Brava, Boulder!

Author's Note:  The following is a snapshot in time of a memorable danse orientale performance. It was originally published in Crescent Moon.

Arriving late at our hotel, we make reservations at Mataam Fez and are told the first show is in progress; we have about a half hour to make it to the second performance. 

Mataam Fez is located on a quiet part of Pearl Street, ten blocks east of the famous Pearl Street Pedestrian Mall. Its windowless and sound-proof oriental fantasy facade give no hint of the lively scenario inside. As we step in, I am alarmed that we might have missed a portion of the final show, but our host beckons us to remove our shoes and leads us to pillow seating in an adjacent room with the assurance that there will be another show.

Thus we begin our elaborate ritual feast, one that we will be unable to finish despite our most valiant efforts. But this is not intended to be a restaurant review, nor for that matter, a dance review. What we will witness here is different from anything I have seen in over twenty years of being a friend and sometime practitioner of belly dance. 

A view of the hallway leading to the kitchen gives us an advance sighting of our dancer as she puts down a tray holding a candle and various cups. A different prop, perhaps? I notice her pleasant appearance and chin-length blond hair, a style that one might expect to complement business attire. Did she not wish to grow it long and glorious, as is de rigueur amongst my San Diego sisters?

As she emerges, I quickly peruse her costume. It looks attractive but not particularly ostentatious: gold straight sequined skirt, an opaque black drape with multi-colored sequins covering her entire back, and a belt and bra with exceptionally long fringe which I guess to be fabric. I guess because our dancer will never got close enough to verify this. Indeed, she is almost entirely covered; there is little revelation of body type, except that she is tall and slender.

Such scrutiny over adornment vanishes in an instant when the dancer begins her opening beledi. It is not so much her lively mastery of traditional dance movements. Or her amazing flexibility and musicality. Our admiration grasps something much more compelling. This dancer manifests no self-consciousness. Her glances neither grasp nor supplicate validation. We are witnessing an inner ecstasy which makes her countenance glow, unaided by any significant sign of makeup.

As she begins her veil-less taxim, I am drawn not only to her zil facility and inventiveness but to her ability to draw subtle tonal nuances from the instrument, including a most ethereal ringing. From the opposite end of our floor-level round table, she greets us with a standing and effortless backbend. She then summons a male member of the audience to join her in what is the least surprising part of her performance. A climactic drum solo follows, after which I convince my dance-shy husband that it is time to proffer our enjoyment by tipping. Our offer goes unnoticed. Or does it? The dancer promises she will return shortly with "something very special."

She re-emerges with the previously noted tray, and holding it in front of her, without fanfare and in a limited space, Turkish-drops to the floor. She backbends up and positioning herself in a seemingly comfortable splits, begins pouring tea from a small kettle into two of the cups and warming them over a candle, also on the tray. One cup holds a five-dollar bill: our education in tipping Boulder style. We respectfully put our money in the cup while she backbends once more, tray on head, to our low table, thanking us dramatically. 

Following the tea ceremony, I imagine she will briefly balance the tray for her finale. Balance it she does, but in a manner once again extraordinary. Assuming a controlled yoga tree stance, she raises her leg and gingerly taps the balanced tray with her toe. She repeats this gesture several times within various movement sequences, sometimes in counterpoint with her cymbals.

She returns after this dazzling display for her finale, a coin toss which she will perform in two locations so that all three tables in our room can get a detailed view.

Beginning with three coins, she flips them precisely in tandem and then in opposing directions while calmly lecturing us about the history of the coin act, somewhat in the manner of a cultural anthropology professor. She mentions that while men sometimes try to do this feat, for them, lacking female flexibility, it becomes a mere show of strength. She then announces it is time to "double our odds," adding two more coins, again accurately flipping them in various combinations inside and out, all the while continuing her explanation.

Astonished, I express my appreciation with bountiful zaghareets. Before exiting the room, our dancer thanks us for coming and, with some humor, proclaims, "I am Sahar, the emperor's favorite" That is the last I will see of her.

Over dessert, I mention to my husband how interesting it would have been to talk to this artist, to find out how she developed her amazing ability. Was it through years of yoga, or perhaps ballet training in the luxurious bi-level studio we had passed a few blocks away, the one with the video cams? But then I realize that these questions are idle and unnecessary. That, clearly, such mastery can only flower through sustained discipline combined with love of the dance, not through explanation or isolated seminar.

 "Actually," says Bert as we leave, "she did stay a while. I saw her while passing the other room. She was talking to some people."

 I could not resist: "What was she wearing?"

 "Casual, I think. Levis, maybe."

Some years ago I read an article in a dance magazine. I have forgotten the name of the magazine or the author, but this writer was issuing a challenge: Belly dancing would never realize its true potential until its performers could shed a certain "mirror on the wall" thinking. 

But how could such an evolution happen? Is not a certain degree of narcissism built into all performing arts? Does belly dance not by its nature demand pageantry? Is it not self-affirming and healing for a woman to know, without a doubt, that she looks extravagantly glamorous? 

I have been as perplexed about this issue as the next dancer. But tonight, at the foot of the Rockies, a dancer rose to a new level. The paradigm shift that this performance represents for me ranks it as the most memorable I have witnessed since first setting eyes, some 20 years ago, on our enchanting dance.

Other dance articles by Dorothy Barth:

Reclaiming Adagio

Bead Crossings