An excellent lengthy feature on the GIMP dance troupe from
The AP. Here's
The AP's video that accompanies the print story.
NEW YORK — An hour before the curtain rises, the choreographer stands alone on stage, nervously gazing at the rows of empty seats.
Heidi Latsky is about to unveil the boldest, most important performance of her life, a performance so fearless, so utterly different from anything she has ever done.
And she is tortured by questions and doubts.
Will audiences understand her vision, and that of the unique performers they are about to see? Or will they find it too shocking, too disconcerting, too weird?
What will they think of the beautiful young woman with the porcelain skin, whose exposed shoulder-blade quivers in a solo that spotlights her missing left arm, or the raw athleticism of another performer whose shortened, twisted arm is groped by her able-bodied suitor in a frenzied, erotic courtship that consumes the center stage?
Will they applaud, or recoil?
Will they even show up?
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All her life, Latsky has been drawn to different bodies and forms. She sees the way someone moves, the shape of their limbs, long before she notices their personality.
The Canadian-born Latsky, whose restless energy makes her seem younger than her 51 years, is best known as a choreographer and one-time principal dancer with the Bill T. Jones/Arnie Zane company. Her skill and stage presence have won national acclaim. But until 2006, when she received an unusual commission to compose a piece for a young woman with no fingers and no lower legs, Latsky had never worked with disabled performers.
What began as a huge leap of faith gradually evolved into a performance, and a troupe.
And a name: "GIMP," Latsky says, "is about shattering perceptions, about provoking people to think, really think, about body image and beauty and disability and dance."
But GIMP has become far more. Over the past two years, it has evolved into a movement, a mission almost, a way of getting the world to look at itself a bit differently.
And it has become the story of an unlikely cast of characters drawn together by the choreographer who became their leader almost by accident.
Latsky's energy and enthusiasm are infectious. Her toughness is legendary. Dancers say no one pushes them harder, physically and emotionally, forcing them to mine something deep within themselves, to confront their most intimate vulnerabilities and channel them into dance.
But how could Latsky demand faster turns from someone without legs? How could she ask people who had spent their entire lives controlling how they moved to relinquish that control?
In the end, Latsky said, the work became as much about trust as about dance: trust that they could mix two worlds — dance and disability, able-bodied and disabled — and forge a performance powerful enough to showcase the beauty of both universes, and transcend them.
Her first recruit was a lanky, grinning 40-year-old, with long, stiff legs and a lurching gait that captivated Latsky the moment she saw it.
Lawrence Carter-Long had never considered his atrophied legs to be anything but a disability, a frustrating, often painful distraction from the high-energy pursuits of his life. Born with cerebral palsy, Carter-Long has always been a voice for the disabled. As a child in Indiana, he was a poster boy for the United Fund — the adorable towheaded kid in leg braces beaming from billboards and buses. As an adult, he has served an outspoken and eloquent advocate for the Disabilities Network of New York City.
Carter-Long has always relied on his strengths — his wit, charm, good looks — to compensate for the fact that he doesn't walk like everyone else and falling is part of his life.
Even in his dreams, he never imagined himself as a dancer.
And then, at a performance in 2007, Carter-Long met a tiny woman who believes in big dreams, who saw a face that reminded her of Nureyev and a gait that was, in its own way, as extraordinary as the famed dancers leaps.
"I think your gait is beautiful," Latsky told a stunned Carter-Long. "I want to create a dance around the way you walk."
The early rehearsals were grueling. His limbs ached. His feet bled. He fell constantly. But Carter-Long's confidence and strength grew. And over time, his body changed — as did his gait.
Beautiful, Latsky would exclaim. And Carter-Long felt it too, a sense of pride in his newfound gracefulness, of embracing his walk in a way that had never occurred to him before.
Jeffrey Freeze, a principal dancer in Latsky's company, could see it too. Carter-Long was tapping into the kind of raw emotional honesty that Latsky had long urged Freeze to strive for.
At 39, Freeze is a technically brilliant dancer whose feet seem to fly across the stage, and whose good-natured exhibitionism fills rehearsals with humor and warmth. If a dancer is having a rough day, physically or emotionally, Freeze will invariably be the first to notice, and to comfort — with a joke or a hug or maybe a cupcake.
The native Tennessean has danced all over the world, on Broadway, in movies. But when Freeze began jauntily trotting beside Carter-Long in rehearsal one day, his dancing life changed forever.
Watching them, Latsky had a vision.
What if she created a duet for the two men — one that highlighted their different walks. She knew the terror Carter-Long would feel paired beside Freeze's virtuosity. But Freeze would be equally unnerved by having to slow down, by being forced to find something more than just another dazzling turn. The tension would inspire the dance.
Slowly, awkwardly, they started rehearsing together. Over weeks and months a duet called "Two Men Walking" was born, in which Freeze soars and struts while Carter-Long stalks after him, at one point grabbing him, forcing him to move at a different pace.
Are they brothers, or alter egos? Do they love each other, or is it hate?
It is left to the audience to decide.
"Faster, stronger, riskier," Latsky urged at rehearsals, even as she marveled at the dynamic that was evolving along with the dance.
And then, almost overnight, the dynamic changed. Having found a new strength in his limbs, Carter-Long also found a new dance partner — and a new love.
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By the summer of 2007 Latsky knew she had tapped into something rich and emotional and artistically different from anything she had ever done. The performance now included "Two Men Walking" and a frenetically paced duet by Latsky and Freeze. Christina Briggs, a professional dancer who had worked with Latsky for years, had joined the troupe, her tall, classic elegance a complete contrast to the others. And they were starting to perform in small settings — outreach programs, churches, theater workshops.
But Latsky knew GIMP needed more.
And then a beautiful young woman appeared in her studio, a woman who moved with such a striking, shuffling rhythm that Latsky sensed immediately she belonged in GIMP.
Catherine Long radiates a soft-spoken reserve that belies her edgy artistic style. At 37, she long ago came to terms with the body she was born with, the perceptions she must deal with everyday. The stares at the pool. The questions at the supermarket check-out.
"People see what is not there long before they see what's there," says Long, an English performance artist who was born without a left arm, with shortened legs and so many joint impairments that even doctors don't understand how she walks.
Long has always pushed her body physically and artistically, sometimes exposing herself in terrifying ways. In 2002, she modeled for an award-winning nude marble sculpture which was exhibited in galleries around Europe.
But nothing has been as excruciating, or exposing, as GIMP.
She was introduced to Carter-Long through mutual friends and, after corresponding by e-mail they finally met in London. Long was curious about her new boyfriend's enthusiasm for "Two Men Walking" — and skeptical. Before going to her first rehearsal she agonized over how to tell him she thought it was exploitative.
Instead, Long was immediately drawn to Latsky, and to the power of the performance. In time, her quiet presence became a fixture at rehearsals. She would sit in the corner, beaming encouragement at Carter-Long, and they would walk out hand in hand, the tall, lean man dragging his legs, the small, delicate woman swaying beside him.
For Latsky, the contrast was irresistible.
"Catherine," she said. "I want to make a duet for you and Lawrence."
And so Long was swept into GIMP, into a sexy, tender dance with Carter-Long called "I Like the Way You Move." And her own exquisite solo, "The Aria," in which, back to the audience, Long performs a slow, moving sculptural piece that explores the vulnerability and beauty of her form.
Long had never worked her body so hard. Some rehearsals left her in such pain that she had to spend the next day in bed.
But she has evolved into a luminous, captivating dancer. And she has grown to love how strong performances make her feel, not in an empowering way, but in a way that makes her believe, truly believe, that GIMP is changing perceptions far greater than only in dance.
And GIMP has given her something more — a rich sense of belonging to a tight-knit band she trusts absolutely. The hardest part is the frequent goodbyes when she heads back to her flat, her cocker spaniel and her other life in London.
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Latsky never stops thinking, or moving, or challenging herself and her dancers, pushing them for more — more depth, more edge, more risk. She changes pieces constantly — a gesture here, a leap there, sometimes eliminating a movement they have worked on for months.
By the summer of 2008 the troupe has grown to six — three able-bodied and three disabled performers — and they are rehearsing hard for a fall dance festival in Albuquerque.
"More attitude!" Latsky cries, shaking her head furiously as she paces the floor of the third-floor studio on 47th Street. "Too precious, too safe," she complains, watching Freeze coil around Carter-Long, twisting and turning before crashing to the ground.
"You are relentless!" Freeze says.
She ignores him. "Lets see it again."
And though they have rehearsed for three hours, and though Carter-Long's feet are killing him and Freeze says he has nothing left but "bones and grunge," they pick themselves up and do the piece over.
"Better," Latsky says, biting her lip and scratching her head and jotting down notes. She hates anything that smacks of sentimentality, or "pretty."
"We want to be provocative enough so that something really shifts," she says.
The dancers talk about this all the time — the provocation of GIMP. Often their discussions become as heated as their dance. They have even argued about the name GIMP, which was first suggested by Carter-Long. Was it too disparaging, too contrived?
And in a performance called GIMP, how do the able-bodied dancers fit in? "What is YOUR risk?" Freeze was once asked at a talk-back session with the audience. The question startled him. Now it is something he thinks about all the time. They all do.
For Briggs, the risk is figuring out a way not to feel peripheral. Though the 37-year-old dancer has a gorgeous physique and her movement can light up a stage, she knows audiences are inevitably drawn to the dancers with disabilities.
Like Freeze, Briggs must dig for something deep inside herself, something transcendent. It is the hardest thing she has ever done.
On the surface, the risk for the disabled dancers seems clear. They are allowing the spotlight to shine on bodies that are usually stared at not for their beauty, but for their difference. GIMP invites the stare, demands it even.
"GIMP allows people to see me as I see myself — strong, fierce, sexy," says Lezlie Frye, whose shortened, left arm bends into what she describes as a knotty, treelike limb. Like Long and Carter-Long she has multiple other muscle problems and pushing through pain is part of her life.
Frye is the spitfire of the troupe, loud, energetic, passionate about everything — her sexuality, her politics, arts and disability. The 30-year-old doctoral student at New York University has long explored her body through sport, performance and language.
In one essay — written as an angry rebuttal to a child who called her a freak — she describes her hand, "a small and winding, dexterous hand, smooth with no nails protruding. Not sharp, but worn like driftwood or clear glass rubbed on coarse sand."
Frye finds a safety in language, an ability to frame her disability on her own terms. The thought of giving up that power was terrifying. So was the prospect of working with Latsky.
But Latsky saw a softness beneath Frye's tough exterior, and a wonder in her physical strength.
"With Lezlie, the task was to peel away some of that fierceness," Latsky says, "and allow her vulnerable side to show through."
They began working on a solo in which Frye caresses her misshapen hand, losing herself in movement and emotion as Pergolesi's spiritual "Salve Regina" plays in the background.
The piece is at once so haunting and elegant and emotional, it moves some audiences to tears. And it makes them wonder: Are they viewers or voyeurs?
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By 2008 the troupe is performing excerpts in all sorts of settings — prison, churches, schools, theater workshops. Usually the response is admiring. But sometimes it can be unnerving.
At a Queens facility for the mentally ill, Frye, Long and Briggs are confronted head-on with the dilemma of GIMP.
Harsh lights beam down on a dirty linoleum recreation room floor. The sound system breaks down. Some of the 30 or so residents doze on chairs, others stumble in front of the performers.
Disgusted by the feeling of the floor on her bare skin, Long finds it hard to lose herself in dance. But she is more troubled by deeper concerns.
What were we trying to accomplish, she asks on the subway home, visibly upset. "Did we invade their space, or enhance it? Did we bring some joy, lightness into their lives, or were we just trying to make ourselves feel better?"
Frye gently points out that maybe these questions are part of what GIMP is all about.
By November 2008 the troupe have performed on the road — excerpts at a dance festival in Vermont and a full run in Albuquerque. But they know if GIMP is to succeed in the dance world, it needs reviews in New York.
By now Latsky has big dreams for GIMP. She wants to take it all over the country, all over world.
Then she catches herself. After a lifetime in the business, Latsky knows the odds. For all her energy and creativity, for all the commitment of her dancers, the reality is that they are like every other small troupe operating on a shoestring and fighting for survival. They all juggle other lives — jobs and studies, rents and relationships, kids. Frye and Freeze are full-time students (he is starting medical school), Carter-Long works full-time, Briggs runs a puppet company with her husband and is the mother of 2-year-old boy, and Long has her life in London.
Latsky too, has a life filled with other responsibilities, including being mother to 9-year-old Charlotte. When she is not composing or rehearsing, she spends her days applying for grants, hunting for studio space, working on music and lighting and costumes, trying to drum up funds and publicity. She pays the dancers when she can, but the amounts are small and inconsistent.
No wonder that before the New York premiere at the Abrons Arts Center, Latsky is a bundle of nerves. She worries that GIMP will be criticized as "victim art."
"At this point," Latsky says, half an hour before the opening, "I just hope that we have a house."
In the dungeon-like dressing room in the bowels of the theater, the dancers fix their makeup, fiddle with their skimpy black costumes and practice the little personal rituals they hope will bring luck.
Latsky dabs herself with patchouli oil and kisses her rings. Carter-Long sprays his feet with adhesive and binds them with tape. He kisses Long. Frye inhales herbal tinctures. Freeze nurses his swollen middle toe and worries that it might be fractured.
"Five minutes!" bellows the stage manager.
The dancers shiver. They hug. They creep up the stairs and huddle in the wings.
Then GIMP explodes onto the stage.
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For three nights in March GIMP electrified the Grand Street theater on Manhattan's Lower East Side. Audiences clapped and cheered and cried and standing ovations continued long after the performance had ended.
People seemed stunned by Carter-Long's insouciance when he stalked to the front of the stage wearing a black T-shirt emblazoned with the words: "If you stare at me long enough I might do a trick." They marveled at his defiance — and the unnerving beauty of his limbs — as he strode after the soaring, sculpted Freeze. They gasped at Frye's strength when Freeze flew across the stage and landed in her outstretched arms.
People didn't want to leave the theater, didn't want to break the spell. Many seemed as perplexed as they were moved. Many struggled to figure out exactly what they were feeling.
Exhausted and exhilarated, the dancers struggled, too. All their work, all their faith, all their pain, had amounted to this singular triumph on stage. There was something both overwhelming and unsettling about it all.
Long wept. Frye glowed. Carter-Long was mobbed by admirers. Briggs and Freeze were swept up in hugs.
Latsky seemed dazed as she moved through the crowd, clutching a bouquet of flowers, listening to the praise that rained all around.
"Bravo!" strangers cried. "Magical!"
A teenage girl who suffers from seizures so severe she is unable to speak, clapped wildly: Her mother said she had never seen her daughter so moved.
A trained ballet dancer who had abandoned the profession, disillusioned by the injuries, commitment and pain, said she was inspired to return.
A 49-year-old lawyer, strapped into a wheelchair, breathing through a tube, called it the most intellectually stimulating night of his life.
And a 12-year-old boy whistled in amazement and pronounced it one of his most exciting nights ever.
But, for Latsky, the most gratifying response was the way people told her how grateful they were — for the sheer visual beauty of the performance, for its power to sweep them into another world, a world where dance and disability and differences collide, a world of risk and passion and beauty and art, a world so utterly different from their experience that they felt honored to have been wrapped in its spell.
An excellent lengthy feature on the GIMP dance troupe from The AP. Here's The AP's video that accompanies the print story.
