dancers - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The dancers move like water transformed by music, flowing in graceful arcs, limbs in constant motion, painting a picture sound alone can never achieve. They bring a wordless interpretation of the beats, of the soft strings, in a way the audience can understand no matter what language they speak. In that way their dance isn't simply movement, but the most honest form of communication I know. Isn't that how we humans are, saying what we think we ought but showing how we truly feel in our art?
When I told people I was a dancer they would always react in one of two ways, either they'd wrinkle their nose and ruffle their eyebrows in disgust thinking that I really meant some type of stripper or they would widen their eyes a plaster on a strange cheshire cat smile thinking I really meant some type of stripper. I knew that's all they ever saw. They couldn't see the old wooden floors and how sometimes if you did your pirouettes too fast they'd cut up the balls of your feet or how no matter how tightly you pull up your hair it would some how always end up in this mutated half ponytail. Those people didn't know that in that dance room mirrors surrounded you. They couldn't see how many times I had fallen before I had landed my turn sequence. They couldn't see.
The girls filed into the room, clad in bells and silk. Their luxurious skirts swam about their slender feet and the scanty tops jingled softly with each slight movement. As the music began, so did the dancers. With each swaying movement of their hips, with each alluring twist of their body, they told a story. Their story was one of entrapment yet beauty, bringing the audience to tears. No one knew of the horrors the young girls had endured, no one knew this was not their desired path in life. All the crowd saw was beauty as they gracefully twirled around each other, seductively moving their torsos.
Moving like ribbons in the wind, they were timeless. Elegance at its finest and pain in its true form; a dancer is a daughter of passion and an admirer of agony. They float and twist weightlessly across the room, poised and balanced like they were made of silk.
From up here in the high seats Lara looks like she's floating more than anything, like she twirls without effort in a serenity the audience craves. They come to see the dancers, to see what a human can really achieve, looking for reassurance that we are beautiful inside and not the monsters the media insists we are. Like the other dancers, Lara lives for her art and her body bares the scars and bunions as well as muscles as strong as any weightlifter. It takes great strength to make such activity as graceful as she does, total exertion with a smile that extends all the way to the eyes. I could read a thousand books and take in less than she compacts into one performance.
The dancers brought something to the surface, an emotion, a spark of hope that was seditious in those times. Without speaking a word they conjured what the audience felt underneath, bringing a unity of mind the politicians could only dream of. In their movements were the foundations of a rebellion the state believed it had extinguished. These men and women of the stage were only the entertainment, cheap meat too stupid to make it in the "real world." They were dreamers who danced on stage by day and slept in sack cloth by night, their feet deformed and limbs stiffened from exertion.
It had been illegal for decades for a woman to dance. Dancers had to be male and the style as romantic as taking a chainsaw to a animal carcass. It was sinful they said, lustful. Leila understood all the rules, she obeyed them all without questioning... except the dancing ban. In the cool of the orchards when the workers had gone home she leapt and twirled for her audience of sun and earth. Her only applause was the soft susurration of the leaves. By the time she was sixteen she was breathtaking, as if the grace of the angels burst from her soul into her limbs, guiding her to unheard music. Over the years her secret had been discovered by a few local boys who watched unseen from the tall grass at the edge of the meadow, all of them in love with Leila...
Grace had been such a fidgety child, never still for her mathematics or writing practice. Chairs were her nemesis, pencils the bane of her existence. She had to move; she needed to move. One day the school principal called her mother in to suggest a "different" school for Grace, one for less academic girls. Her mother knew when to cut her losses and signed her daughter up for Dancer's Academy. Grace thrived, at last she could move and twirl. It was as if she'd been born with a soul too large for her body and expressive dance was the only way she could release the pressure. Her new principal saw her genius but never let on, too much too soon could make her arrogant. Above all Grace needed to know who she was, feel the pleasure of pure love of performance in her veins before her head was turned with the numerous opportunities dancers of her calibre were offered almost daily.
The dancers moved slowly through the fog like impossible silhouettes, tumbling more like fall leaves than human forms. It was ballet, but not in traditional attire; instead each body was clad only in charcoal grey. With the music they cast a sense of unease, a tension in the audience, a craving for the faster movements to come.
The dancers could never be captured by a simple photograph, any snapshot in time could never be enough to capture what their moving forms conveyed. They were joy and laughter, love and grace, emotions given a physical form. They were honesty clad in bright silk, their art cutting a path right to Alice's heart.