriptive title help that effort.

A huge amount of pressure comes with making dances, particularly if you enter your work in competitions. As artists, we are constantly being judged by our peers, our students, their parents, and critics (professional and otherwise). But our harshest judgment may come from within—and that, I believe, has the power to truly dampen our spirit of individuality just when we need it most. So when the pressure to follow the trend piles on, always remember that your personal point of view is worthy, simply because it’s your own.

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