Jaamil Olawale Kosoko (they/he), a multi-spirited Nigerian American author, performance artist, and curator of Yoruba and Natchez descent, is originally from Detroit, MI. In Fall 2020, they were appointed the 3rd annual Alma Hawkins Visiting Chair in the Department of World Arts and Cultures/Dance at UCLA. Additionally, they are a 2020 Pew Fellow in the Arts, 2019 NYSCA/NYFA Artist Fellow in Choreography, 2019 NPN Development Fund Awardee, 2019-21 Movement Research Artist in Residence, 2018-20 Live Feed Artist at New York Live Arts, 2017-19 Princeton Arts Fellow, 2019 Red Bull Writing Fellow, 2018 NEFA NDP Production Grant recipient, 2017 MAP Fund recipient, and 2017 Cave Canem Poetry Fellow. Their creative practice draws from Black study and queer theories of the body, weaving together visual performance, lecture, ritual, and spiritual practice. Their recent media work Chameleon (The Living Installments) premiered virtually in April 2020 at EMPAC/Experimental Media and Performing Arts Center, Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute. Previous works: Séancers (2017) and the Bessie nominated #negrophobia (2015), have toured internationally, appearing in major festivals including: Tanz im August (Berlin), Moving in November (Finland), Within Practice (Sweden),TakeMeSomewhere (UK), Brighton Festival (UK), Oslo Teaterfestival (Norway), and Zürich MOVES! (Switzerland), among others. Season 1 of their interview-based podcast, American Chameleon, can be found on all podcast platforms.

Kosoko is the author of two chapbooks: Animal in Cyberspace and Notes on An Urban Killfloor. Their poems and essays have been included in The American Poetry Review, The Dunes Review, and The Broad Street Review, among others. They lecture regularly at Princeton University, Stockholm University of the Arts and Exerce Masters ICI-CCN in Montpellier, France. Learn more at jaamil.com or on IG @jaamil_means_beauty.

Tislarm Bouie was born and raised in Brownville, Brooklyn. He attended Professional Performing Arts School and received his B.F.A from the University of the Arts. His theater credits include Gary a Sequel to Titus Andronicus on Broadway. Film/TV credits: In the Heights (2021), Saturday Night Live w/ Coldplay, Mrs. America on FX, Live from Lincoln Center and Manhattan Love Story. Regional: Annie, The Bodyguard, Swing! and Blueprint Specials. He has also danced with Alicia Keys, Ronald K. Brown/ Evidence Dance Company, Norwegian Cruise Line. His commercial credits include Estèe Lauder, Toyota, Samsung, Cadillac and Champ Sports. Tislarm’s choreography has been featured in Dance Magazine, New York Theater Barn and Young Choreographers Festival. 

A Conversation over Zoom:

Hello, Good morning. My name is Adanna Kai Jones. I am a black woman, of Afro-Caribbean descent, from Trinidad and Tobago. I teach Dance and Dance Studies at Bowdoin College. My research is around winin’ and the Trini-styled Carnival. I specifically look at the ways that this dance called winin’, mediates a lot of different political identities from gender, sexuality, nationalism, as well as emotions, including love, lust, anger, hate […] the whole gambit of it. So, essentially, I look at how winin’ is culturally embedded in mundane practices as well as spectacular practices. So things that happen in the privacy of one’s home, all the way to things that happen on the streets of Carnival.

So in looking at the questions that Raja Feather Kelly sent, the first question you ask is: How did we come to this? And I’m like, which “this”? There are so many “this-es” happening right now. From deaths to multiple pandemics. And not just COVID, but also the continued pandemic of anti-black racism.

Then you ask: how did we get here? Well, we have always been here. *Laughs* We have always been here. *Dramatically Pauses* It’s just that when you have emergencies, like a pandemic or people dying by the thousands, in addition to a public reckoning (with regards to anti-black racism), things feel more dire, futile, and agonizing. So that’s a conundrum for folks who weren’t thinking about the way power and racism go hand in hand. If the problems are “brand new” to you–i.e., if it’s never been in your consciousness–then you might be shocked; but, if it’s your everyday life, the problems feel just like “same shit, different day.” Sad, I know. We black folx have always been saying that the problems are here, and have always been yelling, screaming, and saying, we need to change the problem. We can go back hundreds of years, and we will find black folks yelling out: “this is a problem!!” And it seems that this country does not even know how to begin to address the problem. *Pauses* Step number one is to say, “I am part of the problem.” And that’s really hard for people to do. So, yeah. How did we get here? We’ve always been here. Now we just have to hold ourselves accountable to changing things, and I think that’s the scary part for folks.

Okay. The next question you have: Would you say more about what “now” means to me? So now, right now we are in December of 2021; and when COVID officially became “labeled” as a pandemic, it was March of 2020. So we’re almost two full years into pandemic mode. In the middle of 2020, I remember being hopeful and believing that we would be returning to something that reminded me of a normal past. To quote Sam Cook, I believed that a ‘change was gonna COME; from the end of COVID (as a threat to our livelihoods) to racial justice, I was here for it to change! People who were CEOS and presidents of major institutions, kept putting out statements in support of “Black Lives Matter.” And I was “Here for it!” I believed that they were ready and willing to hold themselves accountable. You know, it was all of these moments that made me believe that people were ready to galvanize and make change! So, again, I remained. “Here for all of it!” You know?

I remember still being really hopeful well into the beginning of this year (2021). And I was working HARD to implement change! I was on the Dance Studies Association Programming Committee as one of the chairs of the Programming Committee. I was also one of the faculty members in a working group for my college, working towards changes that specifically addressed anti-black racism. As members of these committees, I continued to feel hopeful and was like, “let’s do it! We’re making all these changes and we’re shifting how we interact with each other. We’re going from a hierarchical model to a communal/collaborative model. YES! I AM HERE FOR IT!” (Here, I’m bringing in the philosophy of Ubuntu, which is “I am, because we are; we are, because I am.”)

And then, […] And then […] you get burnt out! And I feel like that’s what most of 2021 was about, recovering from the exhaustion of trying to answer the questions like: “what does it take for this change to actually be successful? What does it look like? What does it need to look like? Who needs to do what? Are they willing to do that? Are they even ready to do what it’s necessary? Etc. etc.” Ok. The fact remains, institutions are made up of people, so it’s the people who have to do the work. And in order to get there, let’s call it the promise-land, you’ve got to work on yourself. How you are inserted in this system of power, how you are perpetuating it, how you are using it, how you are navigating it, and how that impacts others in the system. So like what harm it might cause. What good it might cause. What problems it might cause. Are you upholding a system that is always already problematic?

So yeah, 2021 was like, *Laughs* recuperating from the burnout. And this moment, right now in December 2021, is about reflecting, stepping back, taking stock of all the things that we have accomplished, of all the things that we tried to accomplish, and of all the things that we are still trying to accomplish. Taking back and taking stock.
*Breathes-in and then slowly exhales*

So the next question is: Are you thinking about the future? I’m thinking about the future all the time. And would I expand on that? So in terms of the future, I really want to continue diving into the philosophy of Ubuntu–from the Bantu people in South Africa–into that space of collaboration. I’m not into hierarchy. I’m not into, you know, the bottom line is “x,” and everybody then should squeeze themselves into “x”. I’m really into building an understanding of communal collaboration and what that could look like. And that means that everybody has to be in the room. So if you’re not in the room, you’re not going to be represented or heard. And I don’t believe that somebody else should represent your voice. Your voice, your experience is unique. Nobody could truly understand where you are coming from. They could only really understand it from a, “if I was you in that situation, X, Y, and Z would be my truth;” you know? So, yes, for me Ubuntu is really the future I am moving towards.

My prayer is that we reach the promised-land, in a way that does the least amount of harm. With that said, we will be uncomfortable. But we must be willing to shift and mold in order to get there in a way that allows us to create different ways of existing. Um, that’s more than just, you know, um, men do this women do that, you know? Or that theater looks like “X” and dance looks like “Y”. I just think we must imagine expansively about what exactly it is we are trying to put out there in the world. What messages? Which voices? Whose faces? And what are the multiple ways we can do that?

Ultimately, we should really use this opportunity to just really think expansively, and see how we really are deeply connected to each other. Again, I keep going back to Ubuntu because we […] we need each other […] we need each other. We need to be in communication with each other so that we can value and understand our differences. We could create powerful alliances that allow us to be expansive in what our field can look like, what dance can look like. And then we can create multiple modalities of expressing ourselves through dance, of presenting it, of funding it, of supporting it, etc.

Because we are aware of all the different voices that are out there, uh, we’re making space for, or each other to, um, be heard and be seen in, in, in our fullness. Right? Not be seen in what I could use you for, you know, or I need a Black thing, or I need an Indian thing, or I need an Indigenous thing. I’m just gonna use you for that. But rather, what kind of presentation needs to happen if we come from the logic of indigeneity? what does that then create?? What kind of resources are possible, where do we need to be, and how can we support getting us there? You know?

Next Question: What do I want, and who’s responsible for the future? For me as a pedagogue, I really want critical thinkers out there in the world. I want my students out there asking questions, doing research; I don’t want them to perpetuate problems. So creating students who can hold themselves and hold the world accountable. And these people, my students, I want them to be responsible for the future. And again, I keep coming back to Ubuntu Ubuntu Ubuntu! We’re all living in, in these different, um, relationships to power. And all of that has to now be addressed. We really have to be in community with each other. I have to take care of myself, not just for my own health, but because other people’s health is now my responsibility, in a way that is real and felt, and not in an abstract way. So COVID kind of made us all “family” in that kind of way.

So what role do I play now or in the future? I believe I am a source of inspiration. Just thinking of the work that I did in curating the programming for Dance Studies Association Conference this past fall, which happened at Rutgers University in October. I created a different way of gathering, synthesizing and collaborating ideas, together. For example, we crafted an opening ceremony that included African libations and prayer and dancing. The intention was to bless the space so that we could participate in the conference as our whole selves.

Next question: Do I have a community? Yes! I would say, the Un/Commoning Pedagogies Collective is my community. It is a group of seven of us, all in academia. So, just to name who makes up the Un/Commoning Pedagogies Collective: it’s Dasha A. Chapman, J Dellecave, (myself) Adanna Kai Jones, Sharon Kivenko, Mario LaMothe, Lailye Weidman, and Queen Mecca Zabriskie. From newly tenured faculty to junior and contingent faculty, we are a cohort of artist-educators committed to centering dance, embodiment, and social justice via our pedagogical work. We really, really ground ourselves in that philosophy. We teach across the intersections of diverse fields: Anthropology, Sociology, Black and Africana Studies, Gender, Sexuality and Women’s Studies, Dance, and Performance Studies. We meet often to workshop what our teaching in academia can look like, especially when it comes to anti-racist pedagogy that centers the moving/thinking body. It’s important for us that the body is centered because the body is very smart, and the body has a lot of thoughts around things that we often don’t give a voice to. As a group, we meet, talk, and workshop problems that come up in our classes; we workshop ideas that we’re trying to implement into our classes. We think about how things land in/on our bodies and how we can make space in the classroom to talk about it. And not just our own bodies, but our students’ bodies as well. We also write together. Right now we are working on two co-authored articles that will be published next year (2022).

*Pauses*

Oh! And we also dance together. We create movement together, based on the ways this hard work lands on our very own bodies. Acknowledging the gnarly ways politics of race, gender, sexuality, nationalism, etc. get sewn into our muscles, drained into our blood, and pressed into our physical beings. By dancing together, we process all of these things and create new/different ways of being together and apart. I mean, being with these folks feels really powerful. They are an important support system for me, especially during these really mentally draining times. This community has been especially helpful in the moments when I need cheering. Like sometimes we do great things that for us might not feel so great. This community is so great at saying, “actually, let’s celebrate that!” Or, “We love you.” And, “We’ve got your back; you are doing great things.” So, yeah, these are my peoples, and being with them is a game-changer!

*Breathes-in. Breathes-out. Pauses. Takes in and accepts these moments of joy.*

Next Question: What do I think about the imagination? I think the imagination is paramount. I always tell my students that they don’t know what jobs are going to exist in the future. So they should lean into their passions and see where it takes them. Remember, before 2005, social media was not a thing. And now you have all these jobs in the field of social media. We are at a point where the world is dramatically changing. So instead of asking, what job should I train for; ask yourself, what are the skills do I have? And then, lean into that. Create so much energy behind it, that when you come out into the world, there are a bazillion things that you can do because you are so clear about who you BE. In fact, this allows you to be the one who even creates the new job that nobody else had even imagined. This can only happen if you really lean into your passions, your skills, and the belief that your contribution to this world matters. So, yeah, I believe that imagination is absolutely necessary!

Okay. I will pause here and then come back to this later. *Chuckles* Part two […] coming soon.

Adanna Jones is an Assistant Professor of Dance and Dance Studies in the Department of Theater and Dance at Bowdoin College. She received her Ph.D. in Critical Dance Studies at the University of California, Riverside, and her BFA in Dance from Mason Gross School of the Arts—Rutgers University. In general, she uses dance as a strategy to both generate critical research questions and grapple with the contentious embodied politics of blackness and anti-blackness across the Diaspora. Currently, her creative, research, and scholarly endeavors remain focused on Caribbean dance and identity politics within the Diaspora, paying particular focus to the rolling-hip dance known as winin’. 

7 Years

A Haunting Deadline, and Some Ideas for Continuing Forward Anyway

It was a weekday afternoon, early on in the almost three years working with Parsons Dance as first a development temp, then an office assistant, and finally the Programs Associate. I sat beside David Parsons in his office in Times Square, surrounded by the stale pink walls and and posters of some of the innumerable shows his company has performed over a more than 30-year history. It was around my third year in New York City, and consequently, the third year of leading my own company, Kizuna Dance. When I mentioned my company to him, I had no idea that David’s reply would haunt me for years. The way he saw it, most companies only last for seven years. Over that amount of time, the founders become jaded with the state of the arts and with the burden of constantly providing, or you fall out with the friends that were the company’s founding members or those friends move on to greener pastures (other more financially capable companies or other industries entirely, find themselves married, choose to go back to school, etc) as an existence as a struggling artist becomes less and less appealing, or perhaps the company’s management simply makes a decision that maintaining the company is no longer fiscally feasible. In the past couple of years, as the coronavirus tore through our beloved community, we can all think of companies, large and small, who have closed their doors or downsized considerably. 

My journey through the New York arts scene has taken many forms. I’ve been an arts administration intern and programs manager for multiple nonprofits, a front desk receptionist, a stage manager, a marketing associate, an adjunct professor and visiting lecturer in dance, and a dancer in touring companies. And, until recently, I’ve spent way too long as a restaurant server. The only entirely consistent part of my artistic career has been the management of my company, founded in 2014, which in 2021 has now reached that feared seven year benchmark. (Whether the 1.5 – 2 years that COVID shut everything down counts toward a company’s run time could be up for the debate, but based off how many places are so eager to jump in full force back into things, on paper those two years still count. How many times have you been asked by [peers, presenters, applications], “So how did you keep making art during the pandemic? How did your art change in that time as the world crumbled around you?)

As I’ve witnessed the dance scene change around me, even in the short time I’ve been in New York, the idea of the seven year timeline has continued to haunt me. This is mostly because it seems to actually be a deadline, by which companies (or their artistic directors) must find their work elevated from that of an emerging artist to that of a “mid-career”/otherwise nebulously titled artist. The definition of the latter being that the company has reached the invisible point at which its work becomes popular and more widely known, and most importantly, more consistently funded by prominent foundations. This achievement could be spearheaded by the artistic director’s receipt of prestigious awards (Bessie, Princess Grace, Doris Duke), sizable grant awards that increase a company’s organizational capacity enough to hire development staff, or just be a group of anonymous donors….. What drives me crazy — and I’m sure directors of smaller companies everywhere — is the idea that there’s a point at which your work is deemed worthy by some external force. Worthy of being seen on larger stages, worthy of having your art widely supported. 

It can be hard to keep your morale up. In this contemporary environment, where dancers are rightfully asking for more (read: what they deserve) than what they have been offered in recent years for their artistry, sweat, and time, independent / emerging / young directors of companies are facing and will be faced with the question that just grows more pressing each year: how the hell do we make this work? When those feelings of defeat combine with the harsh realities of the limits of what you can provide at any moment, how do you conquer that sense that you’ve just been running in place? Even as the demands on what it takes to sustain a company and the morale and artistry of those artists within it increases, my funding capabilities remain the same — if not less if I forgo a service industry job. Now imagine if I want to increase to two weekly rehearsals….What about that dream of rehearsing multiple days a week with your company, investing in a deep and extensive rehearsal process that creates something meaningful for those involved and consequently lasts for years, instead of creating “what you could” with the limited time and finances you had? 

How the hell does this work? Do we all wait patiently / compete internally / perform interpretative rain dances in our small apartments for some donor, institutional or individual, to come along and deem our work worthy of being funded? Do we kick the same $5 around amongst ourselves on Kickstarter — we give you $5 so your show can go up next month, you give it back to use for our show next year? 

Like I said, it can be hard to keep your morale up. I commend you if you’ve made it this far. The sentiments above are ones I shared with and heard from peers, mentees, and even mentors over the years. We all want the time to discover with the people we’re working with, to to experiment, to give dancers time to be curious and explore. I, for one, wouldn’t mind an office in Times Square either. 

So, where do we go from here? 

I have no idea. Hit me up if you do. 

I would argue though that these seven years have actually been a necessary development time, instead of a deadline. It can, for some, take that long or longer to understand and build up to the ideas and projects that will hold your interest. For me, who started a company just a couple of days after graduating college, these seven years have been a lot of bumbling in the dark. While you fumble around, you often hear suggestions like, “trust your gut”, “believe in the process,” or “your time will come”. But I know you do and know all that already, and despite how much that does ring true, it can be frustrating to hear at times. So, here are some more concrete ideas for other emerging companies/choreographers for where you might go from here, as you envision from afar, approach, or pass your seven year mark. These are some things that have enabled me, even as a self-funded company, to begin to provide more for my collaborators:

The Classic: Focus on Teaching

I’ve certainly been teaching consistently before and throughout the pandemic, setting work and teaching masterclasses virtually and in-person. Teaching as an adjunct lecturer or spending a semester creating a work for college students can be an incredibly fruitful time that offers you a chance to explain your craft and aesthetic to students with very different training or backgrounds. For week- or two-long residencies, you can often receive a fair stipend, though many colleges still send checks out after residencies end which can take time to receive, so it still requires being very clear on payment dates and budgeting on your end. 

As you develop more works capable of being toured, having confidence in your teaching ability will make you just that much more marketable as a choreographer. I have often traveled to a college by myself to teach on a smaller scale, and then used that as a jumping off point for the same college to sponsor a residency for the full company a year or two later. 

I’ll add a note here for my fellow BIPOC artists, for when you’re asked to make that work about racial justice on a group of white students: you’re under no obligation to make those trauma porn works for their fall dance concerts, unless you choose to engage with those concepts. I would go so far as to say my teaching engagements doubled as things turned virtual earlier in the pandemic. While I’m grateful, it’s hard to ignore that as a Black male artist, the sudden increase in virtual and in-person engagements directly correlated to the number of Black bodies being shown lifeless on the news at that time. That desire by institutions to “make good”  will last in some areas, and in others, it’ll be another fad that will slip away. Make the art that heals you. 

The Often Overlooked: The Old College Try

I often recommend for choreographers to reach out to their alma maters to schedule residencies and performances. Besides the obvious connection you have there, working the college circuit (especially in the Tri-state area) has proven to be an incredible way to subsidize the cost of creating and rehearsing work in New York (though this could be applied anywhere). For example, a weeklong residency at a college might include daily rehearsals, a few masterclasses, and a culminating performance. While at the residency, the college is supporting the company by covering housing, food, and teaching / performance fees. Make sure you pay yourself in the fee requirements you give to colleges! 

College and universities often plan far ahead so that departments have time to apply for funding from various sources both on campus and off, so it’s best to reach out way in advance. For example, I’m talking with colleges about Fall 2022 and Spring 2023 right now. This also gives you a chance to book your dancers far in advance, and have ample time to plan the logistics of travel. 

The Basic: Solo Shows

Oftentimes, as young choreographers, I feel like we are just trying to get the piece we’re working on off the ground, out of our imaginations, and onto physical bodies. If you’ve been creating for a couple of years, you might have a few different works under your belt. Why not string those works together to create a full evening (anywhere from 40 min to 1hr 30min)? For colleges with larger theaters, and for presenters, it’s great to have an option for an evening-length solo show on deck. You don’t have to maintain a roster of dancers who know all these works at all times if that’s not what you’re interested in as a maker, but when that opportunity presents itself, or you have that elevator conversation with just the right person, it’s good to know what you could present. Combine this with the educational options from tip #1 and you’ve got yourself a full artistic package ready and primed for the college circuits. 

The Constant Challenge for Dancers: Just Ask

Continue to ask for what you deserve – as a dancer, choreographer, whatever. Not all young choreographers will be able to give you everything you want, but the best ones will keep trying to provide in every possible way. 

The Constant Challenge for Choreographers: Just Tell

Be upfront with what you can offer, and when. Be honest with yourself and your crew about what you can handle. 

The Act of Rebellion: Curation

Resist the urge to say yes to everything (it’s hard, I know) and challenge yourself to really curate your artistic endeavors, whether they be commissions, performances, or other activities. Practice saying no. Practice saying “not now, but let’s try for later”.

The Way of Hey: Get into CRM

Most smaller companies won’t have a CRM (customer relations management) database like Salesforce under their belt, or have any staff to help track the people you meet, receive donations from, etc. So it falls to you. I keep a fairly simple excel spreadsheet that I update every couple of weeks with names, email addresses, titles, and relationship to me or the company (ex: John Johnson / john@gmail.com / Presenter / John’s Theater / Met at APAP 2021). This isn’t for every single person you meet, just for the ones you feel it’s important for you to remember. The next time you find yourself out of town, check the list and see who’s in your area. Invite them to the show you’re presenting or to coffee. Just being able to remember the people you’ve interacted with and why can go a long way, as we know how small the dance world is. 

The Gateway 501c3: Get a Fiscal Sponsor

Obtaining a fiscal sponsor means a larger nonprofit organization offers you / your company / your specific project its legal and tax-exempt status. For smaller companies, this means you can apply for some larger grants that might require being a full 501(c)3 nonprofit through the fiscal sponsor. You can also receive donations through them, and not only will the money stay in your account with them (separate from your personal funds), it will also be tax deductible as a result of the fiscal sponsor’s full nonprofit status. I, personally, have been with Fractured Atlas for years, but The Field, New York Foundation for the Arts, or another nonprofit that is familiar with your work would also be viable options. 

The Underestimated: Help the Homies

Create opportunities for each other. I often tell students in college talkbacks that even though I apply for a whole range of things, I get the most opportunities from my peers — and from their peers. Looking up the dance funding gods is all great and good, but it’s your peers who will eventually be deciding factors in festival circuits, or chairs of college dance programs, or maybe even the future heads of foundations. 

How can you help? It doesn’t always have to be hiring them for a show or connecting them to a presenter. Send applications for festivals or funding to people that work for them. See a festival application for female-identifying artists and you identify as male? Send it to people in your rolodex who might be interested. It takes two seconds to forward an email. You might even have others send things your way from time to time. 

The Financially Responsible: Keep it Small 

If you’re looking to start a company — or emerging from the pandemic and beginning to return to making work — you can always start small. When I moved to the city, I had a company of five dancers in less than a week — before I even had a steady place to live. Soon I had eight dancers in the company, and it made the stress of coordinating, paying, and rehearsing all those people so much greater, as a choreographer with limited experience and understanding of the dance scene I was joining. Like I said earlier, there was just a lot of bumbling my way through. These days, I’d recommend starting small, if that’s what you can manage. Work with two dancers – or one. Create that magical duet or solo that’s easy to tour — you can apply to international or out-of-state gigs and just take yourself. That’s definitely a way of introducing yourself to different communities that could commission your company later. I performed two solos at a festival in the UK before they finally brought the entire company out. 

The Well-Known: Squad Up

Create a team of supporters and constructive challengers around you. It’s a common suggestion, but take it from someone who, for many years, prided himself on never asking for help. Don’t do that yourself. My advisory board — two people I’ve known for years, who work in the arts and in nonprofits, and have seen the company grow from a Facebook page with no likes — have opened some of the most amazing doors for the company over the last few years. Having mentors in this field is an incredible thing. If there’s someone you have connected with — a senior thesis adviser, for example — ask them to consistently review your work and offer their constructive criticism. Take them to coffee and ask about their views on the dance world as they were coming up and how they may have changed. Have friends outside of the arts review your grant and performance applications. Have them come see your show and tell you what they saw and felt. 

I’ll be the first to admit that even after all this time, I don’t have many solutions to the 7 Year Deadline. But isn’t it strange how dancers can feel so connected, but choreographers can feel so distant from each other? I think it’s important for other choreographers who are freefalling alongside me in this “emerging” stage of our careers that we admit our frustrations, share our victories, and realize that we’re not alone. When you’re racing to finish that application 15 minutes before it’s midnight closing time, know you’re not alone in this struggle. 

As I approach this seven year mark for my company, I am trying to look forward to a brighter future. I know I am not alone when I say I continue to give every part of myself to the dream of my company’s success. I have encountered untold hardships under the myth of the “struggling artist”. While I have met some of the best people and artists I know, I’ve also made friendship-shattering decisions in the name of the company’s growth. I’ve left jobs that demanded allegiance to their schedule over my company’s rehearsals. If you’re reading this and thinking, “Yeah, me too”, then I hope there’s a small bit of solace in the fact that it’s not just you chasing the elusive idea of a fully fledged company. I hope, in thinking about where we all go from here, that you remember that you are deserving and that your artistic voice is as beautiful as it is valid. Your success is my success is our success. 

Cameron McKinney, the Artistic Director of Kizuna Dance, is a New York City-based choreographer and educator. He was recently selected as a 2019-20 U.S.-Japan Friendship Commission Creative Artist Fellow to collaborate with renowned Japanese choreographer Toru Shimazaki and present work in showcases alongside the 2020/2021 Tokyo Olympic Games. He was a 2020 Choreographic Fellow at The School at Jacob’s Pillow, a 2018 Asian Cultural Council Individual Grantee, and a 2017-18 Alvin Ailey Foundation New Directions Lab Fellow. He has presented work in fifteen states and in Japan, Mexico, France, and the UK. His commissions include twice from the Joffrey Ballet School, twice from the Let’s Dance International Frontiers Festival, The Dance Gallery Festival, LIU Brooklyn, CREATE:ART, and SUNY Brockport, among numerous others. He is currently on faculty at Gibney Dance, and has taught for festivals nationally and internationally. Through Kizuna Dance’s Culture Commissions program, he directly supports emerging artists through commissions for new works created through research-oriented explorations into the Japanese culture. 

 

Email: info@cameronmckinneydance.com