The Center Of The Stage Is Where

Dancing Appears Glamorous, Easy, Delightful. But The Path To Paradise Of The Achievement Is Not Easier Than Any Other. There Is Fatigue So Great That The Body Cries, Even In Its Sleep. There Are Times Of Complete Frustration, There Are Daily Small Deaths.

You See, When Weaving A Blanket, An Indian Woman Leaves A Flaw In The Weaving Of That Blanket To Let The Soul Out.

No Artist Is Pleased. There Is No Satisfaction Whatever At Any Time. There Is Only A Strange, Divine Dissatisfaction, A Blessed Unrest That Keeps Us Marching And Makes Us More Alive Than The Others.

The Body Is A Sacred Garment.

I Am Certain That Movement Never Lies. There Is Only One Law Of Posture I Have Been Able To Discover - The Perpendicular Line Connecting Heaven And Earth.