naked dance

I had choreographed a dance involving about eight people and the day came when we were to present the piece to an audience. I walked into the studio, late, and to my surprise, the dancers were all naked. Men and women swanned about, dancing beautifully, stretching supple backs, strong legs, and expressive arms, all entirely bare fleshed. I was horrified that I would have to remove my clothing, on the one hand admiring the other dancers and understanding that the dance was all the more spectacular and real because of the truth of nakedness, on the other, fearing the judgement that revealing who I really was to others would invite. I noticed that the dancers were all different shapes and sizes, in particular, one short woman stood out to me, her imperfections simultaneously her beauty. I stood at the edges of the dance floor, talking in a low voice with my mentor, marking time to try to find a way that I could perform the dance without the potential humility of being publicly naked, or perhaps by coming to terms with my own body and performing with total confidence and ease.