Writing Example

RISK FORWARD

By Noah Dach

My life has always revolved around the acceptance and embracing of risk. While some may not be comfortable with risk, believing that risk equates only to danger, it is my conviction in relation to both my physical and mental practice of dance, that risk enhances movement, entices us to achieve something grater then we thought possible and unquestionably magnifies physical performance.

Risk is a vital thread that has weaved itself through every activity in my life in ways that has not only helped to enrich it but has benefited me at every level of my artistic and personal life. While some areas of practiced risk might seem obvious, like performing aerial acrobatics or the technical climbing of vertical granite cliffs, it is in all that I do that makes the embracing of such risk a crucial part of my research both as an educator and movement professional. Nothing we do is without some kind of risk, but risk is more than just “danger,” instability, or a leap of faith. It is a tool that can, and I would argue, must be used in order to understand perspective, movement, ability and arguably our everyday lives.

Throughout my circus career I researched and analyzed the role risk plays in circus arts. I asked, was each performance one of risk or of skill, knowledge, or in the words of Peta Tait, a “performance of safety?” This kind of performance forces us to ask what kind of piece we are watching or doing and to contemplate it from the perspective of both the audience and the performer. The perspective shift caused me to dive into the meaning of risk and where it truly exists, as opposed to where it is merely portrayed.

After Alex Honnold free solo climbed El Capitan in Yosemite Valley, he was asked in an interview if he was scared, to which he replied, “not really.” He went on to explain that his climb of El Capitan was like that of a dance. Each movement was choreographed and in order to successfully climb the wall without a rope had to learn the choreography and perform it to perfection. He fell of course, time and time again with a rope, just as we do in the learning of a piece or dance. He safely practiced each move and consequently learned something new with each step so he could then perform his piece and execute his climb free of a tether, just as we do on stage.

Through continued practice, teaching, and choreographing I came to know circus, not as a performance of risk, but as a performance of safety. Each piece a demonstration of an aerialists’ knowledge and practice at wrapping their body properly to safely achieve each move. To be able to accomplish a drop that portrays the artist as falling until they miraculously catch themselves not as risk, but rather the illusion of it. The artist is never in any actual danger. It is not a risk every time a performer takes to the sky, but a demonstration of safe practice, of securing themselves to their apparatus, or of knowledge. It is only in the perspective of those who do not know the skills that there is any risk, or rather, the perception of it. This is what gives circus its allure, its stigmas, and its intrigue. This is what brought me to question my work as an educator and choreographer; for how could I ever find a sense of calm in teaching a class if I believed my students were in true danger every time they practiced a skill? Each skill I teach or piece I choreograph embraces risk as a skillset, practice and perspective. My goal is to push physical boundaries, achieve new thought and create more through the practice of risk rooted in safety and practice.

As a teacher I look to the concept of risk to better educate my students and to ask questions that prompt greater learning within themselves and their practice. In our society the act of falling is in so many ways considered failure. In order to fall however, you must ultimately embrace risk. We must all risk falling in order to take each next step and in order to achieve anything. We can think of this in complex ways through classical dance forms. In order to achieve the highest jump or greatest number of turns, you must either lift yourself off the floor or engage your momentum to spin. You must embrace imbalance, and therefor risk balance. In both cases, you risk the possibility of falling. In every step we take, walking into class or down the street, we embrace failure in order to progress forward. We shift our weight off our standing leg and hope that our other leg catches us as it extends forward. Each step we take is a fall, we as humans are in a constant state of falling, forever risking our state of balance with each new step. My teaching style, choreography, and research embraces this concept in class, rehearsal and in our daily life.

I believe my role as an educator is not only to educate on a subject, teach new skills, and allow students to think about their practice in new ways, but to inspire them to use the same tools they learn within movement class to examine their emotions, relationships, activities, passions, and life as a whole. What risks will they take in their life? Where will each step take them? What will they learn from their failures, their successes, and each moment that they find themselves off balance? I seek to probe these questions, to inspire my students to apply their learning, in technique, composition, or historical studies, to their professional practice as well as to their lives. As movement educators we seek to create skilled and talented artists who are practiced and excel at their craft but who can also be skilled and talented humans that can approach the world with a sense of compassion, acceptance, risk taking, and assurance that each fall is yet another step forward in the right direction.