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Erik Saradpon on What It Takes to Teach Hip Hop

"No formal training. No dance studio. No mentor," says Erik Saradpon about his beginnings in hip hop.

"I think that's why I'm especially tough on these guys, because I don't take the relationship for granted," he says, referring to his students. "I'm like a dad to them. I had a shortage of role models in my life. I wanted that so badly. I project that onto my kids."


Saradpon has carved out a formidable career teaching, choreographing and heading the hip-hop program of the Temecula Dance Company in the Los Angeles area, and as the founder/director of the hip-hop troupe FORMALITY. He was a second runner-up for the Capezio A.C.E. Awards, winner of Best Hip Hop at the Industry Dance Awards and second-place awardee at the 2018 Palm Desert Choreography Festival. And he's an in-demand teacher studio owners turn to when they desperately need to learn hip-hop instruction—or to find, hire and nurture their hip-hop teachers.

In his hour-long hip-hop classes, Saradpon gives at least 15 minutes of warm-up. "I get the blood moving, the hips alive, get the shoulders activated, get them feeling funky," he says. He then moves on to progressions across the floor. In all levels, from beginners (no younger than 8) to advanced, he teaches fundamentals—basics of weight shift, placement, grooves, freestyle and mechanics. "With the older guys, I do way more style and performance, and later I introduce textures and dynamics," he says. "If they can do technique well, they can do anyone's choreography. I want to train them beyond the competition studio—to succeed outside."

"Sometimes I see clean dancers with no essence of what makes it cool"

Observing a trend in hip-hop studios across the country, Saradpon notes a certain hollowness in the training—teaching the moves without the style or wit of the streets where it started. "Sometimes I just see clean dancers with no essence of what makes it cool," he says. "Some teachers can't touch on what makes it cool or don't have a student who can show how to do it. I have an abundance of guys who know how to show it."

And the frequent lack of structure, discipline and studio etiquette in hip-hop classes make him crazy. "There's too much freedom, so kids don't know how to take a good class," he says. "I can't fathom why hip-hop teachers don't embrace that enough. I feel they reserve that only for ballet or other technique classes. Discipline is great in everything—sports, relationships or hip-hop class. The kids succeed here [in Temecula] because they are disciplined."

Photo by Patrick Andrada, courtesy of Saradpon


"My savior was music"

Saradpon grew up in San Diego in a Filipino-American family with three brothers. "There was lots of testosterone in the house, and I didn't have an outlet like soccer or martial arts," he says. "My savior was music, and music for me is so related to dance. Eighties music—Duran Duran, Madonna, Prince, Bobby Brown—became the soundtrack to my life." In junior high, he joined the show choir, singing show tunes without really knowing what "Broadway" meant.

It was the hip-hop crew he started in his backyard that led, in 1996, to the formation of FORMALITY, the troupe he still directs today. "We would perform at everything from school talent shows to assemblies, street competitions, car import shows," he says. "Through that crew I learned how to teach people to become teachers. And they became teachers in studios all over Southern California."

In 2006, when the artistic director of Temecula Dance Company, Jimmy Peters, invited him to teach, Saradpon was initially reluctant. But, he says, "it turned into the best time of my life. [Jimmy] said, 'Do what you do with FORMALITY here within these studio walls.' He taught me a lot about seeing the best in kids, that when a boy walks into the studio, as terrible as he may be at that moment, he's defeating the odds already by being here. We take every boy who comes through those doors very seriously."



Saradpon has coached and choreographed for The Boys of Temecula, the ensemble from Temecula Dance Company that wowed viewers on NBC's "World of Dance." Photo by Trae Patton/NBC, courtesy of Saradpon


"It's your class—education is education"

Last year, Saradpon gave his first hip-hop conference for teachers at the DanceLife Teacher Conference in Phoenix. He was stunned to see more than 100 eager teachers in the audience. "They wanted to know where they could find teachers like me, how to build a discipline in the hip-hop genre," he says. "They're fighting hard to stay relevant, not dated or hokey. They ask if it's cool to do a warm-up, progressions and choreography. I say, 'It's your class—education is education.'" He advises them on how to cultivate teachers within the studio, shares kid-friendly playlists and recommends where to find proper hip-hop-class attire. "Sometimes on my social media, I'll get a message from a teacher in her 50s or 60s, wearing her warm-up suit and doing my progressions," he says. "I'm always tickled by that. You need to know who you're reaching."

An example of his practical instructional sequence for teachers uses familiar music: "Step in Time" from Mary Poppins, with hip-hop beats. "It shows them how to formulate it, where the accents are and what kind of big moves and weight shifts look good within the phrasing of the choreography," he says. "Good choreography is good storytelling—there's an intro, content, buildup and conclusion."

"I don't think anyone was aware of how popular it was going to become"

Some dance industry professionals have suggested that hip hop needs a syllabus like ballet or jazz to establish a universal hip-hop vocabulary and curriculum. "That's an uphill battle," says Saradpon. "I don't know what the solution is." In ballet, despite the disparate schools, a tendu and a pas de bourrée are globally recognized. Hip hop's freestyle, improvisational moves differ from the Bronx to the West Coast to Memphis. Beginning with its origins on urban blocks, he says, "I don't think any of them created it to become a dance artform to be consumed by dance studios."

Despite his successes, Saradpon has faced insecurities about his own career. So reputable as a men's teacher, he's often felt less capable of teaching and choreographing for women. Watching commercial choreographer Rhapsody James (Dance Teacher, April 2010) has inspired him to calibrate his eye toward making a visual impact, using women's anatomical differences and movement quality to their advantage. Watching him work with intermediate girls in the studio, though, you'd never detect a problem. The girls match the boys on nearly every level.



Teaching at The Pulse. Photo courtesy of Saradpon


"Love on hip hop the way you would ballet"

For those studio owners who know that they need to strengthen and honor their hip-hop programs, Saradpon shares advice: Don't treat the training like a poor, distant cousin. "Love on the hip-hop program the way you would love on ballet technique or tap or jazz," he says. He asks studio directors to value those teachers like anyone on their staff, but to still demand a lot, and let them know what they demand.

"Don't be afraid to think outside the box when looking for a hip-hop teacher," he says. He counsels teachers to search within their own studios for an instructor or an advanced student who might teach hip hop—even students from 20 years ago. "Don't be afraid to be vulnerable and announce what you're looking for in a great hip-hop teacher," he adds.

He stresses serious professionalism in every aspect of the work: the integrity of the instruction and the choreography; prompt, clear responses to e-mails; and rational, emotionally restrained interactions with students' parents with concerns.

Hip-hop instructors also need committed support. "Value yourself and don't ever settle," he says "Don't allow yourself to feel like you're on a remote island. Trust in your voice and the structure of your class. Be authentically yourself. That's been my strength here in the studio."

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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