Butter flowers and a Mastiff
published: 2010-05-24Picture this: Summer. Tall grass sprinkled with daisies and snow ladies. Splashes of yellow butter flowers. Bursts of greens. Spotlights of sun.
Kids dance in the park. They are practicing something. They are of all ages and heritage. There is also a family: tattoos, beers, electric wheelchair, greasy hair, bare-chested, fat, rowdy. And one big Mastiff. He is doted on.
There is a performance. A classical song laced with a tango blasts through speakers. The kids sit and watch in awe as two dancers – a young man and woman – in elegant black start to dance. Their dance is a composition. Their bodies twist and turn in both elegant and awkward postures. After the intro, they leap and roll towards a spot between two trees. Right in front of the Mastiff. They’re dance is now solemn, introspective. The Mastiff growls, the family guffaws. They shout a few things in jest.
But the dancers keep at it, as if the family isn’t there. As if none of us are, not even the kids. It’s only them, their bodies, and the music. Concentrated and unshaken. The chuckles quieten. And after five minutes the family is watching them as intently as the kids are. By the time the dancers have finished, the family claps and cheers for more.