Making Dailiness

Revisiting Susan Rethorst--> An invitation to practice.

I am re-reading A Choreographic Mind, Autobodygraphical Writings by Susan Rethorst. This book was introduced to me by Angie Hauser in a composition course in grad school. At that time, I admit I was only reading or hunting for things that overtly pertained to my thesis work. So I dog-eared this passage in hopes that I would come back to it. Now, as I read without any directive other than the pure pleasure of absorbing another's words on making, I am struck by this description of her experience in the world. It’s like looking into a mirror. A moment of feeling articulated in such a way is both comforting and exposing.

“I thought that everyone must share similar sorts of interior landscape. I assumed that everybody was looking at how people moved and drawing conclusions from it; that everybody was reading everybody, and probably with dead-on acumen, certainly seeing through me. I felt over-exposed, see-through, and grew up thinking that each of us was much more defenseless than we in fact are. That our intentions and passions and deceits – our nature – were fairly transparent through how we sit and stand and walk. That through movement, we revealed ourselves for all the world to see.

This, too, attributed and reinforced my shyness. I was transparent (so I thought) and thus, already so on view that there was little need to explain myself. It was excruciating to feel so revealed in company; to feel others so revealed in company. I lived in a world of people walking around with no emotional clothes on. I shuddered with shame for me, and for everybody and found comfort in solitude.”

-Susan Rethorst, A Choreographic Mind, Autobodygraphical Writings

I have always been an extremely sensitive, emotional person and often felt alone in my hyper-perceptivity. I have put effort into toning it down, thickening my skin, or building a mask to protect the parts of myself that felt overly exposed—the parts I assumed everyone could easily see, just as I could seemingly peer into the layers of others through their posture, the orientation of their bodies in space, and the way energy moves through and around them.I have felt the need and importance to learn to grant others privacy from what was so obvious to me.

Like Rethorst, I have wondered whether this way of being is innate, a fundamental part of me, or something I learned over time. I am still not sure, but as I reckon with a life lived largely outside of myself, I continuously and diligently turn my attention inward, focusing on the layer beneath my own skin—not in an overly 'self-conscious' way, but more in an 'embodied' and self-possessed manner. For some, I imagine this is a more innate way of being; for me, it is new and requires effort.

In my photography, I have found freedom and permission in this kind of perception. The lens offers a container for consent—a safe, agreed-upon space for me to look, perceive, document, create, and return—to mirror. With a camera in hand, this looking is comfortable and allowed. I get invited to share in this ease with the person I am photographing. To be perceived is a brave thing. To be perceived in a way that is collecting or memorializing a moment is an even braver thing to do. But it doesn't have to be hard or awkward; it can be rewarding and generative.

I feel safe in saying Rethorst struck a balance in her own making practice—accessing and utilizing her superpower, turning it into a daily practice, or as she calls it, “daily-ness.” Under the direction of one of her professors, she became practiced in making a dance every single day—to build a relationship with the idea of a creative, generative practice that was less about its preciousness and more about the act of making, no matter the magnitude, in fact, in search of the simplicity of the task.

While I am not making dances every day (yet!), I am making it a point to come to my physical practice daily. I do something that brings my attention and focus to sensing from the inside out. I feel my attention dive into the underlayers of my bones, organs, breath, and muscular system. I feel my body, my organism, move through space. I ask questions like, “What tone and quality am I bringing to the day?” “What is the texture of my skin, my heart, my nervous system?” “Am I here, or is my attention far away?” “What is around me?” “How am I orienting in space?” and, most importantly, “How does this translate to, or live in, my body?” There is a discipline to this practice, as it could easily fall away and be the last thing on my list. It is never the same thing twice and sometimes more tuned and fulfilling than others. I think being in this ebb and flow is part of the point, similar to having a daily writing, gratitude, or musical practice.

I write about all of this as a call to myself to transmute something that I have historically been ashamed of or afraid of—something that has even caused trouble in my relationships, both intimate and otherwise—into a practice that is generative. To step into and re-commit to a practice and act of authenticity and making, and to bring this part of myself back into the light. I know there are all sorts of different daily practices, but as I write here and now, I re-commit to "Dailiness" practice of making. If this is something you are interested in, send me a wink or a nod, and we can do it together.

As a last little nugget, I turn back in time and reflect on my previous works and how this thinking was already present in my making. Here is a link to my thesis work Good Grief: https://vimeo.com/annamargretmaynard—if you want to look with me.

I feel a growing desire to be in a making process again with others, I aspire to make new work in the very near future. So, if anyone reading this happens to be interested in embarking on an adventure of dailiness, dance practice, movement, performance, process, improvisation, gesture, storytelling, or meaning-making… let’s go!

thank you for your time today.

more magic always,

anna