Long-time readers of this column will know that, in the beautiful Babel of the arts, the language in which I am least fluent is dance. Sometimes, watching a performance, I feel as if I am catching fascinating snippets of a conversation with a choreographer or dancer, even though for me they lack coherence. Sometimes it seems that I am barely conversant in the language, like an eager but inept Duolingo beginner, impatient to understand.   

Perhaps this linguistic analogy is flawed. After all, dance is supposed to be a universal language: the language of the body. Maybe it is better simply to say that I haven’t watched enough dance to be an aficionado — I haven’t educated myself sufficiently in its forms, particularly modern and contemporary dance. I know the thrill of seeing bodies in poetic motion, from jazz and hip hop to ballroom and ballet; I can admire their strength, control, rhythm and grace. But when there is something to “get”, particularly in concept-driven work, I of...

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