Futile—the Winds—
To a Heart in port—Done with the Compass—
Done with the Chart!
—Emily Dickinson

The winds must come from somewhere when they blow. . . . If I could tell you I would let you know.
—W. H. Auden

Between these lines of poetry the choreographer is born. A dance, from a simple Fox Trot diagram to the complex symbolism of Labanotation, is a form of travel that can actually be mapped out, charted. But its energy, its mental, emotional, sociopolitical, and poetic drive—the winds that fill its sails and its lungs—this cannot be put to paper. Energy is drawn from the pulsing rhythms and reaches of an era. And it is generated in the system of the man or woman who makes the dance. Sometimes these energies are in balance, creating a hall of mirrors with bouncing, flashing dynamics, as in the work of Paul Taylor, so anthropologically observant, acutely reading the cultural EKG. Sometimes these energies are not balanced, the choreographer’s motor mysteriously out of whack, or so it seems, his or her energy generated strangely. For decades Merce Cunningham’s work looked aloof, ahead of its time or outside it, the winds coming from anywhere and nowhere, swayed by tea leaves and wing beats, skinless as wind chimes. Only now, fifty years in, does Cunningham look of his time, and also timeless.

For a choreographer, energy is everything, and it can be the most exciting, unsettling, or off-putting aspect