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Alonzo King,
NP: Was Stanley Williams an influential teacher? AK: I think that every person who I have ever met has been my teacher; every single person; and it may not be from what they did in their class, but it was who they were as a person. I saw something in them that I knew that I did not want to be, or something that I did want to be. This idea of class, or separation—I don't see it that way. I see it as me attempting to get closer to me and to feel close to other people in every single thing that I do. And that if I weren't doing dance, it would be something else with that same objective: How do I become self-realized? How do I become actualized? How do I avoid pain and suffering and find ever new joy? How do I receive information from every experience that I'm in? And so when I mention Bella Lewitzky — why she moved me — was because of her devotion and dedication to the art — her huge devotion and dedication to the art. The way she lived her life, that she got up at five a.m. every morning; that she had a husband who loved her, which told me about her; that she wouldn't have a man with her who did not treat her like that; the way that she was selfless in her choices. Who she was educated me. There were teachers who were famous, but largely they were snotty, and taught ballet like it was a secret. And I thought, I don't want to be like that. But that was information. And so regardless of what their names were, I was asking ‘Is this true?’ ‘Does this make sense?’ I think one thing that was helpful for me was that I've always had a huge respect for people, but also tested everything. I would chew it, masticate it. Is this fake gold or is this real gold? I can't accept it just because this person has said it. I'll try it, but I need to ruminate and ask, Will it stand up? I don't think there's anything that can't inform you. And that can't be separate from you making your art. It cannot be exclusionary. And I look at everybody as some kind of artist. Most of the time we're taught that an artist is somebody who's separate, exclusive—and it's crap. Everybody, if they're really involved in something, whether it's raising children or cooking food, is some kind of artist. If you're really dedicated to something, and if you really give yourself to it, you learn actually about everything else. Once you key into one thing, deeply, it will teach you about everything else. That's why I've had farmers come to a ballet and really get it. It was interesting to me when I was in India. I was in the Himalayas — just being there — and all of a sudden I could feel the season, I could feel what would happen at five — that I would get much colder before dawn came. That sound was so loud because everything was so quiet. And I felt a connection. And again that was a connection. I felt a connection with the planet. In city life, we are disconnected from that kind of communication, and how ripped off we are. That same experience, of course, someone could find in rural America. But it was so alarming to me, how we're separate from all that repetitive information and how it humbles us and lets us know, ‘You're really tiny.’ What I like about dancers, what I love about the art, are the things that I admire in people. If there's naturalness in dancing, if there is conviction, if there is a sense of humor, if there is someone who's brave, if someone is daring—character is what you're really looking at. So from a Mahatma Gandhi to someone no one knows in the street—this is what is telling me how to construct ballets; telling me what to refer to when I'm examining work, to see if it's real or not. |
 The People of the Forest. Photo courtesy of Marty Sohl. |
NP: When and how does a dance begin for you? AK: I like to say that I don't think a dance ever begins for me. Some questions I just don't know how to answer. I don't think a dance ever begins for me. But, in trying to address that question, I think that everybody in the world has creativity in them. And it usually begins with having a vision in your head, and that becomes the blueprint. And then you see it, and you ask, ‘How do I take that from the vision and put it into the material world.’ It's like having a dream house. Do you see your dream house on the ocean? Some people see it in the forest. Some people see it way on the top of a huge hill with a view. Some people see it underground. So you start with the place, where it is. Construction... It's what you see in your head. And you refer to that. And then you build it. NP: When you commission a score, what's the process? What kind of requests do you make of your collaborator? First of all I want to find out if it's a brilliant musician who has really given themselves to music because then I know it's on a high level. And then we can be talking the realm of ideas. And then I can ask the musician, What are you interested in? And what have you got? And then I can talk about the things that I'm interested in. And then we start to put things out, little snatches. Then I'll say, can you give me something rhythmic, or that's too intellectual, can you give me something more heartfelt? It's like preparing a meal. I think also it's a mistake to come in over planned. For example, working with Zakir Hussain. I was with him one day in his house and I heard him kind of humming around, and I said, Oh my god, you have a beautiful voice. And I said, Would you sing in the concert? And he said, I've never sung before. And I said, It would be so great if you would sing, And he did. And that was his premiere as a singer. [A.K. describes his career development from early on, when dances used to come to him in dreams, to later, when it became more like work.] There are a million different approaches. There's always a way. I want to do the work. There's also a part of committing to a relationship when it goes dry; it's supposed to go dry—dryness is a test. Every time I get stuck, what it's saying to me, it says, Give more. It's telling you, there's more, there's always more. The tree doesn't get shaken that doesn't have apples. When you really devote to something, it reveals secrets. When you've been working for a long time you realize, you're not making anything, you're discovering, you're discovering. You can't feel authorship. It really was there and you found it because you had committed the time. Most of the art existing in the world is anonymous — the signatures and bows at the end, what are they really? |