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There is no limit to the number of ways that an artist can create. Be it music, sculpture, literature, or dance, the process and “raw materials”
of creating will largely be reflected in the work produced. This is especially true for modern dance, a genre that has often been accused of
having no codified vocabulary or standard repertory, leading to “self-indulgent” or “haphazard” works that spring from the whims of the
individual creator. Certainly, this accusation holds little weight when one examines the highly intellectual and systematic methods which
modern dancers over the past century have developed, but it does point to the enormous variety of methods and styles that modern dance
has engendered. The freedom to explore the very process of art-making which modern dance championed in the 20th century has also
influenced other dance styles, most specifically ballet. While the approaches to creating and developing movement are as numerous and
idiosyncratic as the number of working artists, there have been major trends throughout the last century. This paper will examine several
of these methods to approaching movement creation and development, though it is by no means a complete list. It is also important to
remember that the categorization of artists into one specific method is impossible, and artists often explore many different approaches to
creating movement throughout their careers.
Idiosyncratic Body-Centered Movement
When dance artists began to feel that ballet no longer had the power to express aspects of the world around them or the human
condition, they began to develop new styles of movement to fit their needs. These early forays into movement experimentation were
focused on the physical and visceral experience of the artist’s body. Dancers began to search for a personal movement style that
would provide them with the necessary tools for expression. This idiosyncratic body-based movement development saw its height
in Doris Humphrey and Martha Graham.
Both Humphrey and Graham’s early dance and performance training had been highly influenced by the theories of François
Delsarte and Émile Jaques-Dalcroze. Delsarte, at one time an opera singer, was interested in enhancing performance through
gesture and bearing. His theories taught that every human gesture had some kind of emotional significance (Cohen 118).
Movement, he believed, was the outward manifestation of inner feelings (Anderson 168). Dalcroze, a Swiss music educator
who also studied Delsartean principles, developed a system of musical training based on the basic elements of rhythm,
dynamics, and form. The primary stage of learning, called Eurhythmics, trained the body in rhythm and dynamic exercises
(Thomas). With these principles of movement as an impetus, Humphrey and Graham began to explore movement possibilities
on their own bodies.
Doris Humphrey, at one time a member of the Denishawn company, felt that it was necessary to truly discover the movement
of her own body. In speaking about her years performing with Denishawn, she said,“I felt as if I were dancing as everyone but
myself. I knew something about how the Japanese moved, how the Chinese or Spanish moved, but I didn’t know how I moved”
(Mazo 117). Humphrey eventually developed a specific technique for her company that fit the aesthetic of her stage compositions.
Based on the Delsartean principles of tension and relaxation, she recognized all movement as related to falling and recovering
(Jowitt 161). She developed exercises that refined her ideas about the basic fundamentals of movement such as weight shifting,
falling, walking, running, leaping, and jumping. Out of these explorations she developed compositional “studies” in form, rhythmic
variation, oppositional versus successive movements, and literal falling and recovering (Stodelle 6). These exercises and studies
were taught to her students and company members, giving them a common lexicon of physical experience designed to support her
choreographic ideas. Humphrey was interested in these studies as explorations of “pure” movement. She wrote that “Because
[natural movements] sprang so truly and psychologically from physical life, they were emotionally stirring even without a program.
This characteristic led me to compose a number of dance studies and even dance compositions entirely without a dramatic idea”
(Stodelle 6). The thought of creating work without a narrative structure was a radical one for the dance world of the 1930s.
The underlying movement principle of Humphrey’s technique, falling and recovering, was not, however, solely discovered
through pure movement exploration. Also influenced by the works of Friedrich Nietzsche, Humphrey found the interplay of
polar opposites significant for the creation of dynamic work. Fascinated by Nietzsche’s idea of the Apollonian and Dionysian
tendencies at work in human psychology, Humphrey applied this idea to her philosophy of movement. She analyzed movement
to be the “arc between two deaths,” death being at one end perfectly balanced static and at the other end, wild off-balance
dynamism (Stodelle 15). Such psychological or philosophical overtones were an important aspect of Humphrey’s movement
theories, which she intended to ultimately be used as a tool for expression. Humphrey’s technique had two goals: to train dancers
in a specific style of movement, and to promote the experiential understanding of her principles to lead to creative expression
(Stodelle 18).
Martha Graham, like her contemporary Humphrey, also developed through her own body a style of movement largely based on
Delsartean principles. However, in her case the dichotomy between tension and relaxation was made manifest in the “contraction
and release.” Breathing, an essential human action, became the basis for Graham’s exploration. She saw the fundamental action
of the torso expanding and contracting alternately as a source of deepest expression (Mazo 195). Also in direct defiance of the
ballet d’ecole style, Graham’s technique was based on floor work. This created an earthy and heavy quality of movement that
worked in tandem with gravity’s pull on the body, rather than giving the impression of defying it as in ballet (Mazo 156-157).
Movements tended to be sharp and staccato, initiated by a clear impulse. This controlled strength matched the angular sharp
lines and shapes so prominent in her work. In an attempt to capture the essence of modern life at that time, she said in 1929,
“Life today is nervous, sharp and zigzag. It often stops in midair. That is what I aim for in my dances” (Mazo 160). This
view of modern life was embodied through her technique.
Graham was also highly interested in people’s psychological motivations, and she read a great deal of Freud and Jung.
This interest in psychoanalysis led her to theorize that movement could be the honest outward expression of intense
emotional or intellectual experiences. She stated that, “…Everything a dancer does…has a very definite and prescribed
meaning…inside the body is an interior landscape which is revealed in movement” (Mazo 189). As she developed her
own dance technique, she tried to imbue each movement with both a specific physical and emotional meaning. For
example, she once explained, “We teach falls to the left because, unless you are left-handed, the right side of the body
is the motor side; the left hand is the unknown. You fall into the left hand—into the unknown” (Mazo 157).
Both Doris Humphrey and Martha Graham provide prime examples of body-based movement invention. Through
personal movement discovery, they developed entire techniques designed to train new generations of dancing bodies.
This allowed dancers to perform Graham and Humphrey’s specific styles of choreography with precision and ease.
Certainly, more contemporary artists have also developed styles of movement that have become codified or are otherwise
part of a pedagogical approach to dance. However, the techniques of Humphrey and Graham have permeated modern
dance training and compositional development. Their interest in philosophical ideas helped motivate their unique use of
the body in choreography, providing an intellectual foundation for their movement practices.
Dancer and Pedestrian Movement Invention
In opposition to the “choreographer specific” movement styles, a new trend in choreography took prominence in the
second half of the 20th century. Improvisation and contact improvisation became a dominant force in dance practice.
Choreographers began to look to the dancer’s body for movement invention and inspiration, rather than their own.
As dancers became more sophisticated and experienced, choreographers became open to the idea of dancers providing
rich movement vocabulary, problem solving skills, and artistic choices. During the post-modern rebellion in dance of
the 1960s and 1970s, dance-makers also became interested in the idea of pedestrian movement. However, in addition
to incorporating everyday activities and gestures into their work, many post-modern choreographers actually engaged
non-dancers to perform. While the number of ways that contemporary choreographers collaborate with dancers is
limitless, two major forms have reached prominence: improvisational structures, and pedestrian-as-dancer/performer.
Improvisation, while not a new idea to the art world, was embraced as a new kind of dance form by post-modern
choreographers. The extemporaneous creation of movement sequences was seen as a way to open the body/mind
to new possibilities, unreachable through a more self-reflexive and conscientious approach. Susan Leigh Foster
writes that improvisation is an active dialogue between the known, predetermined rules or predispositions, and the
unknown, “that which was previously unimaginable” (Albright 4). While the post-moderns presented improvisational
games and structures as performance, contemporary artists still use improvisation as a means to the discovery and
exploration of movement. Indeed, abilities in improvising and spontaneous creation have become standard skills,
expected of any trained well-rounded dancer.
The number of artists who use improvisational techniques during their creative process is vast, including such
artists as Daniel Nagrin, Bebe Miller, Bill T. Jones, and Liz Lerman. Many artists and teachers believe it is the
best way to discover personal movement. Daniel Nagrin requires composition students to spend several weeks
working in improvisational structures before setting material. “I believe that any group, class or workshop,”
Nagrin writes, “that puts in two to four weeks of intensive exploration in improvisation will emerge enriched with
masses of material, armed with ways of finding fertile dance ideas and the courage to plunge into the hazards of
choreography” (Nagrin 56). Major artists also use improvisation for themselves on and off stage. Bill T. Jones,
known for his improvisational use of speech, has also played with incorporating “loose” structures in his work.
Speaking of his piece Sisyphus in 1981, he said, “The main device was that the barely sketched movement and
barely sketched dialogue would be revealed, created in front of the audience that night, right then and there”?
(Kreemer 122). This spontaneous style of exploration is clearly an important tool for generating personal
movement vocabularies.
However, many contemporary artists do not rely solely on their own movement discoveries. Many
choreographers set up improvisations specifically for their dancers to generate movement. After exploring,
the choreographer may require that the dancers recall or reconstruct what they have just done extemporaneously.
Bebe Miller often uses such exercises during her process, keeping a keen eye on the movement the dancers pour
out. She will ask them not only to repeat the movement, but will add some of her own style to it, asking a dancer
to move an arm, alter a certain shape, or change direction. The dancers will then teach their movement sequences
to the others, thus creating a common movement language out of individual discovery (Observed rehearsal
02/09/06). This method of working is a truly collaborative process in which the dancers and choreographer share
|input and responsibility for the dance. Despite the fact that the dancers originally generated the movement, the
finished product still has a clear sense of the choreographer’s style due to motivated directing and input.
Within improvisation another, more specific, form was also developed by Steve Paxton in 1972: contact
improvisation (Novack 10). Described by some as a “dance-sport,” contact improvisation was a structure based
on the sharing of weight by two dancers, and communicating only through physical contact and movement.
While touring in the late 1960s, Paxton was often charged to lead dance workshops to interested students who had
no dance background at all. He found that the “improvisational interaction” between people through touch was the
best way to inspire unrestricted movement and to free inhibitions (Reynolds 408). Paxton stated that, “I began
looking for ways to initiate a dance and cause movements to arise among people I was interested in seeing move”
(Novack 54). These “untrained dancers” and their movement capabilities were of great interest to the post-modern
choreographers of the era. Contemporary artists still use the untrained dancer as the basis of movement and social
investigation.
Liz Lerman began working in the late 1970s, and was interested in being socially involved with her community
through dance. With company dancers as well as specific groups of non-dancers such as senior citizens or the
handicapped, Lerman creates portraits of individual and community stories. This inter-generational approach is
cultivated through community-based workshops in which participants worked with the company to create
performance art based on their experiences and movement. This collaborative process usually culminates in a
site-specific work with both dancers and non-dancers performing. She established the Liz Lerman Dance
Exchange, a company that continues to focus on community outreach through dance and performance art
(www.danceexchange.org). In this instance we see, again, how Lerman acts more as director and leader
rather than in a more traditional “dictatorial” choreographic style.
Bill T. Jones also used non-dancers in much of his work. In Social Intercourse: Pilgrims Progress of 1981
a number of untrained dancers performed, an idea conceived by Jones’s post-modern predecessors. He said
that, “Many of these dancers were completely untrained, which was something I inherited from my early
experimentation with dance making…. This section was, in fact, statements not so much about vocabulary, as
about the way in which movement is perceived through time and space, and the way in which the energy level
becomes an emotional, visceral response” (Kreemer 128). Jones continued to work with non-dancers, especially
in Last Supper at Uncle Tom’s Cabin/The Promised Land and his controversial piece Still/Here, in which victims
of the AIDs epidemic discussed, created, and performed their personal stories (Reynolds 620).
Contact improvisation, while instrumental in the use of pedestrian performers, has also inspired the more traditional
choreographic styles of many artists, especially in the creation of partnering. Exercises in improvised weight sharing
could be transformed into set material, creating a dynamic new possibility for modern dance. By breaking from the
traditions of ballet, modern dances often lacked partnering sequences that involved complex lifts or other physical
contact, customary in the pas de deux form. For Arnie Zane and Bill T. Jones, contact was a way to find a familiar
movement base. Jones said, “Contact improvisation has influenced my personal dance style and the way I construct
partnering…We would have contact jams that would be two hours long…The possibilities seemed endless, and that
was very important compositionally” (Kreemer 119). Other professional companies have used group contact
improvisation to formulate entire repertories, such as Pilobolus. The group, which has no absolute artistic director
or resident choreographer, began in Dartmouth College dance classes in the early 1970s. Through group
improvisation, the dancers found “a collaborative choreographic process and a unique weight-sharing approach to
partnering that gave [them] a non-traditional but powerful new set of skills with which to make dances”
(www.pilobolus.com). The egalitarian nature of this creative process is clearly reflected in the democratic structure
of the company, and in the fanciful, often irreverent humor of their stage productions (Reynolds 610).
By providing dancers with an environment in which to explore their own movement proclivities, choreographers
found new methods and sources of inspiration for dance making. At its best, improvisation allows artists to access
deep emotional and physical places, helping them to discover more about themselves and others. For choreographers
this has proved to be a fertile foundation for approaching dance. The artistic input of savvy dancers provided
choreographers with new possibilities that would have gone otherwise undiscovered or unexplored. The use of
non-dancers also allowed choreographers to see “human physicality without frills” (Reynolds 398).
Analytical Approaches
For some choreographers, dance composition and body movement can be approached from a much more analytical,
mathematical, or mechanical place. In the mid-20th century, some choreographers questioned the need for having
expressive ideas or dramatic content in dance at all, and felt that these were hindering real movement experimentation
(Cohen 194). Choreographers began to focus on the mechanical possibilities the body offered, and on more scientific
ways of building movement phrases or sequences. Eventually, some choreographers even created artificial constraints
for the body, giving it new physical problems to solve.
Arguably the most important choreographer to evolve these new ideas was Merce Cunningham. After dancing and
performing with Martha Graham’s company, Cunningham broke away from the psychological drama and turned to
more detached forms of dance making. Cunningham believed that dance could stand on its own as an art form; it could
be separate from music, narrative, or character. Cunningham also believed that dance needed to be stripped of adornment
and become “natural” again, much as the early Modern pioneers had championed. Without the hindrance of musical
structures, his movement became determined by time only, often using a stopwatch in rehearsals (Reynolds 359). Inspired
by various scientific and philosophical ideas, including Einstein’s theory of relativity, Existentialism, and Zen Buddhism,
Cunningham believed that there was no theatrical hierarchy of space, and that randomness was a reflection of nature and
human experience (Reynolds 356). He developed systems of “chance operation” in which he would determine movement
sequences and phrases through coin flipping, die rolling, or other random chance procedures (Reynolds 358). He believed
that human movement alone was interesting enough to watch without other theatrical elements.
When asked how he created a dance, he replied, “In a direct way. I start with a step. Using the word ‘step’ is a hangover
from my adolescent vaudeville days. I ‘step’ with my feet, legs, hands, body, head—that is what prompts me, and out of
that other movements grow…This is not beginning with an idea that concerns character or story, a fait accompli around
which the actions are grouped for reference purposes. I start with the movement, even something moving rather than
someone” (Cohen 198-199). Cunningham believed that “anything can follow anything” and through chance operations,
discordant movements could be juxtaposed in different parts of the body, or in a dance phrase (Reynolds 361). Despite
this interest in “found” movement and indeterminacy, his works have a specific look and style. In later work, he even used
movement vocabulary closely derived from traditional ballet positions and steps, regarding it as just one more kind of
movement the body can perform (Reynolds 369). Though not strictly “new” movement, Cunningham developed a series
of classroom exercises for his company, who needed to be virtuosic in order to master the control, precision, and disparity
of moving body parts required of his work. “I train them and then I give them the movements and actions to do in the
dances, but I don’t expect them to do those actions exactly in the way I do them. What I look for is a way to have the
dancer move in the way he would move with the best amplification of that” (Cohen 199).
With his collaborator John Cage, Cunningham’s radical ideas and theories became a catalyst for major experimentation
in all the arts (Reynolds 355). His new ideas about dance being an independent art form that should not rely on theatricality
to be powerful or interesting laid the groundwork for rising artists to question the very material of dance. Dance making
became a cerebral practice (though not without a sense of playful irony and rebellion), and the process of art making was
valued over the end product (Reynolds 401). The post-modern artists had a continued interest in the mechanics of the body
and its natural movement, leading to dance vocabulary that was simple but used in complex ways.
Trisha Brown was one of the most prolific and important artists working at this time. She was interested in exploring the
body’s “pure” movement. “Pure movement is a movement that has no other connotations,” she explained (Huxley 116).
Brown explored a variety of methods for creating, but often used very mathematical or geometric ideas as an impetus. For
example, in her famous Accumulation from 1971, she explored simple mechanical movements of the body that accumulated
in increasingly complex ways:
“Movement one, rotation of the fist with the thumb extended was begun and repeated seven or eight times. Movement two
was added and one and two were repeated eight times. Then movement three was added and one, two and three were repeated,
eventually bringing into play the entire body. At first the additions were in numerical sequence but later movements got wedged
in between earlier additions and the piece grew in several directions, expanding rather than lengthening…None of the movements
had any significance beyond what they were. And I never felt more alive, more expressive or more exposed in performance”
(Huxley 113).
In Locus, Brown imagined a cube around her body, and assigned 27 numbered points (and corresponding letters or spaces) on
the cube. The action of the piece involved “touching” various points on the cube with different parts of the body, in sequences
that often spelled out messages (Huxley 117). She created specific formal constraints and rules for her works to challenge herself,
her dancers, and her audience.
In 1968, Brown challenged the body in new ways through “equipment-pieces.” With cords, pulleys, harnesses and other apparatuses,
she would change the body’s relationship to gravity. In 1971, she choreographed Walking on the Wall, a work in which dancers were
harnessed perpendicular to the walls of an art gallery and literally walked on the walls (Reynolds 409). Setting up such artificial
relationships with equipment presented new physical challenges and problems for the body to solve. Similar “contraptions” or artificial
constraints placed on the body were also used in the work of Alwin Nikolais and currently Elizabeth Streb.
William Forsythe, a choreographer on the forefront of movement invention methods, has redefined the vocabulary of dance, style, and
improvisation. Though trained in classical ballet, his approaches to choreography have ranged from neoclassical to post-modern. Like
Trisha Brown, his interest in formal problems led him to strip the classical vocabulary of its traditional customs, thereby exposing the
mechanics of the dance language. Forsythe said he was interested in, “manipulating the language of ballet to see how far it can go before
it becomes unrecognizable” (Reynolds 455).
Forsythe’s work demands extreme physicality from dancers, and his company works in a collaborative method. Through improvisation,
Forsythe and his dancers create and manipulate dance phrases through extremely geometrical and mathematical systems. Forsythe
developed what he called “improvisation technologies,” specific geometry based methods for manipulating movement (Forsythe). The
movement material of Forsythe’s work is far from the familiar traditions of ballet, yet seems to reveal a distinct and complex inner logic.
Through particular kinds of inversion, retrograde, transposition, and spatial reorientation, the basic positions and lines of ballet become
subverted and altered. Emphasis is placed on negative space, either moving around imaginary lines and shapes with various body parts,
or by exploring the space one was previously occupying (Forsythe). The use of geometric forms related directly to the fundamentals of
ballet technique. “The reason that they are geometrically inscriptive is that I work with ballet dancers. It was easy to represent things this
way—thinking in circles and lines and planes and points. That’s not so unusual for ballet dancers, this system is basically a manipulation of
their existing knowledge” (Forsythe, booklet 18). Once these theories are understood and mastered, dancers are able to use his methods
to improvise and build material, often working simultaneously as other groups in the same rehearsal (Just Dancing). This independent
working environment makes the creation of movement material a shared responsibility between dancers and choreographer.
Representational Approaches
Historically, dance has found inspiration from many other art forms, including music, literature, visual art, and theater. For many
choreographers, dance movement and gesture are directly inspired by an outside idea, story, or form. Narrative and character-based
structures were a common motivation for modern dance during the first half of the 20th century, especially in the works of Martha
Graham. Visual art has also found a correlation with movement. Lucinda Childs, for example, imitated the designs of Sol LeWitt’s
backdrops in the floor patterns of her work Dance. Working closely alongside music, many choreographers also base their movement
vocabulary on a visual representation of musical form. This visual connection of music and dance is a common style, explored by
artists such as Doris Humphrey, George Balanchine, Jiri Kylián, and Mark Morris. Because of his current renown and prolific career,
Morris provides the most exemplary examination of this approach.
Both the form and content of music is often visually represented in the works of Mark Morris. While instrumentation or phrasing may
be mirrored in the choreography spatially or structurally, the content and mood of the music also influences the movement choices used
in any given piece. Much of the initial creation of material begins after Morris has chosen and studied a piece of music in depth. He
enters the rehearsal process with a specific movement idea, phrase, or motif that he then works out on the dancers. He progresses with
movement in the moment, keeping in mind his structural form and the emotional message of the piece (Acocella 172). Final decisions
about how a movement is executed or how many bodies are necessary will be altered or refined during these early rehearsals.
Almost half of Morris’s vast repertoire has been set to vocal music, and his movements seem to create a kind of “word-painting”
(Acocella, Fifty 165). Regardless of the language in which the libretto is written, Morris creates movement sequences that directly
illustrate elements of the text. For example in New Love Song Waltzes, the poetic lyrics of Georg Friedrich Daumer express images of
shadows, jeweled rings, embracing lovers, and rain storms, all of which are reflected by the dance. In concordance with the text, dancers
shadow each other, join hands in circles, lie together on the stage, or “wash” over the stage by running in wave-like patterns (Acocella?
138-140). Even in more recent works such as Four Saints in Three Acts, dancers visually represent images from Gertrude Stein’s libretto.
Four dancers walk directly upstage, their arms encircled above their heads while leaning far to the left. In time with the music, their arms
and torso sweep up and over to the right, imitating the “sun rising and setting” (Morris).
Sometimes the movement or gesture is more abstract, but used to represent an idea throughout a piece. In his famous Dido and Aeneas,
a particular shape of the arms and hands outstretched and twisted represents “fate” and is repeated in the dance each time the word is
repeated in the score (Dido). For dramatic effect, the “imitation” of the music may be suddenly stopped, or have to be altered because of
physical limitations of the body (Acocella 168). Though many believe that Morris directly imitates the structure of the musical score with
his movements (and sometimes he does) his dances generally have an independent logic as well. Visual ideas that reflect the musical score
will broaden and progress, regardless of how the music may deal with development (Acocella 167). For Morris, music is the inspiration
of dance.
Conclusion
There is a limitless variety of ways to approach movement invention, development, and phrasing. Contemporary choreographers
consistently challenge their own methods and theories about the performing body and the way it is perceived. Strategies for rehearsal
methods, collaborations, and the role of dancer as co-creator are changing throughout the dance scene. New techniques for dance
training, improvising, and performing are being developed and codified. The very idea of “authorship” in dance is being reexamined.
The manner in which choreographers create is often a mystery to anyone not directly involved with the process. With few exceptions,
dance-makers have not left a record of their studio habits or creative methods. Dance writings by choreographers tend to be anecdotal,
broad biographies, or a summation of experience through theoretical ideas. In a highly competitive environment, exacerbated by a
lack of funding and audience interest, it is common for contemporary artists to reduce their artistic process, goals, and philosophies into
a sound byte for press releases and producers. Bill T. Jones once said, “What kind of choreographer do I consider myself? It’s a
mischievous question most of us would rather not deal with. Most of us would say it’s irrelevant. Often the press, the publicity machine,
the PR machine, sponsors, need to give you a tag. It helps that big faceless ‘other’ out there, the other which is the audience” (Kreemer 121).
The real daily task of working and crafting dances is often left undocumented, despite the fact that the creative activity in the studio is the
essential component of choreography, and should not be left unexamined. In an interview, Mark Morris said, “I am loathe to use the term
creative process because people have made that magic, and it’s not; it’s work” (Roseman 64). For emerging artists and students, books and
classes can give insight into compositional craft and theory, but little else exists to teach or explore creative habits in dance. William Forsythe
said, “Put it this way: work is not some sort of secret. It’s rather superstitious to think one has to keep one’s method secret. That’s
primitive—and we’re not. At the end of the 20th century, work doesn’t need to be kept secret. It won’t disappear just because we
communicate” (Forsythe 20). New accounts of the choreographer’s daily practice are long overdue.
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Banes, Sally. Terpsichore in Sneakers: Post-modern Dance. Middletown: Wesleyan U. P., 1977.
Cohen, Selma Jeanne. Dance as a Theatre Art; Source Readings in Dance History from 1581 to the Present. Princeton:
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