CRIT ME BABY, ONE MORE TIME

Hungry Like The Wolf

My boyfriend has been taking me to a lot of dance performances recently—two in the last two weeks, and the New York City Ballet in January. I especially love Modern Dance. It’s one of my big regrets that I studied at Bennington College -a “birthplace” of Modern Dance- and I never took a movement class.

This does not make me a dance critic. Yet, lately, I find myself constructing my critique as the piece evolves. I rush out of the performance to get away from other people and then chew over the performance in my boyfriend’s ear.

“I liked it.” This is what Tim says. Or last night, “that was weird.”

I am simultaneously deflated and enraged. I wanted to throw the performance on the table like a fresh piece of meat and go at it like a pack of hungry wolves—like my MFA class.

And Tim wanted to appreciate it or laugh at it. It seems that while sharpening my talons in the classroom, I’ve forgotten how to look and appreciate. Not that being critical is a bad thing—it’s good to explore my tastes and my morals—but passing judgment constantly just made me judgmental. And probably not that fun to look at art with.

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