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My dancing is not an attempt to interpret life in the literary sense. It is an affirmation of life through movement.
It was an unwritten law that black comics were not permitted to work white nightclubs. You could sing and you could dance, but you couldn't stand flat-footed and talk; that was a no-no.
Somebody just gave me a shower radio. Thanks a lot. Do you really want music in the shower? I guess there's no better place to dance than a slick surface next to a glass door.
I'd go dance at talent shows, and because I was young I had the upper hand on a lot of other crews. People thought it was cute. I used that to my advantage.
Education in the art of dance is education of the whole man − his physical, mental and emotional natures are disciplined and nourished simultaneously in dance.
All writers, musicians, artists, choreographers/dancers, etc., work with the stuff of their experiences. It's the translation of it, the conversion of it, the shaping of it that makes for the drama.
You have to believe there's something at the other side. And you have to have faith in yourself. You have to think that you have the tools to accomplish it.
Sing in the shower. Dance to the radio. Tell stories. Write a poem to a friend, even a lousy poem. Do it as well as you possibly can. You will get an enormous reward. You will have created something.
We have sought for firm ground and found none. The deeper we penetrate, the more restless becomes the universe; all is rushing about and vibrating in a wild dance.
I'd get sent home from the first audition of So You Think You Can Dance. My dancing is sort of controlled spasms. I fully accept it might appear ridiculous. But it's passionate!
They dined on mince, and slices of quince, Which they ate with a runcible spoon; And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand, They danced by the light of the moon.
On many occasions when I am dancing I've felt touched by something sacred. In those moments, I felt my spirit soar and become one with everything that exists !
Spring, the sweet spring, is the year's pleasant king; Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring, Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing. Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!