How I Accidentally Fell Down the Pina Bausch Rabbit Hole
Was scrolling Netflix late one night feeling totally uninspired. Saw this weird documentary called “Pina” – thought it was about some grandma’s cooking show. Clicked play purely out of boredom. Five minutes in? Mind absolutely blown. Her dancers weren’t just dancing. They were… stomping, crying, crawling, throwing chairs? Looked like real people having breakdowns on stage. Needed to understand this madness.
My Very Awkward Attempt at “Tanztheater”
Next morning, decided I’d try to “get” her style. Cleared my tiny living room, pushed the sofa back. Stood there feeling ridiculous. Remembered that scene where dancers repeated the same phrase over and over. Figured, how hard could repetition be? Tried walking forward slowly with my arms out. Felt like a zombie pretending to be a runway model. Did it ten times. Nothing. Did it twenty times. My cat started judging me. Pointless. On the thirtieth try? Annoyed I was wasting my Sunday. Suddenly realized – oh. Maybe that was the feeling? That mundane frustration? Mind slightly expanded.
The Coffee Spill Moment
Watched more clips online. Saw women in flimsy dresses getting drenched by buckets of water on stage. Saw men carrying women like sacks of potatoes. Saw chairs piled into mountains. Kept wondering: Why make it so difficult? Why so… raw? Drank way too much coffee researching. Spilled some on my notes. Stared at the brown stain spreading. Saw it drip onto a picture of Pina herself – this intense woman with a sharp gaze. Maybe… her art was like that stain? Unplanned. Messy. Revealing something underneath the surface? Started scribbling: “Not pretty. Real. Human stuff. Pain, joy, exhaustion – all mashed together.” It clicked then. She wasn’t hiding anything. She was showing the weird, uncomfortable, beautiful mess of being alive.
Stealing Memories Like Pina Did (Sorta)
Read she used personal memories as fuel. Tried my own version. Remembered that time I missed the last train home, stuck walking miles in the rain at 3 AM. Felt exhausted and stupid. Stood back up in my living room. Tried walking heavy. Slumped my shoulders. Made a grumpy face. Tried adding dragging my feet… Failed miserably. Looked less like “art” and more like a toddler throwing a tantrum. Gave up. Just sat feeling the frustration. Then it hit me: maybe Pina wouldn’t force a dance step. She’d just sit in that crappy feeling and let it become movement later? My attempt wasn’t stage-ready, but damn, I felt what she was digging for.
What Actually Stuck With Me (Besides Sore Feet)
So, what’s her big “secret”? Not fancy moves or complicated theories. It’s simpler and harder:
- Be Brave: Let people see the tears, the sweat, the awkward wobbles. Stop pretending to be perfect.
- Steal Life: That time you got dumped? Spilled coffee? Felt stupid? That’s your gold. Pina mined her dancers’ lives relentlessly.
- Repetition Matters: Doing something simple over and over? It stops being movement and becomes… emotion. Like digging a hole with your bare hands.
- Objects Aren’t Props: A chair isn’t just for sitting. It can be a wall, a weapon, a memory trigger. See ordinary stuff differently.
Truth bomb? My living room “Tanztheater” sessions won’t tour the globe. I’ll never gracefully carry a woman like a sack of potatoes. But understanding Pina flipped something in me. Art doesn’t need to be beautiful. It needs to be real – raw and sometimes ugly. It needs to grab life by the scruff and shake it, hard, on stage. Even if you just end up shaking it poorly in your pajamas at 11 AM on a Tuesday. Changed how I see… everything. That messy spill? Perfect Pina material.
