Unveiling the Dance
Not just dirty dancing, as practiced by a Las Cruces troupe, belly dancing is an art.
By Jeff Berg
Elizabeth moves quickly and with purpose to the music. Her costume flows gently about her as she gracefully performs an eclectic version of an ancient art. The rhythm of percussion follows her as she presents herself to the most royal of her audience–offering movement covered in sheaths of fine cloth, with silk braids moving in their own cadence around her waist. She gently removes a snake from the large basket that holds the other items to make her dance more effective, and offers it quietly to those with rapt attention.
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Jaime (left) and Antonia get ready for swordplay. |
The drumbeat is slightly hypnotic and enhances Elizabeth's self-choreographed version of a rain dance.
The music ends and Elizabeth takes her place on the sideline, as another dancer, Jaime Darling, takes her place. Jaime's aura of mystery is magnetic, as she begins her self-styled dance movement.
Belly dancing began at the beginning of time, Elizabeth explains. She points to the various parts of her handmade costume, most of which symbolize a woman's celebration of fertility and life. Many of the accessories are around her hips–mostly long, braided pieces of fabric–while her upper body is decorated with rows of old coins, forming a sort of short breastplate. The coins were also used by dancers of the past to signify wealth.
Elizabeth is one of about 40 women who partake in the ageless art of belly dance in Las Cruces. This day she and a number of other dancers are performing at the Dona Ana Arts Council's Renaissance ArtsFaire, the 35th edition of that popular event.
The performance of these dancers at something as wholesome as the "Ren Faire" should also rebuff the notion that belly dancing is a Middle Eastern form of striptease. When performed in the traditional way, it is a beautiful and artful craft.
When not dancing, Elizabeth is a massage therapist and horse breeder. She lives on a farm whose main crop is hay, and it is not without some irony that this rain dancer notes that the summer's heavy rains ruined her crops. She is able to smile about it, however, and agrees that she should work on creating a snow dance.
The snake that is in her basket? She says it is a symbol of rain, as they are seen as protectors of water. "Snakes protect crops," she notes.
The particular asp she uses for her performance is not a live one, as she feels that a real one would require too much care. Instead she uses a quite realistic faux snake, which is now safely tucked in her, as she calls it, "laundry basket," which also contains her other props and veils.
Elizabeth began dancing when a friend, Antonia Harper, who is the organizer of this group of women, said to her simply, "Let's dance!" They began doing the exotic form of dance together about eight or nine years ago, but this is Elizabeth's first time dancing at the Faire.
One of the reasons she is enamored with this type of movement, she says, is because of the costumes. Indeed, all of the women are wearing colorful attire made from soft and silken fabrics, in all colors and in all manners of style. Elizabeth's costume is more flowing and more secretive than Antonia's or Jaime's. Those two women have opted for the more common (at least to the untrained eye) outfit, the kind that reveals one's midriff. Several of the women have tattoos on their lower backs, too. All three dancers design and construct their own costumes.
Not much is known about the history of belly dancing, but although quite popular in the Middle East and Mediterranean parts of the world, it would seem likely that women in every country practice the skill or a variation thereof. One would also of course find different variations of the dance around the world, ranging from more cabaret-type dances to those that are more along the lines of a folk dance.
It was during the 1893 Chicago World's Fair that belly dancing might have first been associated with eroticism. Among the rides and precursors to corndogs at the fair was a series of midway acts that were meant to offer information about the music and dance of other cultures, including Morocco.
A Web site, shira.net, notes the response by turn-of-the-century prudes: "Even though the dancers of the Moroccan pavilion were fully clothed from head to toe, wearing long-sleeved outfits, the fact that they moved their midriffs so easily was very disturbing to turn-of-the-century Americans. Soon a senator was trying to shut down the act, and newspaper headlines were screaming about the scandal. This, of course, led the public to become very curious, and they went to the fair to see what all the fuss was about. Fair promoters were delighted, and encouraged the scandal.
"After the fair was over, many vaudeville performers eagerly added the 'hoochy koochy' (the name that arose for 'belly' dancing) to their repertoires. Building on the scandal that originally made the dance famous, these all-American performers emphasized its sleaziness in a ploy to draw crowds. They succeeded."
But there is nothing "hoochy" or "koochy" about it to practitioners and the true audience of this art form.
"American Tribal Fusion" is the most accurate way to describe the style of dance that Antonia, Jaime and Elizabeth are doing. It is a blend of many different types of belly dancing from around the world, with a subtle US touch.
Other dancers have been sharing their dexterity in this craft during the interview. After Jaime has done a solo performance, a taller woman with bright red hair, Sarah, has taken a turn, as has Antonia. Now Jaime and Antonia have returned and are doing a piece that involves the use of swords. Their fluid movements are accented by their handling of the weapons.
Jaime is now living in Albuquerque, but has numerous Las Cruces connections. She is an anthropologist, environmental scientist and textile artist.
She wears more decoration, shall we say, than her fellow dancers. She explains, "My eye makeup is typical of tribal-style belly dance, as are the facial markings. Those markings are called Harquus and are used in several Middle Eastern and African tribes such as the Berber people. Often they are painted on as well as permanently tattooed. General purpose for them is blessing and protection from harm, though certain patterns have different meanings. (More info on Harquus can be found at www.hennapage.com.) My headpiece came from the Akha Hilltribe of Thailand, and is a genuine piece."
She adds that a sari factory in India sends textile scraps to a Nepalese factory, which in turn does much of the weaving that is needed for the fabrics. As an added bonus, it is a "fair trade" organization, which pays its artists and weavers a living wage.
Jaime started dancing about nine years ago, when she was 18. "I loved watching the dancers, and would go to the Greek Fest (held each summer) in El Paso to do so. I started playing around with it, teaching myself, and continued to watch, picking up more movements over the years. It is a progressive thing. I have not had any formal training until recently."
Jaime has had some shared information from some of the other dancers. "Now it consumes half my life," she says, more than half-seriously.
Her husband, Shawn, is one of the drummers providing the music. When not performing, the other dancers add to the cadence with a variety of simple instruments, such as tambourines or rhythm sticks. One of the more unusual features of the Las Cruces group is that a bass guitar, played by Joe Angelo, is often added to the musical mix.
Shawn is also a filmmaker who has done a low-budget thriller called Ghosts, and is now working on his next feature, with the working title of Dead Meat. When not writing about violent methods of death, Shawn also writes some of the music for the dancers.
"In addition to drums he also plays guitar, Native American Flute, piano and keyboard, and fiddle," Jaime adds. "All constantly contribute to his music and he plays all instruments on his recordings. He is also a vocalist."
Jaime relates another type of dance that she is performing at the fair's Natives and Nomads stage, in which she uses "fire fingers." These are "hollow, thin nine-inch brass tubing welded to rings that slip over my fingers. They have wicks made of Kevlar tape wrapped around the tips, which are dipped in fuel and lit on fire. My fuel of choice is 99 percent pure paraffin lamp oil, which is a fairly clean and slow-burning fuel, and not as volatile/combustible as other fire-artist fuels like naphtha (white gas), which is often used when spinning poi." The art of "spinning poi" involves the rhythmic spinning of balls of yarn that are attached to cords–or, in this case, larger Kevlar wicks on chains. The balls are often aflame. The practice is credited to the Maori, the native people of New Zealand.
"Fire fingers make an impressive performance, (since) I am using fire it's kind of a daredevil thing that's more impressive to the audience, and the fingers give the appearance of flaming 'fans,' which accentuate hand and arm movements during the dance," Jaime says. "I have been working with fire for almost a year now, though I started with spinning poi. I wanted something I could incorporate into my belly dancing, and poi are simply too dangerous to use while wearing such an involved costume, due to the risk of hitting my clothing, and that is why I started performing with fire fingers. They look elegant and beautiful with the dance, and they allow me to combine two of my favorite performing arts.
"It is important to me that when I perform with fire I do it safely. I am always sure to place myself no less than 10 feet from my audience, especially children. I always have at least one 'safety' present as well–someone who has knowledge of what I am doing as well as fire-safety education. Responsibility and safety come first, because it's a lot of fun but overall you must remember it is still dangerous!"
The bass guitarist for the troupe, Joe Angelo, is resting in front of one of the tents. His day job is as a welding instructor at Santa Teresa High School. He also has done some artwork, which incorporates his welding skills.
Although his wife is not a dancer, his musical interests eventually lead him into being part of this troupe. After a brief tour of the three beautifully reproduced nomad-type tents, Angelo offers a bit of his musical history.
"I've been into music all of my life," he says. "My grandparents played the mandolin and piano, and my sons are also musicians."
After an accident in which he lost parts of several fingers, he started going to the belly-dancing practices, originally as a spectator. But soon he was invited to join in musically, and consequently is probably one of the few people in the country who accompanies traditional belly-dance music with a bass guitar.
He says, "It fills in the background, and offers a somewhat different (personal) outlet, too. I can't read music, so this is very much a free-form type of accompaniment."
As Joe talks, Antonia is performing an impromptu solo dance with the sword. Bystanders stop, transfixed by her movement and grace. One young woman who was watching the performance at the stage has moved over to the camp area. Tall and thin, the young woman will probably be performing here herself next autumn.
Antonia, who is a hair stylist by day, has been dancing since 1977. She began to do it in earnest and performing for the public in 1999.
She says simply, "I love dance and I love the music."
Her hand sweeps toward the group of 10 or so people on or around the performance area. She says, "This is our fusion group. We don't exactly perform American Tribal Style or Egyptian; it is more of a village gypsy style, and we have fun with it. There are a lot of fantasy themes, and it is like belly dancing with a twist.
"You can't stop art, and you can't keep it from progressing in all directions," she says over her shoulder as she walks away to take the stage again.
Belly-dancer Antonia Harper offers lessons and
can be reached at 644-4069 in Las Cruces.
Senior writer Jeff Berg would not look
good in a belly-dancing costume.