10 Years Later

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New Orleans Ballet Association has staged a remarkable comeback after Hurricane Katrina.

“The generosity of dance organizations was simply incredible." —Jenny Hamilton, Noba's executive director, on how companies and schools across the country pitched in after the storm

A glance at Google Maps told Jenny Hamilton most of what she needed to know about the state of the New Orleans Ballet Association after Katrina, the Category 5 hurricane that rendered the city 80 percent underwater on August 29, 2005. She wasn't surprised to find that 12 out of 14 of NOBA's teaching sites were damaged, along with the organization's offices; presenting venue, the Mahalia Jackson Theater of the Performing Arts; and, of course, her apartment. “I never cried," says Hamilton, NOBA's executive director. “I couldn't afford too much emotion." With a staff scattered across five states after the storm, she returned to Louisiana to rebuild not only an organization but a city.

Rebuilding meant giving back to New Orleans something it desperately needed besides food, fresh water and housing—the free dance classes and inspirational performances NOBA was responsible for. Despite its compromised resources, NOBA's leadership, staff and community all came together to create one of the most robust comeback stories in the dance field.

Getting Back on Their Feet

NOBA, which started in 1969 as a civic ballet company, eventually evolved into an education and presenting organization—one that's accumulated many national awards and honors for best practices. Since the early 1990s, thanks in part to a partnership with the New Orleans Recreation Development Commission (NORDC), NOBA has offered classes—recreational and pre-professional—through the school systems and community organizations.

Summer intensive students perform Limón's Missa Brevis.

After the storm in 2005, Hamilton returned to Louisiana and had classes running again in two months—an extraordinary feat considering the extent of the damage. NOBA suffered $100,000 in losses—including dance equipment (barres, mirrors, A/V electronics, sprung floors, marley, music), office equipment (phones, computers, furniture) and the damage to the buildings. With the Mahalia Jackson Theater closed—it wouldn't open again for another three and a half years—upcoming productions had to be canceled, and NOBA lost 75 percent of its projected earned revenue for the 2005–06 season. An emergency cash reserve went toward compensating the staff members. “We never missed a paycheck," says Hamilton proudly.

Without 12 of their 14 classroom sites, Hamilton and her team arranged to teach in neighboring Jefferson Parish. They put up yard signs around the largest city, Metairie, announcing “Free Dance Classes," along with Hamilton's personal cell phone number. “It was the Wild West," she says. More than 65 organizations from all over the U.S. came to the rescue with supplies worth more than $500,000, and some sent cash, like Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater, which contributed $5,000.

Hamilton (right) with
a NOBA student

“The generosity of dance organizations was simply incredible," says Hamilton. Her future husband's home was soon filled floor-to-ceiling with donated materials such as tights, leotards, dance shoes, costumes, warm-ups, CDs, dance magazines and books. NOBA's regular donors contributed, too. “Many called to see how they could help, and many of our subscribers generously donated the value of their subscriptions back to us," she says.

In the meantime, Hamilton scrambled to reconfigure the performance season for the following spring at Tulane University, a venue less than half the size of the Mahalia Jackson Theater. David Parsons donated the Parsons Dance company artistic fee, and the Joffrey Ballet curated a repertory program that would fit the Tulane theater. Though NOBA sold fewer tickets because of the smaller venue, Hamilton considers the performances a triumph over adversity: “We filled the house when we didn't know the location of more than 50 percent of our audience, and much of the city was still in ruins."


Student performance of Katrina Cranes, by teaching artist Monique MossBy Jeff Strout, courtesy of NOBA


The Show Must Go On

Now, 10 years later, things are better than ever, and NOBA continues to bring programming to communities as schools reopen. In January of this year, NOBA started an early childhood development program for students ages 3 to 5.

Student performance of Katrina Cranes, by teaching artist Monique Moss

The organization now offers free classes at 10 sites across three parishes, and tights, leotard and shoes are provided to every student in need. “When the first city recreation center reopened after Katrina," says Hamilton, “NOBA began the tuition-free dance programs again. We've since raised the funds to bring tuition-free classes back to each neighborhood center as it reopens or is rebuilt. The demand for classes has increased with each year since the storm, with waiting lists at many of the centers."

The pre-professional program has doubled its enrollment since the storm and is holding steady at 100. NOBA pre-professional students get the chance to learn from visiting artists like the Martha Graham Dance Company, Parsons Dance and Complexions Contemporary Ballet. Graduates tend to head to Ailey II and institutions like SUNY Purchase, Houston Ballet Academy and Central Pennsylvania Youth Ballet. “Our students are exposed to an extremely sophisticated and varied array of technical and choreographic styles—not only in the dance studio, but on local and national stages," says Millette White, education coordinator.

NOBA has also expanded its partnership with NORDC to create a program for senior citizens. Initiated two years after Katrina, “this program now serves almost 300 seniors a year with a comprehensive fitness program," says Hamilton. “We're serving record numbers of participants ages 3 to 80-plus—1,750 each year." In fact, NOBA's current challenge is serving everyone who wants to take part in the programs offered, says Susan Bensinger, who manages the youth dance programs.


NOBA students in front of NYC's Joyce Theater, where they performed with Complexions in 2014By Jeff Strout, courtesy of NOBA


NOBA students in front of NYC's Joyce Theater, where they performed with Complexions in 2014

The Silver Lining

If there is such a thing as a silver lining to an event as devastating as Hurricane Katrina, it's the recognition NOBA has achieved as a great example of urban arts planning in action. The organization gained national attention for its impressive adaptability and how quickly it restored services.

Hamilton says it's the dedicated faculty's sustained engagement with the community that has enabled the organization to develop deep roots in the city. Over the years, not only have they introduced many dance artists to New Orleans audiences, but NOBA has also forged unique collaborations between choreographers and the musicians New Orleans is famous for. Under the Choreographer/NOLA Musician Commission Initiative for instance, NOBA was able to present the world premiere of Trey McIntyre's Ma Maison (2008) set to the music of Preservation Hall Jazz Band.

Financially, the organization is on solid ground. The operating budget has grown since Katrina by more than 40 percent, and Hamilton and her staff have managed the growth with a thoughtful eye.

Free classes offered at 10 sites across three parishes include a leotard, tights and dance shoes.

“Of course we survived the storm—we're an arts organization," says Hamilton. “We are trained as artists to deal with adversity and be creative. This is how we are built." DT

Nancy Wozny covered the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina in New Orleans' dance world for DanceMedia from Houston, Texas, where she lives and writes.

From top: Thinkstock; by Jeff Strout, courtesy of NOBA; courtesy of NOBA; (6) by Jeff Strout, courtesy of NOBA

Studio Owners
Megan McCluskey, courtesy Lown

Door-to-door costume delivery. Renting a movie screen to screen your virtual showcase as a drive-in in your parking lot. Giving every dancer the chance to have a private, red-carpet experience, even if it means sanitizing your studio 20-plus times in one day.

While these ideas may have sounded inconceivable a year ago, they are just some of the ways studio owners got creative with their end-of-year recitals in 2020.

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Higher Ed
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As we wade through a global pandemic that has threatened the financial livelihood of live performance, dancers and dance educators are faced with questions of sustainability.

How do we sustain ourselves if we cannot make money while performing? What foods are healthy for our bodies and fit within a tight unemployment budget? How do we tend to the mental, emotional and spiritual scars of the pandemic when we return to rehearsal and the stage?


The pandemic has highlighted this shared truth for dance artists: While we've been trained to dedicate our lives to the craft of art-making, we lack the knowledge to support ourselves when crisis hits. While we may have learned much about performing and creating dance in our college curriculums, most of us were not taught the answers to these questions of sustainability, or even those that come up in the normal life of a dance artist, like how to apply for a grant. Indeed, even before the pandemic, far too many dance artists faced abuse, harassment, mental health challenges, financial stress and other issues that they weren't equipped to deal with.

In 2017, inspired by the fact that dance curriculums so often hyper-focus on making and performing art but leave out the task of supporting an artistic life, choreographers David Thomson and Kate Watson-Wallace created The Sustainability Project, which seeks to create and expand discourse addressing the gap between technical and performance knowledge, and the knowledge that supports a healthy, sustainable life.

Since 2018, The Sustainability Project has been offered as a course called Artists' Sustainability at the Pratt Institute's Performance & Performance Studies graduate program, open to students of all disciplines at the undergraduate and graduate levels. The course incorporates goal-setting workbooks, discussions and projects that model artistic life postgraduation, like getting a grant funded, complete with artistic statements, proposals, budgets and a panel review.

Pratt isn't the only school to begin addressing this hole in their curriculum. At Shenandoah University, for example, Rebecca Ferrell has students in her first-year seminar for dance majors create personal and artistic budgets, and identify their personal and professional support systems.

We still have a long way to go, however, until this kind of learning is embraced as an essential part of any dance curriculum. Thomson says that while dance artists and students have embraced The Sustainability Project, school administrators have been reluctant to incorporate life-learning courses into their programs.

But if college isn't the time for this learning, when is the time? The fast-moving, demanding and exhausting life of an artist often does not leave space to learn new skills, such as balancing a budget, conflict resolution or creating a nutrition plan. And without these tools, dance artists often won't be able to put to use the artistic skills that their college programs focused on. (You can't show off your great training if you haven't been taught how to find a job, for instance.)

As the dance field struggles to survive the pandemic, it's more important than ever that dance education demystifies the working life of dance artists. Dance students are already taught to prevent injuries for the sake of their body's sustainability. Let's start thinking of dancers' careers the same way. As Thomson put it, "Would you send your child out into a snow storm with a pretty coat, hat and scarf without any shoes?"

Teachers Trending
Cynthia Oliver in her office. Photo by Natalie Fiol

When it comes to Cynthia Oliver's classes, you always bring your A game. (As her student for the last two and a half years in the MFA program at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, I feel uniquely equipped to make this statement.) You never skip the reading she assigns; you turn in not your first draft but your third or fourth for her end-of-semester research paper; and you always do the final combination of her technique class full-out, even if you're exhausted.

Oliver's arrival at UIUC 20 years ago jolted new life into the dance department. "It may seem odd to think of this now, but the whole concept of an artist-scholar was new when she first arrived," says Sara Hook, who also joined the UIUC dance faculty in 2000. "You were either a technique teacher or a theory/history teacher. Cynthia's had to very patiently educate all of us about the nature of her work, and I think that has increased our passion for the kind of excavation she brings to her research."


Coming off a successful choreographic and performance career in New York City and a PhD in performance studies from New York University, Oliver held her artistic and scholarly careers in equal regard—and refused to be defined by only one of them. She demands the same rigor and versatility from the BFA and MFA students she teaches today—as in this semester's aptly titled Synthesis, a grad class where students read female-authored memoirs (Audre Lorde's Zami, Gabrielle Civil's Swallow the Fish) and then create short movement studies from prompts based on a memoir's narrative structure or content. It was Oliver, too, who advocated that grad students should be required to take at least one class outside of the dance department, as a way of guaranteeing a cross-disciplinary influence on their studies.

Oliver, wearing black pants and a green shirt, dances on a sidewalk outside a building

Natalie Fiol

But alongside her high standards, Oliver has also become known for holding space for students' complexity. "I have a tendency for a particular kind of disobedience or defiance, and people usually try to punish that," says Niall Jones, who graduated from the MFA program in 2014 and has also been a performer in Oliver's work. "But Cynthia finds a way to see and attend to what's really happening in that posture. She has a capacity to listen. There's a space for otherness in her work and in her teaching, to allow people to step into different ways of being."

Though Oliver's role at the university has undergone some shifts over the last few years, the connection between her work and her art remains a thread through everything she does. Three years ago, she began splitting her time between the dance department and the Office of the Vice Chancellor for Research, where she helps scholars and faculty in the humanities and arts find support for their research. And over the summer, Oliver was named a Center for Advanced Study professor, an appointment that she'll hold until she retires, which comes with an annual research stipend and the chance to engage with other scholars across campus.

I sat down with Oliver over Zoom to pick her brain about how she crafts her legendary syllabi and what it's been like to watch dance academia slowly embrace her approach.

Oliver sits at her desk, surrounded by books and papers, leaning forward onto her forearms

Natalie Fiol

What's kept you here at Illinois for 20 years?

I came here as an experiment. I had been an independent artist in New York for many years, and I intended to continue doing that, because that was a life that worked for me. But at the same time, I would have these periods where I thought, "What am I doing?" During one of those periods, I went to grad school for performance studies. As I was finishing up, Renée Wadleigh, who had been my undergrad teacher [at Adelphi University, before Wadleigh joined the UIUC faculty] reached out to me and said, "I've been following your career. If you ever think about teaching at a university, consider Illinois." [My husband] Jason and I decided to try it for three years. We always felt like we could go back to the city if we hated it.

Many of us think: "I'm going to go into the academy, and my career will be over." It doesn't. It might amplify it in certain ways, and it might ebb and flow. For me, I needed that ebb and flow, so I could recover from a really active period and then focus on my writing and teaching for a period. It's a different kind of intellectual engagement. That's what's kept me here.

How has your approach to pedagogy changed over your time here?

In New York, I had a class that I would teach that generally was offered to other professionals who were preparing to go to rehearsal. In the academy, I had to learn a different kind of teaching, and that's where my real education started around pedagogy.

I realized that I could either continue in a kind of dominant aesthetic vein, or I could figure out what I had to offer that was different from what the students were getting from my peers in the department. So that's what I did. I called on my Afro-Caribbean background, my club dancing background, my time with Ronald K. Brown and Baba Richard González, my growing up in the Caribbean. I started to pull that material into a structure that reflected the values that I have around community and bodies being together—people understanding a depth of engagement that is not immediately Eurocentric. There was space to do my own investigation here, to think about my own pedagogical aesthetic and cultural interests, and incorporate them in my teaching. That's also what keeps me here. I can continue to question and shape and change according to certain values and attach those to my research interests.

Oliver stands in her office, leaning back against a filing cabinet and smirking at the camera

Natalie Fiol

I've always assumed that the seminars you teach in the grad program are so writing- and research-intensive because of your experience getting your PhD in performance studies. Is that true?

I have a strong intellectual interest. My experience going into performance studies enriched my practice in ways that I could not have imagined. I remember what it felt like to have all of those pistons firing while I was making work. It was overwhelming, it was stimulating, it was exciting. I wanted to cry, I wanted to scream—all at once. I think I offer that to our program. There's also my insistence on the cross-disciplinary requirement in our program. You all have to reach outside of the department to engage with other intellectuals and creative practitioners across disciplines to inform your own.

There are grad students who have cursed me for bringing that kind of rigor. But my experience in the field has been about my being able to talk about my work in-depth—about the choices I make, about epistemologies around it, about world views, influences, all of that. In order to do that convincingly, you have to have a foundation. I want you all to be legit, to know what it is you're talking about your own work in relation to. And that comes from an intellectual heft.

The syllabi you create for the grad classes are incredible. They're so thoughtful, so detailed, so well-crafted. How do you do that?

I work on my syllabi like I work on my choreographic projects. I piece these bad boys together over time. I do not do it in a rush. I take notes. If I come across something—a scholar, what I've read, what someone said—I'll jot it down. Eventually, I'll pull all of those notes together. That's when it gets exciting. There's always something serendipitous about it.

There are people who don't see the labor that goes into my class. And that's when I say, "OK, I'm going to reveal the bones of this in a way I wouldn't, ordinarily." For example, in a course I'm teaching this semester, I only used texts by women. I didn't walk in and announce it—"Well, if you would notice, all of these authors are women"—I just did it, because, for me, that was a feminist act. Because that's how a white, patriarchal voice works: It presumes authority, and it offers you this information—and you are supposed to take it, as if that's the law of intellectual curiosity, of how one should think.

Oliver, in black pants and a green shirt, dances in a grassy area by a street. She leans to the side, her arms swaying beside her

Natalie Fiol

Your longtime approach is finally being picked up by dance programs across the country that are slowly decolonizing their curriculums. Does that make you feel excited? Relieved?

There's a part of me that is tired, to be honest. Because artists of color have been doing this work for a really long time—that labor has always rested on our shoulders. I have to resist any moments of cynicism and really be willing to just seize the moment and work with folks to make the changes happen. I don't know that America as a whole is ready for it, but it feels like institutions are finally ready to look at the ways inequity has historically been established and continues through the systems in place.

So how do you combat that feeling of tiredness?

I think by seeing things happen, by seeing change—seeing more students of color in our program, for example. I'm excited that I have two additional colleagues of color [associate professor Endalyn Taylor and assistant professor C. Kemal Nance] on our faculty. We're not a perfect situation, but our department head, Jan Erkert, has made this a priority. That makes it easier to make people feel more welcome. At the same time, you have to understand that if you change your curriculum to be more inclusive—as it should be—you also have to be nimble and responsive to what the needs are of that diverse community. Those are the growing pains that have to happen.

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