The last of the ballroom-themed books I plan to discuss is "Quick, Before the Music Stops: How Ballroom Dancing Saved my Life," by Janet Carlson.
Carlson is an editorial director at Town & Country magazine, and hers is the best-written of the three books I'm discussing here. It is a memoir, and deals openly with the end of her marriage. Carlson does quite a good job of relating the lessons she learns on the dance floor to the discoveries she makes about her relationship choices.
This book, like both the others in this little series of mine, focuses on pro-am competition. This means that social dancers, professionals, or amateur competitors will need to take on faith the value of Carlson's observations.
One of these concerns technique. I've written before on how technique is not something to be feared, or avoided, or disrespected. Carlson notes that mastering technique "frees you to be the artist." Without technique, I would go on to say, you cannot be an artist as a dancer - just as you will not be a great painter without an understanding of color. You have to know what the tools are and how to use them.
One of the challenges Carlson faces during her dancing journey is her inability to relate honestly to her teachers: she finds herself putting on different characters to "please" her teachers, all the while concentrating so fiercely on herself that she finds it difficult to really connect.
In discussing her first competition with one of her instructors, Carlson observes:
"Often, if you look at couples on the ballroom floor, their dance technique and expression are fantastic, but there's no connection between the partners. He's not looking at her, inviting her to each next step, caring for her, but instead is looking off somewhere, enjoying how great he is. And she's pretty much doing the same thing - being quite seductive, but really making love to herself."
This is a pretty potent observation, because it speaks to one of the things many non-dancers find ridiculous about the sport. The stereotypical ballroom couple is so involved in playing to the audience that they forget they are dancing together.
In a lesson with another teacher, Carlson receives coaching that seems for a moment counter-intuitive: to think not about what she is doing, but what he is doing. To think not about how she feels, but how he feels. It is a breakthrough for her in connection.
Another crucial element of successful dancing is trust. Carlson realizes that in many ways, she failed to trust her husband *and* herself, and that ultimately that failure led to the end of the relationship. In dancing as in life, failure to trust ensures the inability to connect.
"One thing I do know for sure: trust comes with no guarantees that you won't get hurt, no guarantees of success, no medals. But trust does something far more valuable. It allows you the possibility of something happening ... . Trust is your ticket into the game. Risk is part of the deal. The payoff is survival. Bad things happening - in dance, in love, in anything - is not the worst thing. The worst thing is nothing happening. The worst thing is protecting ourselves from experience."
Ultimately, Carlson's story concerns the ways that she gets in her own way - in dancing and in her relationship. It's remarkably unvarnished and would make a good companion read to the relationship book "Ballroom Dancing is Not for Sissies," which I reviewed here last year.
There is a good bit to this book that I found of value, and I recommend "Quick, Before the Music Starts" to any reader, but particularly for dancers.
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