I Ended Up On Stage With Sydney Dance Company & I Absolutely Didn’t Belong

Sydney Dance Company celebrated 50 years at the forefront of Australian contemporary dance on the weekend, with a program of two works: a remount of SDC Artistic Director Rafael Bonachela’s 2010 work 6 Breaths, and Us 50, a new commission from Chunky Move founder and frequent SDC collaborator, Gideon Obarzanek. 

Us 50 invites the current company, along with alumni dancers, and the general public, to be a part of the work, creating something that attempts to speak to where the company has been, where it is now, and where it can go in the future. It’s a piece that respects history, an all-too-rare opportunity for older dancers to take to the spotlight, but also the reality that without an audience, SDC doesn’t exist. As Bonachela quoted Obarzanek: "Dance lives in the bodies of the dancers and the minds of the audience."  

The work ended up being about the experience of the people on the Roslyn Packer stage, sweating under stage lights for perhaps the first time, but also about a spirit of playfulness and generosity. Or at least that’s how it appeared to me, one of those people, who was trying desperately to blend into the back wall. 

Yes, for some reason, and against my better judgment, I asked to be one of the audience participants in Us 50.

Sydney Dance Company's Us 50. Pic by Pedro Greig.

I danced for one year when I was six. I was convinced I had what it took to be a ballerina, except without any of the drive or skill. I was pulled out of a toxic dance school environment and never returned to my former passion, except to clumsily participate in compulsory high school classes, for the simple and obvious and lazy reason that I prefer not to do things that I have no natural aptitude for. Please, leave me to read a book or write yearning short stories. Leave me to my bedroom yoga and Kath & Kim re-runs. 

That’s not to say I haven’t always had an urge to be in the spotlight. I was a reasonably good public speaker at school if I was extremely prepared and always went first to get it out of the way immediately. As an adult, I shake like all hell, but people are too polite to say they notice, and I assume the cadence of a far more confident person. 

I’ve always wanted to be able to sing, or to act. A number of clumsy high school rock bands and youth theatre productions later, and it was clear I was, to quote Dad (love you), a “ham”. My vocal range is small, so I sing out of key. I’m an overzealous actor. Atrociously bad and far too expressive, pulling down the rest of the cast to flounder at my level. A 2009 production of Ionesco’s Rhinoceros fell apart in front of friends and loved ones as “Christ! A rhinoceros!” became our shared theatrical crutch.

"The only way to learn about who I am as a person, and what I am capable of, particularly under pressure, isn’t through regular therapy and self-examination/meditation, but by terrifying myself in public."

But the best part about all this dabbling in the art of performance was how, so shit-scared of being in front of an audience, I simply chose not to wear glasses or contacts on stage. Far better not to be able to see the faces of the crowd than to be totally certain of who I was directing my wild gesticulations at. 

I’ve spent my career, as it stands, writing about people who are brave – and talented – enough to make work and perform on stage, or on screen. I’m interested in talking to people about what they make, why they make it, and what it illuminates about how we live in 2019.

But I chose to bring my extremely uncoordinated self to Us 50, as part of my (and the internet’s) never-ending pursuit of content, and in an attempt to force myself out of my comfort zone. The logic goes that the only way to learn about who I am as a person, and what I am capable of, particularly under pressure, isn’t through regular therapy and self-examination/meditation, but by terrifying myself in public.

Sydney Dance Company's Us 50. Pic by Pedro Greig.

And there was something to be learned from the experience – but it wasn’t so much about me and my boggling levels of self-absorption, than about the joys of community, and about the kindness and gentleness of the dancers. 

About an hour before curtains up, we were kitted out in headphones and audio packs backstage and loosely run through the process by Assistant Choreographer Charmene Yap, who potentially has the most calming voice and attitude in the country. She could make millions as a life coach, telling me, on a minute-to-minute basis, as Fleabag pleads, “what to wear in the morning”, “who to love and how to tell them” and “how to live my life”. “Why am I still scared?” she asks, and so do I.  

Twenty-five minutes into the second act, headphones in our ears, we’d be called on stage. From there, we will be pacing from the front to the back of a white space marked on stage, following Yap’s calm, precise instructions. We would mirror the simple dance movements of the company and alumni dancers – even more former dancers were a part of Opening Night’s 26-strong audience contingent – sometimes positioned just centimetres from our partner. At the end, we’d be asked to sit front of stage, and copy the actions of Yap, who’d be at the sound desk at the back of the stairs. Simple arm movements. Swaying. Like kids at a primary school assembly. Then take a bow and the ordeal would be over. 

"I felt a pain where I thought my kidney might be. My hands sweat. I started to knead my own leg compulsively."

A patron and fellow audience volunteer tried repeatedly to reassure me that this would be ok. The audience wouldn’t be looking at me, just the dancers. It’s all a bit of fun. Imagine being able to tell people you danced with the Sydney Dance Company? You’ll be concentrating so hard on getting it right, so full of adrenalin, you won’t even notice the eyes on you. He was right, but I was too deep into my own noxious brain. 

Sitting down to watch during the first 20 minutes of the work, as trained dancers mirrored each other, wearing a palette of reds and pinks and taupe, my anxiety manifested physically. I felt a pain where I thought my kidney might be. My hands sweat. I started to knead my own leg compulsively. I could barely hear Chris Clark's thumping electronic score or keep my eyes focused on the mastery of the dancers. 

At Yap’s instruction, I squeezed down my row after my friend and climbed the stairs to the stage. The lights were bright, but not blinding enough to obscure the very obvious existence of about 900 people with their gaze squarely on us. Still, it’s pretty hard not to grin, at least for a moment, when you’re an amateur looking out into the theatre, standing on the boards some of your favourite performers have treaded. I didn’t belong, but there was something of a thrill to being so boldly, although apologetically, out of place. 

We were ushered to form a semi-circle and copy dancers doing a series of straightforward movements, while others performed a structured and ornate routine in the centre. It was hard to remember to move at all, such was the urge to just gaze, captivated. But I was all too aware of my distinct lack of grace, and constantly chastising myself about being out of time, using the wrong arm, or taking a step backward instead of forward. 

Sydney Dance Company's Us 50. Pic by Pedro Greig.

We were gathered at the back when a dancer arrived to partner with each of us. As more and more people found their person, starting to crouch and cross-step across the stage, I experienced again an old childhood feeling – when everyone partners up, and you’re the last one left, and so they laugh at you.

I was grateful when dancer Riley Fitzgerald made eye contact and kindly took me as his partner. We jumped together, or seemed to move in the style of a church school liturgical dance. My expression must have been so panicked, the fear in my eyes so plain to see, that he had to repeatedly mouth at me, when his back was to the audience, “You’re ok,” and “Good.” It was gentle and warm, a way to put me at ease, as he nodded his head to indicate that we’d be circling to the left. Afterwards, he told me it was a fresh way of performing, a new challenge to have a beginner dancer to coax and lead. He and Yap were able to make me feel almost comfortable, albeit embarrassed, by my innate ability to not-keep time. For someone so naturally clumsy, it felt like a coup to not have tripped over myself publicly. I tried to soak up the feeling of bowing to applause – something I’m reasonably certain I didn’t deserve, and will likely never experience again. 

Afterwards, my friend was exhilarated. She gushed about how engaging dance is, how SDC grips you, the beauty of it – as an attendee and as a performer. This could be her favourite day of the year. We asked other friends what it was like to watch, and they settled on it being simultaneously heart-warming and ridiculous – not funny in a cruel laughing-at-you kind of way so much as you could sense the warmth and playfulness of it, but also an unarticulated awkwardness.

I still felt off-kilter, though mostly relieved and keen to quaff a sparkling wine. There was no rush of endorphins, only a welling of appreciation, that they would let a total beginner take a punt at this, but mostly that they would do so with such care and generosity. And that my friend would be kind enough to not let me do something so frightening and bizarre alone. 

Bonachela / Obarzanek plays until 9 Nov at Roslyn Packer Theatre.