Sponsored by Harlequin Floors

How to Make Your Home Studio Feel Like the Real Thing

Photo courtesy of Baca and Lopes

In the three months that most studios across the country have been shuttered due to COVID-19, teachers and students alike have grown increasingly adept at teaching and taking class online.

But no matter how expertly you're able to communicate over Zoom, or how much you adjust your class to fit into a small space, if you and your students don't have a place to dance comfortably and distraction-free, it will be difficult to get the most out of training.

By encouraging your students to treat their home studio like the real thing (and doing the same for yourself!) you can optimize the virtual class experience.

Set the scene.

Ever since her teaching schedule moved entirely to Zoom, Burklyn Ballet Theatre artistic director Joanne Whitehill has encouraged her students to approach virtual classes as though they were entering the studio. "It's a routine and a ritual to go into a dance studio," Whitehill says. "Being able to set up a home studio—no matter how big or small—is a mental stability for students."

While taking class in your kitchen or bedroom will never feel the same, you can take steps to ensure you're getting as close to pre-quarantined days as possible. Harlequin Floors offers a multi-purpose and slip-resistant dance mat (and a smaller practice mat, if you're working with limited space!) that can be used for everything from pointework to tap classes. Paired with a sturdy countertop or one of Harlequin's freestanding ballet barres (and maybe even a mirror), teachers can properly demonstrate, and students can return to the familiar.

Physical therapist Holly Burns corrects a student's placement in her pointe shoes on the small square practice mat, branded with Harlequin's logo.

Harlequin's smaller practice mat

Photo courtesy Holly Burns

Pennsylvania Ballet star couple and master teachers Sterling Baca and Nayara Lopes own two Harlequin dance mats for their daily classes and cross-training. "We push our two mats together, and it has an immediate psychological effect," says Baca.

Supplemental studio tools, like a Harlequin Turning Board or foam roller, can encourage more independent studio time for young dancers—especially important now as students are typically receiving less instruction time than usual. (Just make sure students have received proper training in how to use any additional tools.)

And if there were ever a time to install a sprung floor at home, it's now: Handy parents with fundamental carpentry skills can order a few panels of Harlequin's self-install sprung Flexity floor, and give their dancer a safe area to practice jumps at home.

Luckily, Cleveland-based ballroom and tap teacher Fred Discenzo installed Harlequin's Flexity flooring in his home basement last summer. His initial hope was to find a solution to growing knee and hip pain from home practice, but now, what was meant to be a rehearsal area for him and his wife has become a professional-quality haven for them to continue moving through the pandemic.

Not sure you want to dedicate that extra room or basement into a permanent studio space? Discenzo says that the flooring is easy to install and easy to move—so you only have to commit to the sprung floors as long as you need to.

A large basement room outfitted with sprung wood floors and a sound system.

Discenzo's home studio setup.

Photo courtesy Discenzo

Nail the routine. 

For dance mom Jodi Visco, creating a routine that involves the whole family has helped her 13-year-old keep up with her regular dance schedule on Zoom. Her daughter, Kate, has been using Harlequin's dance mat with an accompanying barre and mirror for her daily jazz, tap, modern and ballet classes in an available upstairs room.

"For us, it was a matter of separating spaces and staggering certain things," Visco says. It takes coordination and practice, but Visco has been able to schedule her conference calls around Kate's tap classes or her other daughter's music lessons. "We've been flexible working around each other," she says.

Whitehall agrees, adding that the most important thing parents can do for young dancers is to encourage them to act as if they were back in the studio environment. That means refraining from talking with passing family members or snacking while in a virtual class.

"The funniest thing I see when teaching on Zoom is when dancers raise their hand and ask to use the bathroom," she laughs. Even though young dancers are in their own homes, it's essential for them to feel as though they are giving their teachers the same respect as they would in person.

Finding a routine or regimen can also create a meaningful getaway from the stress of quarantining or sheltering-in-place. Whatever space you create as a teacher or student, make it an escape. "It's a joy I look forward to," says Discenzo of his own daily practice in his sprung home studio.

The same basement floor, half of which is taped black vinyl, the other is the sprung wood

Discenzo's home studio in-process

Photo courtesy Discenzo

Quality over quantity.

Parents might be tempted to put their dancer's mini-studio in the kitchen or move aside furniture in the living room, but Whitehill warns against this. "Dancers don't need to have a huge space," she says, emphasizing that taking class in more public spaces can actually lead to more distractions.

"We've been trying to inspire our students by reminding them that a lot of ballet technique is stationary, so there's no reason you can't improve with the space you have," says Baca. He reports that he's been following his own advice with barre work and small jumps on his dance mat, and has still seen improvement.

Just be sure to watch out for bad habits that crop up from limited space. "I see students adjust themselves to avoid the wall behind them, but they forget to bring their turnout along with them," Whitehall says. She recommends teachers draw their students' focus back to structural basics, especially the eight body positions in ballet technique. Whitehill has even had her students with Harlequin dance mats tape the four corners of their "box" to encourage proper facings, something she wouldn't have been able to do in a regular studio.

Don't forget to recharge.

Lopes admits to feeling overwhelmed since COVID-19 closures upheaved her schedule, and advises teachers and students to set standards for what they can expect. That means finding an ending to your workday, too. Once you've finished with your day of Zoom classes, put your home studio equipment away (both Harlequin's dance mat and practice mat can be rolled up, and the practice mat comes with a carrying bag), or go to another room where you can recharge. Creating a space to teach and train is just as important as creating a space to decompress at the end of the day.

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
Getty Images

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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