I first became aware of modern dance companies by the publicity shots I’d see in newspapers. Women with their hands apart pointing to Casper the Ghost or other imaginary diety. Men, wearing only white gauze, cantering over another dancer in crouch pose eating a daisy. They had me. And then when I started actually attending dance performances, it sealed the deal.
S called me up and said, “I’ve got a spare for tonight if you want to come to St Sauveur.” Continue reading “Modern Dance: Elvis or Johnny Cash”
The Director almost laughed when our visitors announced they were from L’Isle. It was what I used to call the town where I spent some quality time as a youngster myself… the chicagoland version, that is. But I was a sad imitation, whereas they? They were four hearty, healthy, good-looking youth who spoke English better than I spoke French.
It was the first time we let out our home. We usually just stuck guests upstairs in our ramshackle atticle. Where everyone but these bitter, hungover French people from Lyon enjoyed their stay.
The L’islians tried to build a fire last night. “Watch they don’t know how,” the Director paced. “Leave them alone. Maybe they’ll just talk outside, relaxing if they can’t make it,” I said.
“Who wants to just talk?” the Director said.
Continue reading “Franco follies”