I think I became a better choreographer by working, as a dancer, with lots of choreographers. It definitely taught me how to speak to people, that it’s important to be really clear with my words. A choreographer would say something like, “Well, if you could sort of do this” — there was so much vagueness, which led to insecurity. When I’m leading the room now, I try to say, “I want you to” — to be very specific and direct.
From the outside, you appear certain of your vision as a choreographer and director — your “I want you to” seems very clear. Is it?
Absolutely not. But I believe that it’s OK to fake it a little bit. And by “fake it” I mean, maybe I just need to say a thing, trusting that it’s right, and then later come around to figuring out why it’s right. Or, if I really don’t know, one of my lines is, “I know no thing.” That’s Book of Hope, Verse 25: “I know no thing.” [laughing] I’m just going to let my heart say some things, and we’ll see if they turn into facts.
When did you start writing?
Please laugh at this: The first time I realized I had words in my head that I needed to get out, I was in an airport bathroom. This was maybe in my first year at Ailey. I had to rummage in my purse for a pen, right there in the stall, and write everything down. I was afraid it’d go away. Then when I read it, it had a rhythm to it. And so I kept writing.
How do you think about the relationship between dance and language?
I think movement naturally intertwines with words. What I’ve realized is that the cadence of my choreography matches the way that I speak.
When a preacher points at you from the pulpit, when they clap their hands to emphasize a point, it’s because they are living the words they’re saying. Why can’t an arabesque serve the same purpose? Whatever the sound is, music or speech, I like to see it represented in the body of the dancer. I want to bring it right into your lap.