Dance Central Summer 2023

Content

Dance Central

Isaac Gasangwa's Journey

to reflecting "The African Dream" on Stage Page 4

Lee Su-Feh's Touch Me, Hold Me, Let Me Go

Page 12

Editor's Note

Welcome to the (end of) Summer 2023 issue of Dance Central.

It has been a lovely summer in Vancouver. As I write from my home office, I can’t help but think about the fires that are raging through BC and causing a lot of people to be evacuated from their homes. My thoughts go out to them and the firefighters who are risking their lives against the wildfires. We have been experiencing climate change in BC more than ever for the past few years, with little knowledge of its effect on our health and well-being. What is certain, however, is that we are very much interconnected with the land and with one another.

It has been three years since I became the editor of Dance Central. I am happy to welcome new and returning contributors to Dance Central, as we continue to do so in this issue. Misha Maseka from Calgary talks to Isaac Gasangwa about his upcoming work, The African Dream and what it means to present more stories told by Africans for Africans and everyone else. Kristen Lewis brings her third piece to Dance Central with a personal reflection on Lee Su-Feh’s work Touch Me, Hold Me, Let Me Go.

As lands are increasingly being encroached upon, so is the space for dance writing. I am grateful for this publication called Dance Central, which has been serving the community of B.C. since 1987. May we continue to protect our lands and uphold spaces for artistic freedom, even when they seem to be shrinking. Our love for the land and the arts will guide us through difficult times.

In the spirit of generosity, Dance Central has always been accessible to all. We thank all the artists who have contributed, and we welcome new writing and project ideas at any time to make Dance Central a more vital link to the community. Please send materials by email to editor@thedancecentre.ca. We look forward to many more conversations!

Shanny Rann Editor

Isaac Gasangwa's dancers in rehearsal © izofilm

The African Dream poster © izofilm

Isaac Gasangwa’s Journey to Reflecting “The African Dream” on Stage

by Misha Maseka

The African Dream is the culmination of almost two decades of dedicated passion and evolution of technique and style for Rwandan-born dancer and choreographer, Isaac Gasangwa. For one night only on September 16, 2023, Afrobeats Van, founded by Gasangwa, will perform The African Dream, a 75-minute dance show exploring the global influence the African diaspora has had on culture, inspecting aspects of Black identity and celebrating the vibrancy and validity of African history presented at The Dance Centre in Vancouver, BC.

At the height of rehearsals for his biggest and most personal show yet, Isaac sat down with me to touch on the influence of growing up in post-genocide Rwanda, navigating the cultural transition when moving to Canada and the importance of reflecting and presenting more stories told by Africans for Africans and the world.

Misha Maseka (MM): Was the context and concept of being a professional dancer something you thought about growing up in Rwanda?

Isaac Gasangwa (IG): I grew up actually playing soccer – that’s what everybody in Africa in the 90’s was doing. It was the “man thing” to do – playing sports or football and I liked to do tricks a lot [while playing football]. And then there was the internet era, where we used to go to an internet cafe and pay money to spend time on the internet. I remember I used to go there to watch people play football like Ronaldino [and] Ronaldo. You know how back then a YouTube video would finish and another would start immediately? There was this dancer from France. He [was]

a popping locking dancer called Salah. His video just popped up [when] I was about to leave. I remember watching it and was like “Wow, I wanna do this! I like what I’m seeing”. And then I got curious because even the way I played soccer was entertaining. It’s not like I wanted to win. I wanted to make people happy. Dance was that escape for me to go and be as creative as I could and as entertaining as I could.

However, back home [in Rwanda], dance is not something that people do to entertain. It’s not like an art form. It’s just like something you do. When you’re happy, you dance. When your sister gets married, everybody dances. When somebody dies, we do some ritual dancing. So dance wasn’t introduced to me

Artists of Dance//Novella © Racheal Prince and Brandon Alley

The Dance Centre

Scotiabank Dance Centre

Level 6, 677 Davie Street

Vancouver BC V6B 2G6

T 604.606.6400 F 604.606.6401 info@thedancecentre.ca www.thedancecentre.ca

Dance Central is published quarterly by The Dance Centre for its members and for the dance community. Opinions expressed are those of the authors and do not necessarily represent Dance Central or The Dance Centre. The editor reserves the right to edit for clarity or length, or to meet house requirements.

Editor, Art Director & Layout

Shanny Rann

Copy Editor

Kaia Shukin

Design Layout

Becky Wu

Contributors to this issue:

Misha Maseka, Kristen Lewis

Photo credits

Front Cover: Touch Me, Hold Me, Let

Me Go © Yvonne Chew

Back Cover: Isaac Gasangwa's Dancers © izofilm

Dance Centre Board Members:

Chair

Jason Wrobleski

Vice Chair

Andrea Reid

Secretary

Tin Gamboa

Treasurer

Annelie Vistica

Directors

Rosario Kolstee, Judith Garay, Linda Gordon, Arash Khakpour, Anndraya

T Luui, Katia Oteman, Jennifer Aoki, Yvonne Chartrand, Rachel Maddock

Dance Foundation Board Members:

Chair Linda Blankstein

Secretary Anndraya T Luui

Treasurer Janice Wells

Directors Samantha Luo, Mark Osburn, Andrea Benzel

Dance Centre Staff:

Executive Director

Mirna Zagar

Associate Programming Director

Raquel Alvaro

Associate Producer

Linda Blankstein

Director of Marketing

Heather Bray

Digital Marketing Coordinator

Lindsay Curtis

Membership Coordinator

Kaia Shukin

Outreach Coordinator

Yurie Kaneko

Technical Director

Darren John Comptroller

Elyn Dobbs

Venue and Services Manager

Michelle Johnstone

Development Manager

Catherine Butler

Founded in 1986 as a leading dance resource centre for dance professionals and the public in British Columbia, The Dance Centre is a multifaceted organization. The Dance Centre presents an exciting season of shows and events, serves a broad membership of 300 professional dance companies and individual artists, and offers a range of activities unparalleled in Canadian dance. The Dance Centre is BC's primary resource centre for the dance profession and the public. The activities of The Dance Centre are made possible bynumerous individuals. Many thanks to our members, volunteers, community peers, board of directors and the public for your ongoing commitment to dance in BC. Your suggestions and feedback are always welcome. The operations of The Dance Centre are supported by the Canada Council for the Arts, the Province of British Columbia, the BC Arts Council, and the City of Vancouver through the Office of Cultural Affairs.

as something that you could do to change people’s lives and entertain. Because the internet [was] showing me another side of dance that was intriguing and [something] I wanted to try and wanted to [do], I felt more connected to dance then I was to football. I watched more videos of dancing then I watched of football. So at 17, I was like “This is definitely what I want to do with my life!”.

I remember telling my mom that and she looked at me as if I was crazy. She was like “What do you mean you want to dance? You dance everyday.” and I was like “No, mom. You don’t understand. I want to be a professional dancer.” She laughed at me.

And I feed [off of] proving people wrong. That’s one of things that pushes me to work harder. My mom laughing at me was basically the catalyst of me wanting to prove that I could do [it].

But then, growing up in Rwanda with the genocide, the country was destroyed. I wasn’t going to dance like everybody else. It was very difficult to do that. There were no dance studios. So I had to create opportunities for myself. I used dance to educate people, to bring kids from the street into the studio and educate them about life.

MM: I grew up on the continent [of Africa] as well and what I remember of African styles of dance is them simply occurring and being taught through culture and happenstance as opposed to European techniques being taught in a class setting. What was your journey in honing your technique and skills?

IG: I was young but very mature in the way I looked at things. I built a dance school at 17 years old to help kids on the street.

MM: Yeah, that is crazy!

IG: I realized that for you to be a really good dancer, you have to treat it like a job. You gotta be able to train everyday at the highest level. You gotta be an athlete. The way I trained for soccer was how I trained to be a good dancer. That’s basically the mind set I went into dance thinking. I remember training my group [in Rwanda] and telling them they had to practice at least three times a week. They were like, “What are we training for? There’s no competition? Why are we dancing this much?”. I remember coming up with ideas to film videos. It was the era of YouTube and that was the motivation to get them to train. Looking at them, I wanted them to be able to compete at a [global] level. I

was very competitive and I believed in myself, sometimes a little bit too much and I thought I could change the world with just dance!

MM: That’s amazing. What is one thing you would tell your 17-year-old self that you know now about starting a dance school?

IG: Nothing, really. For me it was all about bringing in people and sharing the love of dance. When I started, the classes were free. I was offering my talents for free. Before I knew it, I got sponsorships from Australia because we were posting our dance videos on YouTube. I joked around with my mom saying I was “making more money than the president of Rwanda! You see, I told you I could make something out of dance!”.

There were no challenges, just gains. Until today, those kids would reach out to me, saying “You changed my life in a way you don’t even know”.

There were no challenges, just gains. Until today, those kids would reach out to me, saying “you changed my life in a way you don’t even know”. And that was the idea—not to make the money but to change people’s lives.

And that was the idea – not to make the money but to change people’s lives.

In 2014, Isaac made the move to Vancouver, BC having his sights set south to live and work in Los Angeles.

IG: LA is every dancer’s dream. When I got here [in 2014] I was surprised to find that Vancouver, in a way, is similar to Rwanda. There’s not a lot going on. It’s not like Toronto. It’s not like LA [where] everything is established. If you want an afrobeats class, there’s 20 in [LA]. If you google afrobeat class in Toronto, there’s 30 that come up. But, if you google afrobeat class in Vancouver, there’s zero. So that’s like Rwanda. So if you want to start something, [Vancouver] is a great place to start. And I liked that. I could be the first to do this in this sector. This is actually an opportunity.

MM: Was finding a community in Canada an easy transition?

IG: I got here [to Vancouver] and was so excited and applied to all the studios saying “Hey, I am a dancer and choreographer straight from Africa! Please hire me!”. Nope. No answer. Not even like a “no, thank you.” Complete silence. Crickets.

So I went to the studios and took class like every other student. You know, I’m gonna make connections! I’m gonna meet people! I’m gonna talk to the studio owners and introduce myself. Before you know it, I’ll have a pop-up. Before you know it, I’ll have a class!

I went in and they only taught hip hop. So I took hip hop and tried different classes. Then I started to hate dance because how I danced in Africa was different then how they danced here. It felt like I was in college or at work where everything [had] a strict rule to follow. Everyone comes in and they are not friendly. I was like “What am I doing here?”. I would go partying with [some of my class colleagues]

The show is not just for me. When working on this, I always think about another young man or woman in Africa who is dreaming that anything is possible.

and music would come on and they wouldn’t know how to move because they only moved to choreography. There was no freedom of expression. There was no improvisation. This was where I wanted to be free to express myself. I started to think that even teaching at a studio, I wasn’t going to enjoy [it]. So I started my own company to bring joy and that African vibe back into dance.

MM: Now you have a show coming in September called The African Dream. What is the African Dream?

IG: The idea was brought about by [juxtaposing] and observing the “American Dream”. What is the American Dream? I am a

white person. I go to school. I have my degree. When I finish, I know for sure I’m gonna get a job that I am qualified for, buy a good house and live a successful life. When you are a Black person, you go to the same college, graduate with even higher [marks] but you most likely get a job that you are overqualified for, that doesn’t pay you enough to buy a good house and live a successful life. Success is not guaranteed, no matter how much work you put in. So, the “African Dream” becomes the idea that the dream is to survive. It draws the parallel between the way an African person sees and understands compared to a Westerner’s [understanding].

I remember sleeping in my room in Rwanda

Isaac Gasangwa's dancers on stage © izofilm

and dreaming that I would be on the biggest stage in the world. I’ve been working towards this [show] my whole life!

The show is not just for me. When working on this, I always think about another young man or woman in Africa who is dreaming that anything is possible. I know there is not a lot of focussed Black talent in the sector and I remember watching all those videos [on YouTube] and the only people I could see were white people dancing. Which was so hard to

relate to. But if a young person growing up in Africa who wants to be an artist could see a guy named Isaac in Canada, having a full on show, it will motivate them. It will tell them that everything is possible. When they go to their mother and say “I wanna be a dancer” and she laughs at them, they have somebody to show “No, look at this guy! If he can do it. I can do it too!”.

MM: What do you want audiences to take away from the show?

Isaac Gasangwa's dancers in action © izofilm

IG: Dance in Africa is Igitaramo which means basically, “the night assembly”. A king or the leader of a village would invite friends and family and singers and dancers and share food. That’s what dance was for us and that’s what I want to show [in The African Dream]. It’s educational. It’s emotional. There’s drama. There’s history. There’s culture. There’s singing and dancing and poetry. There’s a lot happening. It can facilitate all types of people – kids who want to watch [the dancers] moving around, adults who are interested in

the history and the politics around this stuff, dancers who want to explore a different style. And no matter what your dreams are, don’t stop chasing them!

Isaac’s grounded joy was apparent as we spoke about his journey with dance, what he has going on and the hope and trajectory for the future. Be sure to check out The African Dream, September 16th at The Dance Centre.

Contributing Writer

Misha Maseka is an award-winning eSwatiniborn, Zambian filmmaker, writer and founder of the production company, Village Girls residing in Mohkinstsis, Treaty 7 Territory (Calgary, AB). When not creating film works or writing, she makes time to perform as Lemba, her music alter ego, and features as a singer for productions and concerts with Calgary Philharmonic Orchestra, Contemporary Calgary, and Theatre Calgary. She also enjoys interviewing peer artists about the creativity and process on her podcast, And I Wonder.

Interview Feature

Isaac "Izo Dreamchaser" Gasangwa is a Rwandan-born dancer, choreographer and educator based in Vancouver, BC. He succeeded in starting the first dance studio in Rwanda, Jabbajunior foundation, and is the Founder of Afrobeats dance Van.As one of the pioneers of Afrobeats dance in Vancouver, Isaac continues to teach weekly drop-ins, and several Afro events including: Black Vancouver Artistry Night and Afrobeats Dance Night.

"The electricity of the touch, the stability of the hold, the freedom of letting go"

Notes on Lee Su-Feh's Offering Touch Me, Hold Me, Let Me Go

by Kristen Lewis

Lee Su-Feh proposes a body of work called “Touch Me, Hold Me, Let Me Go” (TMHMLMG). She positions the work as an “algorithm,” as a way of playing with the modes in which algorithmic decision-making in the “tech” world condition experience. The algorithm is, one might say, just about as close to the opposite of an actual computer algorithm as one might get, yet also emerges from the beautiful, orderly simplicity of computational syntax.

Su-Feh was in residence at The Dance Centre in June 2023, and offered workshops on the work in May 2023. I was first introduced to this work when she presented it at the 2021 Dance in Vancouver Biennial, and was immediately struck by its at once radical and deeply nurturing power. I later attended a 4-day workshop she offered on the work at the end of July and beginning of August 2022. This article consists of notes I made from ‘inside’ the work, a record in words of the worlds this work unfolded in me. I am grateful to Su-Feh for the deep beauty and transformational power of this work

The work: subjective perspective

As I enter this quieter part of the work, the part where we start to dance together, I am already on the brink of exhaustion—we all are. Our bodies are salt licks, record of hours of struggle we endured—and thrilled in!—to get to this point where our warm bodies start to listen for each other, start to emerge, at the teacher’s invitation, from the safety of selfhood—its absurd little dramas, its glory, its shame, its pride, its struggles.

As our bodies start reaching for each other, I learn in a new way the old familiar electricity of the touch; I learn to distinguish this from the solidity of the hold, to sense for the beautiful point at which a touch wants to become a hold, when a hold craves release into the exquisite freedom of the moment when I— or you—say “let me go” and we do, without hesitation and without complaint. From the vast chambers of our solitude, we listen for the next invitation, arising from ourselves or from each other or from the space itself—we

listen beneath the tone to find “what is already happening,” the dance that is there under and beyond our wills, our habits, our ideas of what a dance should or could be. We dance with sensitive feet open to the smell of the possible impossibility. In this way, we learn, slowly, carefully, but also with wild abandon at times— how to dance together.

Their voices, these glorious, skilled, sensitive women I dance with each speak to desire, from desire, so differently: pleasure,

apparently, means very different things to different people. If anything is clear it is that we want, almost always, very different things, and that we speak to that wanting differently also. We are bound, here, in this dance-floor space, marked off from the world by the careful constraint of the teacher’s rules. She tells us: we can speak only on behalf of our own desire, which we must tend carefully, listening, as it were, for the desire beneath the desire—softening around obstacles, looking for comfort, feeling for pleasure, for what wants

Sophie Dow © Chris Randle

Lee Su-Feh in Touch Me, Hold Me, Let Me Go © Sophia Wolfe

to happen rather than what we think should happen. We must speak that desire in three commands only: “touch me,” “hold me,” or “let me go.” She calls this the ‘algorithm,’ playing on the ubiquity of that form in the current technologized moment. So, this algorithm, “Touch Me, Hold Me, Let Me Go” defines the limits that make up our game—the boundaries that open us up to exquisite impossibilities.

Dance I

This one, for instance is clear and direct with her invitations, delivered invariably with a resonant, assured voice, a deep tenor. Her pleasure has a predictable, self-assured

Lee Su-Feh in Touch Me, Hold Me, Let Me Go © Yvonne Chew

rhythm that is easy to follow: hold my foot, touch my sacrum, hold my head, touch my thigh, touch my shoulder blades, hold my shoulder blades; hold my ribcage, touch my right hip, hold the back of my head; let me go. Repeat, with variations. I can, very early on, predict her rhythm in advance; this makes her asks so easy to deliver on that I feel a sense of accomplishment and even pride in fulfilling them. We travel across the floor in a straight and tidy line, make clear shapes, take small risks, but always with support, planned for in advance. She leaves me with a solid feeling; when we part we smile and bow, put our arms easily around each other, are instant comrades.

Dance II

This one, well, she is much more complicated. She circles around me like a deep and wild animal, blue-hot to my red heat, with equal parts hunger and terror in her eyes. I circle around her also—we are not so different, the two of us. It feels like we are each too big to bear the other yet we want to, with a quiet passion neither will voice. Instead, we catch each other out of the corner of our eye, look away often—both crave and avoid the other’s gaze: if we look at each other we each see straight through the other one. Who wants that. Who doesn’t. But really, also—who does? So, we rarely look each other straight in the eye, lest the heavens open too wide between us.

When she says out of nowhere, with at once the commanding authority of a military officer and the desperation of a starving lover: hold my head, I respond at once like a sergeant at arms, hold her like I will let no harm come

to her, ever, like I could hold on for all time if asked. Hold my head. Hold my head. Hold my head. She repeats herself for her own pleasure—she doesn’t have to for my sake. I would die for her, almost—she is that big, that real, that true...and that scared. Before I know it she is relying on me completely, free falling fast towards the floor. I hold her head strong and firm between my hot hands, my legs folding seamlessly beneath me, reminding me how strong we can be when we surrender completely to the task of bearing another.

Then, just as suddenly, she commands me, thanklessly: let me go. And I do. I feel the power of our coming together release into pure, electric spaciousness. It propels us both through space. We circle around each other more and more, our arms grazing and permitting only our fingertips to touch, until, suddenly we are really dancing—parts touch and release without question, without hesitation; her back presses into my sweat-

We dance with sensitive feet open to the smell of the possible impossibility. In this way, we learn, slowly, carefully, but also with wild abandon at times— how to dance together.

drenched breasts as she leans into me with the shoulders she has ordered me to hold. I hold them and I dance with them, following with my hips as they sway side to side with a gentleness you might not expect to find in such an animal—but, you see, she is equal parts ferocious and kind and in that, also, we are maybe not so different.

Now we are circling again—and she is commanding me again, too: touch my fingertips. Touch my fingertips! And I do. Hold my hips. Hold my hips. Hold my hips. And I grab them firmly and decisively from behind as she slides backwards into me through space— we are flying now and I could lift her, throw her anywhere I like but the instructions are simple and I must obey her command: hold my hips. And so I do. I wonder, how could a person so big be so small?

When it is my turn, I like to play with the orders I give her, so we feel the space between touching and holding, between holding and letting go, let it scramble between us in a whirlwind of possibility offered then revoked and then offered again, only to again be revoked—she is game for the ambiguity and disorientation this provokes in a way few would be: hold-my-let-me-hold-my-hand-let me-go-hold-my-hand-let-me-go-hold. Let go. Let me go! Let me go! Hold Me! Let me Go! Let go!!! And we each fly into the vastness of our stratospheres, sweat covered and laughing, but still with a distance between us, not quite catching the other’s gaze; we bow to each other, it seems, across the expanse of the ages,

in deep reverence and having wanted this dance very much, for eons maybe. But equally, we have wanted, also, to protect at great cost the space we let dance between us.

Dance III

This one—well, at first she seems so shy, so reserved, so quiet I think she really does not want to dance with me, hot animal that I am. When I feel her hands on me, so tenderly holding the back of my skull, not moving, I start to see the quiet depth that she is—and, also, how much she does, in her way, want to dance with me. She says in a near monotone (and these are some of the few words I hear from her over the course of a long time dancing together): “you have a kind of wild, infectious joy and I like that. I find it uplifting.” Her hands, when they are on me, are like cool water touched with morning sunlight, so subtle I hardly feel them until my hot body softens under her cooling touch. Later, when I touch her, my hands learn to listen differently, more delicately—hot enough, yes, to hold her, to warm her and never-not there, but finer tuned, gentler.

She is slow and likes slowness and I wait for her; she teaches me a new kind of patience. Hers is a soft but committed clarity and it turns out she is quiet, yes, and slow to open, maybe, but not shy. Far from it. Touch my heart, she says, almost right away. Hold my heart. And I do, one hand on her back and one on her breast, my palms warm and spacious around the places where I feel how

she has had to stay frozen, as we all must here and there, to protect this great delicacy that she is. I feel how her coolness both soothes and protects her. Her soft, stoic face is translucent white, almost; she rarely smiles and when she does, her eyes look down— blue eyes that, in these moments, betray no emotion, permit no tears to fall.

Yet she asks, without hesitation, for what she wants—she knows her hungers deeply and is unafraid to feed them. Touch my belly. I feel its softness under me. Hold my belly. Touch my ovaries. Hold my ovaries. And I do, with clear, gentle decisiveness, taking care that

my fingertips, resting on her sweat-covered pants, do not graze the place of her opening, whose warmth I feel beneath my touch. Now she is moving—subtly at first, curling inward. She wants to move. She asks, with precision, for just the right kind of support: hold my hamstrings. And I hold them strong and firm, at the top, my wrists having to press into the soft flesh of her buttocks to accomplish the task. And she rises. Touch my wrist, she says. And I do, with the subtlest graze. And now she reaches into space and with my fingers still on her wrist, I am reaching also. Hold the back of my head, she says. And she turns, exquisitely and slowly, with all the time in the world—and

Lee Su-Feh in Touch Me, Hold Me, Let Me Go © Yvonne Chew

by her grace, so do I. Hold my spine, all of it. She says, unconcerned with the impossibility of her ask. I do my best to take all of her in my arms, from tail bone to head; she curls into a soft ball on the floor, fernlike and moist. Hold me. Hold me. Hold my kidneys. Hold me. Hold me. Touch my forearm. Touch my fingertips. Touch my fingertips. Hold my hand. Hold my hand. Let me go. Touch my fingertips. Touch.

Impossible but Still-Possible Dance

I am dancing with an impossibility, too, as we all inevitably are here—dancing with the thing that lurks behind all that is happening, obedient beyond the register of our knowing to the voice that dissolves every time we open our mouths.

Yes, we are dancing, inevitably, with the undanced dance created then at once erased by the very coming-into being of the dances that do make their way onto this dance floor.

This impossible dance, this undanced and in a way maybe un-danceable dance takes form through all the invitations the algorithm excludes—all the possibilities not contained in the constraint of “touch me, hold me, let me go.” These excluded invitations rise in me, as if summoned by the glorious restraint this simple form imposes, by the equation that would seem to authorize their absence: touch me, hold me, let me go. And nothing else.

All registers of the “nothing else” dance inside me as silent orders issued to a dance partner who is not, could not be here, almost definitionally—odd things one maybe does not consider as often as one should, for instance: lick my ankle bone; bite my Achilles tendon, squeeze the side of my quadricep, just above the knee; claw at the sides of my ribcage; run your fingers up the inside of my arm—very lightly! Brush the back of your hand down the back of my arm, all the way to the fingertips. Let go. Pause. Wait. Walk away. Return when I least expect it. Grab my

Can we unsay the unsayable?

Can we listen and wait, let nothing be the greatest thing we do, together

shoulders, from behind. Hold my brain in your hands, softly; trace your fingers with exquisite and gentle precision through the pathways of my mind. Trace barely perceptible circles on my earlobes. Now, hold my ribcage—hard— between your hands. Don’t let go. Stand on my foot. Why so shy? Don’t go lightly! Really stand on it, full weight. Hold my face in your open hands. Sit quietly beside me. Say nothing. Hold my hand. Now, it is your turn—l am ready. My hands are warm. I am not afraid—or if I am, only a little. Know that I take pleasure, too, in that—comfort, after all, is not everything to me, not even close.

Can we unsay the unsayable? Can we listen and wait, let nothing be the greatest thing we do, together. For now, then, maybe we stay in this simplicity, in this constraint. Yes, yes, let us stick with that, endlessly as need be: touch me, hold me, let me go. Though impossibilities crowd the space between us let us dance, instead, inside the limit, our tongues betraying nothing of the silence out of which no desire can speak. Warm animals, we watch each other from across the room, dreaming, dancing and only so very rarely touching, let alone holding, between the pathways of our difference.

The work: objective perspective

To enter the work, Su-Feh introduces three invitations/commands, and only three: touch me, hold me, let me go. It is within the limits of these three that one must play.

First, we learn to feel for these invitations and commands within our own bodies, with the instruction to “seek pleasure” and to “soften around obstacles.” We touch our arm then listen for the next place that wants something; we touch our knee; we hold our collarbone, we let go. We learn the soft but discernible difference between a touch and a hold; we learn to hold on for long enough to feel for when letting go wants to happen. We let our bodies feel the touch, to smell it almost, to taste it.

We carry on like this for a long time, finding the rhythm within the constraint of these invitations. Later, we do this with the ground; we ask the earth, the planet, to touch our foot, to hold our pelvis, to let go of our thigh. Later still, and only after we have really gotten used to the previous steps, we do this with a partner. First we stay in our own dance but move closer to a partner, and listen as they issue invitations to their own body: they say “touch my shoulder" and they touch their own shoulder. Our partner listens, too, to the invitations we give our bodies: “touch my tailbone,” and we touch our own tailbone.

It is not as easy as one might think to cultivate this kind of dual attention—we are instructed not to abandon our own sense of pleasure as we listen to the other giving voice to theirs; and we want, too, to stay open to the world in all this, to the endlessness of space that courses through all of it, as we are carried through time to a place of neverarriving arrival. We want, for instance, in all

Lee Su-Feh in Touch Me, Hold Me, Let Me Go © Yvonne Chew

this, to still see the sky outside the window, to know that it, as surely as the gulls that fly through it, is there as part of what we are, here, together.

After we get used to this listening to self-andother, we start, delicately, slowly, but with great commitment, to learn to put our hands on each other, to permit other hands to be put on us— listening, always and carefully for the simple instruction: we will either touch, hold, or let go. Nothing else. And we will be faithful to the instructions: listen for pleasure, soften around obstacles. No definitions of either ‘obstacle’ or ‘pleasure’ are given—those are something we discover and forget, discover and forget, redefine and unravel and reconstitute along new lines, as we go. We find they mean quite different things to different people.

Disclaimer: One might think the work invoked a field that might be called “erotic” but in a way the opposite was true: the work serves, in my experience, to explode most of the habits of being-together that would lead towards registers of “eroticism” and permits an opening into a simple, if shameless innocence, a way of being with our bodies and each other past the confines of the, usually unspoken, habits of being that condition when, how, who we touch and why. Touch is freed, in a way, from having to have what Su-Feh calls “an agenda.” We become, instead, just here, with so much space around our togetherness it becomes possible in a way it would not otherwise be—to touch, to hold, to let go.

Lee Su-Feh (she/her/they/them)’s work encompasses choreography, performance, teaching, dramaturgy, writing and community-organizing. Born and raised in Malaysia, they were indelibly marked by teachers who strove to find a contemporary Asian expression out of the remnants of colonialism and dislocated traditions. Since moving to xʷməθkʷəy əm (Musqueam), Sḵwx wú7mesh (Squamish), səlilwətaɬ (TsleilWaututh) Territories, a.k.a. Vancouver, Canada, in 1988, Su-Feh has created a body of work that explores the contemporary body as a site of intersecting and displaced histories and habits. These works have taken place in theatres, on the streets, on beaches and in the forest, in print and online.

Kristen Lewis , JD, LLM is a dance artist, writer, teacher and advocate. She is the artistic director of Gull Cry Dance Theatre and the director of the Canadian Centre for Men and Families.