(Not tango; but it may amuse.)
Some time ago ago I was invited to take part in a project with an experimental choreographer working with an over 50’s dance group. Something to do with a Nottingham Festival my daughter, Anna, had a hand in promoting. She denies putting my name forward as a vict…, sorry, volunteer, but I’m not totally convinced. I suspect she still holds a grudge from her wedding day. But I’d always understood that it was part of the role of the father of the bride to dance in an embarassing fashion at the reception…
Anyway, it sounded like it might be fun so I decided to give it a go. Although I was a little put off by the accompanying circular which addressed me as ‘Dear Mature Mover’.
It turned out to be interesting, if not particularly challenging (I’m talking physically, rather than emotionally… artistically? I reserve judgement. Though my naffometer did start to twitch on occasions.) There were about twelve women and two men. And I did get the impression that the other guy was there after much spousal arm-twisting.
While chatting before we started the choreographer suggested at one point that, as the performance was to take place in a church, I could play the part of God (I think it was the beard that gave her the idea, rather than any innate gravitas). I persuaded her that this was perhaps not a good idea; although I may ‘move in mysterious ways’ when I’m dancing I couldn’t really see myself as more than a fairly minor deity.
So we spent the day workshopping various ideas and waving our arms around a lot (also known as exploring the space). We ended up with a thirty-minute series of linked performance pieces (lots more arm waving and graceful-ish gentle movements, doubtless in deference to our maturity). Which were suprisingly well received by an audience composed largely of friends and relatives of the participants and several members of the town council somewhat warily (or wearily?) supporting the arts.