Dane Hurst Weblog

Price, Prize and Priviledge

People talk about The Place Prize with an equal measure of disdain and excitement; some say that dance cannot be measured by points or votes and that it is a shame for there to be winners and losers in a non competitive medium; others say that it is an amazing investment in new talent that creates a sense of excitement and anticipation and raises the profile for dance as an artform. I tend to agree with both of these views.

After having created the first solo of my career I can't help but feel a little confused as to why it took me so long but also priviledged to have it resting on the weight of such a heavy platform. Competitions have always excited and scared me because it provided the opportunity to try my best and work harder to prove that I was worth it on the one side but on the other it created a sense of angst and dread at the thought of being labelled 'shit'. We all have it in us, that need for recognition; it is so nice to be appreciated and also maybe singled out as promising but there is also the possibility of not being accepted and feeling rather rejected. Back in the days of the Roman Coliseum you were put to death if the crowd didn't approve and it seems that not much has changed. Just look at television and at how quick people are loved, hated, idolised and criticised. Look what happened to Jade Goody and Micheal Jackson...

What price do you pay to be heard? What price do you pay for wanting to be something? What price do you pay for going for the Prize? Sometimes nothing, sometimes alot. When I look at all of us who have entered the prize this time round, I see a group of very lucky, very rich and very hungry individuals all going for gold and trying to find a way into a very difficult industry. For some it will just be an opportunity to put on some work, for others it might be a life-line and then again there is the MONEY! We can't forget about the money can we. A £35.000 cash prize up for grabs. Now we're talking, yes, funding cuts and tight budgets and fund raising campaigns spring to my mind when I think money. At the Rambert base we are worriedly looking into the future, similar to many other arts organizations; thank goodness for private donations, without this we couldn't survive. I do however think that this pressure and difficulty could bring about some interesting improvisations and ideas. Maybe we'll stop making massive new works and bring back some of the oldies to save some money or maybe somebody will invent a competition for dance companies to go head to head in a televised version of the X Dance Factor, NOW THERE'S AN IDEA...or maybe we'll have to start recycling costumes and sets, start chopping and changing here and mixing and matching there. Third world countries are full of innovations and breakthroughs that have come from circumstantial disadvantage but we know vey well that in this Developed world Money talks and right now millions of people are thinking up ways to make even more of it, even it if means creating worthless new products and shows that people don't need, just look at the E-Reader and Big Brother for example!

So what is dance then and where does it stand in the economic scheme of things? Is it a product, does it serve a purpose, is it lucrative, is it enriching, is it a business? Yes, it ticks all these boxes, but what is being lost at the cost of it being treated like a business? ARTISTRY! When Rambert were touring the world and building sets and hiring expensive choreographers they were on top of it all but also at the bottom of the economic tank. They spent money and never had any but people's lives were changed forever, some people even chose dancing as a CAREER because of the company's ruthless pursuit of making good art to share with as many people as possible. These days everything needs to sell thanks to the - if you don't make a profit don't do it mentality - because it makes for bad business and bad bank balances. But what about the point of it all, the purpose of it all? Does the money have more value than the art?

So what about the nomadic choreographer or solo artist? How do they go about making head way in this industry? Well, the ladder is very long and there are many big arses to kiss on the way up but if companies don't have the money then they won't take the risk of hiring unknown talent and rather stay safe and go for the regular circuit "rapists" because it guarantees audiences. Excuse me for saying so but it seems more and more we are seeing work that kisses the cheeks of the audience on the seats and less more of the intriguing thought provoking wake-up slaps across the face that artists gave and received back in the day. When Stravinsky composed Rite of Spring, what happened? When Nijinsky choreographed Afternoon of the Faun, what happened? When Picasso painted Guernica what happened? Okay where am I going with this? Well...you have to spend money and take risks if you want to progress. Which is exactly what The Place Prize has done. I know for damn sure they took a risk when they chose me and thank goodness they did, what an amazing opportunity to make a piece of art and have it seen by hundreds.

Art or Entertainment, Riches or Starvation, Prize or Prejudice, we are all trying to fit in somewhere and sometimes skinning yourself, hanging yourself, dragging yourself, interrogating yourself and placing yourself in harms way, exposed and open to ridicule is what you'll do to get somewhere in this life... here's to the prize!

Spiders, swans and some sensational fairytales...

Monday morning, the sun is burning, I'm in my shiny black jeans, black boots and a feminin black t-shirt from sisley; my sunglasses are nowhere to be seen and my dinner jacket is neatly folded in my bag. I'm in the east, we're on a bus and the heat is burning through the black, I look at her and smile, the weekend seemed like an age away but it felt like it was still going. I lick my lips and run through the events in my head...

Thursday ended with a very slick cocktail party at the House of Commons where important bodies swelled beneath the suits and tight dresses, all stood within smelling distance of each other. My wine glass was perpetually filled and conversation was animated and intense. I could do more of these parties, the type that makes you feel proud to be part of something big and Rambert, let's face it, is BIG. The oldest dance company in Brittain but strangely it's still trying to raise funds for new premises on the SouthBank. It deserves to be in the centre of activity and not on the outskirts in Chiswick and the money should come piling in but as long as they're trying to raise the funds I will be thinking about getting another suit and look forward to the next party.

Friday, meeting at The Place where I meet my Place Prize guide and talk through some issues that have cropped up, we run out of time and jump on a bus towards Sadlers Wells to continue our meeting in The Garden Court Cafe at Stage Door. I see Alain Platel, on his phone looking calm and much taller than I expected, conclude the meeting and grab some food from the dramatically improved menu. A beautiful actress shares my table and I make a friend who funnily enough happens to sit right in front of me when we go in to see Out of Context: For Pina by Les Ballets C de la B.
The curtain goes up and we are sat facing an empty black box stage with a few red blankets folded onto the floor, two mic stands and two elevated floor standing speakers; so a very sparse space with not much design, none at all actually besides the fact that there were no wings and no side lights. The casually dressed dancers enter one by one from within the auditorium and proceed to slowly undress down to their knickers and wrap themselves in the blankets; no music, just the silence of an expecting and shifty audience. The journey takes the characters from being distorted and contorted primitive figures, to incapable, grunting babies to an energetic singing and dancing ensemble moving with vigour and abandon. It was serious, funny, at times puzzling, sad and mesmerising.
I meet Vanessa Green and she comments on the piece being too long and on the oddity of the mother and her baby who strolled onto stage mid-show but we agreed that is was a great show. Swan Lake pops into the conversation and again I hear about this Russain sensation at the English National Ballet, I recall hearing about him just the night before and start to consider going to the ballet again after a very long hiatus.

Saturday, I receive a call from Vanessa and amazingly she has a spare ticket to the sold out Swan Lake show at the Royall Albert Hall. I put on my shiny black jeans, black leather boots,and jacket...
Lights go out, orchestra begins and the dancers come running down the aisles and onto the massive cicular stage. The setting was minimal, the lighting exquisite with most of the emphasis on the choreography and the story. Out comes Vadim Muntagirov and I feel a sense of anticipation build in my stomach because of all the hype and I watch with an eye of scrutiny. After his first solo I turn to Vanessa and smile, he's only about 20 she says.
First interval and we run to the bar, large red and a quick chat about the production; so far so good.
We grab our seats and marvel at the sight of the clouds from above, the atmosphere created by the plumes of white smoke hovering above the floor with the sound of a hundred carefully placed feet running in unison and moving the velvety clouds with the wind of moving brilliant white tutus. Out comes Daria Klimentova and she enchants with the effortlessness of a veteren, she stands out amongst the 60 plus swans and the chemistry between her and Vadim is magical.
By my second large red I was thoroughly in the mood and savoured the exitement and sense of occasion within the room. The reason why year after year people come back to the ballet slowly becomes apparent; it's beautiful. To see ballet at the Albert Hall is much more satisfying than seeing it anywhere else, simply because seeing it in the round leaves little room for error and challenges all areas concerned - lighting, dancer, choreographer and set. Which reminds me of the menacing Mark Bruce production of Love and War at The Robin Howard Theatre.The Place has re-arranged the seating plan and created a circular performance space which proved intergral to Bruce's dark imaginnings and storylines. The dancers were incredible especially Ino Riga alongside the menacing Joanne Fong who at some point came in as a black spider in a nightmare with Darren Ellis being the victim inside a white bath on wheels. It was a twisted story of betrayal and dark fantasy woven inside a story of delicate love and loss.

After the ballet I say goodbye and thank Vanessa for the ticket and make my way east...
A few drinks in the old street area, some curry on brick lane and last orders at a random bar that served till late.

Sunday, slow recovery, a few coffees and out the door...brunch on the SouthBank with some live music by the water. Cross the river and into Travalgar Square to join in on the Hare Krishna Chariot Festival; she got a henna tattoo, I got the ice cream after which she took me to see the amazing 1960's mural by Jean Cocteau inside a church somewhere in Leicester Square. I still can't believe it's there, available for all to see, inside a small church in the centre of London.
After two pots of mint tea and a Shisha Pipe at a Morrocan in Soho we cross the road to hear some Brazilian Music at Cafe Boheme. We make eye contact and the two piece guitar and drum outfit join our table and shared our wine, he took her number and I tried to look cool and unaffected. Brazil start their enslaught against The Ivory Coast and I make a bet with Salvo from Salvadore, I bet 3-1 Ivory Coast, het bet 4-0 Brazil; I got the score right but Brazil won.
Out onto the streets again, sun is shining and I forget it's Sunday, we hop on a tube and head up to Camden Town to join the alive and well on the roof terrace of The Lock Tavern where we were awed and inspired by The Swiss and The Silver Columns. Finished another bottle of red and had another glass coming, I closed my eyes and looked up, feeling the sway from the crowd. I opened my eyes and there were balloons everywhere, the music intensified, the drummer became an animal, I closed my eyes again and upon opening felt bubbles bursting onto my skin and floating up into the air. The silver shimmer reflecting off the wall, the red lights against the brick, the balloons against the ceiling and the floating of vibrations and sensations all converged to put me into a place of contentment and ease. I gaze out into the sky and the stars were twinkling and the sky was pale blue...Summer has come

We walk out of number 7, eyes squinting in the monday morning sun, board the bus...and here I am, smiling at her, my reflection in her sunglasses, the next stop is mine and yet again I have to cross the river; I need to get out of west london I think, I need to stop drinking again I think...

I thanked her for the t-shirt, kissed her on the lips and made my way west.

I arrive at Hammersmith and there are no district line trains for which seems an age, leave the station and make a call,“Hello Rambert...uh, I think I'm going to be 10mins late...” I buy breakfast, cross the road, miss my bus and toss my change onto the lap of a guy under a blanket. I step onto the 391 and look who's sitting there, Mark Baldwin, my director. “Hello Mark, how was your weekend?” 'Naughty boy, you should be in class', he replies. I explain my story and the rest is a blur.......................................................................................................................................