To be honest, I really, really dislike when people update their Facebook and Twitter statuses constantly.
Even in a choice career that favours the constant updating of social media (which I have no problem doing under a company account, that's the job) I have found it hard to share my work with others over the medium.
Every once in awhile, I would throw up a blog post or reporter piece for some people to actually see, instead of me constantly telling, what I was doing.
Things have changed. I'm addicted - especially when I'm generating fresh content every day.
Sorry in advance.
That's why I have created my profession Facebook page to share my latest work, thoughts, videos, et cetera on.
I find myself updating constantly, hope that's okay!
And I now take it all back. I'm now a part of the constant-update club. Le sigh.
Check out my latest piece below, it will be printed in tomorrow's copy of The Ryersonian.
All I can remember are the lights. White, bright, hot lights beat down from above and cause sweat droplets to form and drip down my spine. There was complete silence in the theatre; the audience held their breath, waiting for my next move.
“Okay Portia, get up, continue with your solo,” my brain said. Using all the energy I could muster, I tried to move my legs, but they were defiant and remained crumpled beneath me. Moments before, I had leaped into a grande jeté (a split leap) — a routine move I had been practising my entire dance career.
The next thing I knew, a pair of hands picked me up and carried my limp body off the stage. The show couldn’t go on.
As a dancer, I have spent my entire life in control of everything I do. After kinder-dance at age four, I started a real ballet boot camp, where a level of discipline and professionalism is expected by age 10. I dabbled in the competitive dance world, performing across California and British Columbia throughout my teens. In high school, I gave up a lot of my social life to be an apprentice to a professional modern dance company.
In a way, my attitude echoes the main character of last year’s psychological thriller, Black Swan. The movie is a young dancer who becomes so dedicated to her art that she literally goes insane.
In any artistic discipline, there is a level of insanity which occurs and takes over as you fall deeper into your craft.
When my knee was injured four years ago, my mentality shifted.
I felt my body rebelling against me. I thought my life was over — that my worst fear had come true. Walking without my knee brace was next to impossible. Prom was in two weeks. I was lucky to have worn a long dress so no one could see it.
But, what if I couldn’t dance again?
I couldn’t let that happen. I learned to walk without assistance (sometimes looking like a toddler), attended countless sports rehabilitation sessions and iced, iced, iced that knee.
A year later, without surgery, I was ready. I began to teach, choreograph and dance in small productions.
One day I was finally faced with trying a grande jeté again. I was terrified — did I really want to do the leap that sidetracked my life?
In Black Swan, a choreographer tells his dancers, “Perfection is not just about control. It’s also about letting go. Surprise yourself so you can surprise the audience.”
I took a breath, ran and leaped. I did it. I did my split leap, and I landed it properly, the way I wish I had when I fell. This time, landing it was not just because of practice, but rather because of the strength I gained during my injury.
What I first thought might be the end of my dance career was actually the beginning.
Today I am dancing with a company in Toronto, auditioning and performing as much as possible and have choreographed many pieces that will première in Calgary and Vancouver this spring.
There is a life after an injury — you have to seek it out for yourself.
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