Thoughts on your dancing feet OR a history of steppin'

I took ballet classes as a kid, just like every other fairly privileged girl. I recall being slightly older than my classmates, and therefore taller, slightly more awkward, and definitely alienated. I loved the class-I had no potential or aspirations to be a ballerina (as a kid I thought I wanted to be a comedian, and worshipped Whoopi Goldberg, Eddie Murphy and Richard Pryor.) Being in that group environment, with the warbly strains of some classical melody piping into the studio, I could transport myself away from my vocabulary quizzes, my chores, my bullies and unmade bed. Dancing was like being in a trance, and until I became so sick that I had to drop out of class, I was basking in my dancer's high.

I abandoned dance, and most athletics as well, in my teenage angst and aversion to competition and anything organized. It was around this time (early high school...um, the very early 90s) when I met my best friend Ginny. She had two older sisters who carried her into the world of downtown clubs and mix-tapes and grunge and all those mysterious and cool scenes we were starting to dream about. Because of Ginny's access to cool, and because of my friendship with her, we started to "go out dancing." I write that in quotations, because going out dancing is never just that. It is always a mish-mash of preparation, the thrill of pulling up to the club and hearing a song you recognize, of watching the seasoned dancers and finding your own moves, of slowly integrating yourself into this new community. The club we went to was called "Visage" and it hosted an all ages night (we were only 14-15!) The DJ's were spinning music from the 1980s to full effect, and that's where I was introduced to The Smiths, New Order, Depeche Mode, and on and on and on. Orlando had a a particularly interesting dance scene; I joke now about how it was so goth, and it was, but there was a mix of rave, trance, new wave in there too. It wasn't enough just to stand on the floor and shuffle your feet around-you had to embody the music somehow. Yes, I did learn from a lot of goth/industrial dancers. There was a lot of twirling and bowing and kicking and fake praying and all that (not by me-I could never fully commit to goth. I think my own dancing inspiration is triangulated somewhere between a Muppet, Saturday Night Fever, and Twyla Tharp.) It was time when you could smoke indoors, and people were always dancing with a lit cigarette, so you always had to watch out for enthusiastic gesturers. I lived to go dancing; Ginny had found a surrogate for the ballet classes of my youth, except with better music (arguably) and only optional leotards.



By the time I was in college, I was still seeking out dance nights. I was living in Columbus, Ohio, which surprised me with it's small yet concentrated community of artists and music. I would go to one club in particular, and dance until my shirt was sticking and my hair was plastered with sweat. The whole vibe of the place reminded me of Visage, and the spell was only broken when 2 am rolled around and the abruptly turned on the house lights and told us to GET OUT. That was around the time when I learned about the disenchantment of appearances and the glamour of the dance floor. Nobody was ever as attractive as when the house lights came on, myself most of all. After college, I went back to Orlando and Ginny and I were really hitting our boogie stride. In my memory, this was the era of Barbarella (now called the Independent Bar) and the crystallization of our dance club identities.

We would go 2 nights a week; I was nursing a difficult and complicated break-up and Ginny was declaring her independence from her (then) husband, so we both really needed an escape. We would get there early to secure a booth for the night, and over time we got familiar with the door guys, the bartenders, and the regulars. There was the tall, adorable, possibly gay guy who really threw himself into the music, the squat, aging goth chick who always looked like she was auditioning for Macbeth when she danced, the middle aged man who looked like he got lost on his way to a carpet sales convention and had one move only (that consisted of stepping from one foot to the other, always in the same rhythm, regardless of what song was playing.) We eventually made friends with some of them, and I particularly enjoyed crushing on the cute boys that knew what to do with their feet. I never pursued the crushes, because the idea was always better than the reality.

I eventually moved to Minneapolis, and lost my dance nights. There didn't seem to be any club that played the right music, drew the right people-everything seemed like prime meat-market opportunity. Since I wasn't going dancing to get groped, I had nowhere to go. Only in the past year have I found a good dance night, and someone to go with. I've tried going to Too Much Love, but it seemed like it was stuffed with these young kids who had never gone out dancing before, and didn't know what to do: they either just stood there, preening in the center of the floor, or they overcompensated and danced beyond capacity (undoubtedly after too many Sparks.) There was a lack of understanding of the dynamics and flow of the dance floor, and these kids seemed more interested in being seen than moving. The current dance situation seems to embody both the greatness of my dancing youth and the irritation of a current lack of experience. There are people who literally plow their way into the middle of the dance floor and then just stand there. Is it stage fright? Temporary parylization? Bad manners? There are people who get too drunk and fall over, people who keep their coats on all night, people who dance with their hands in their pockets and therefore leave their elbows out for others to bump into. There seem to be an unusually high concentration of men who like to make a running commentary of how my friend and I dance. We've been dubbed as interpretive dancers and choreographed maniacs. Granted, we can get a little over the top, but it's out of a love of the situation, and a desire to milk that night for all it's worth.

What I don't understand is the kind of posessiveness of the floor that seems to exist nowadays. That, and the tardiness of some dancers to the contemporary dance experience. My best example: Pulp's "Disco 2000" comes on and a herd of boys in their pseudo-NYC-Interpol-come-lately-quasi-dandified gear rush the floor like they are at a soccer match and basically thrash around pumping their fists into the air. NOBODY else can dance when this is happening, and it seem intentional, but it also seems a bit behind the times. I mean, that song, while totally danceable and fun, is old news. So why the mosh pit? Is it because these guys are relatively young, and are still freaking out on their dance high too? What about the girls who don't ever dance a step, but keep a hawkish eye out for every other girl on the dancefloor? It crushes the joy of the night, and getting your foot impaled by someone's stiletto (that they can't dance in) gets tiring. There are a few throwbacks to what I'm reluctant to dub the "old days" but I guess it's really true. Certain dancers who know how much space they should take up, how to really get into the song, and how to do it with style.

Baby, you were born to run. (Thanks Boss)

I've just recently started getting into running, which is something I honestly never thought I would do. I've always been tall and athletic, and I probably would have made a great cross country runner, but I always had so much pressure piled on top of me that I rejected a lot of sports when I was young. I was also anorexic, which made exercise a conflicted issue, and I vaguely recall one instance where my mother had to carry me off the field at a meet because I fainted. Pretty sad stuff. I started exercising again a few years ago when I was trying to deal with my boyfriend at the time being gone on tour most of the year. It was great therapy when I had a troubled student in my class the first year I ever taught photography. Working out was a way to be totally distracted and still be in touch with myself in a way that I never really understood before. Running, however, was still off limits.

Well, many things have changed in the past few years, and I've seen my mother take up exercise and even start to train for a half-marathon. My husband of 6 months wakes up at 5:30 in the morning to run before he goes to school. I still exercise regularly, but running? Mysterious...tedious...painful! I tried running to and from the gym last week, which resulted in sore ankles and a runny nose (it's too cold to run outside.) A few days ago, I got on the treadmill and ran a 13 minute mile. It wasn't as hard as I thought, and the rush that I got just knowing that I was doing something that I hadn't tried since I was a teenager was surprisingly thrilling. Yesterday I ran for almost 2 miles straight and it RULED! I was sweating like a hog, bright red in the face, hair stuck to my forehead and neck, but I felt completely in tune with how far I could go, and how harmonious my body could be. My hope is to run indoors during the winter and start running in the neighborhood when the weather permits again.

I attribute this newfound freedom to the safety and love that I get from my husband, friends and parents every day. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Yes, we can!

Rob and I voted first thing in the morning yesterday. After getting through the line in less than an hour, he went to school and I went on a long walk with my lovely friend Erika. I've been fighting off a nasty cold, but I was determined to stay up for the results and to hopefully hear an acceptance speech to remember. Rob and I were both stunned at how fast the results poured in, and how quickly Obama's lead over McCain grew! I remember being in Florida in 2000 when the election fracas was in full swing, and I was worried that there would be attempts to gum up the works this time too. We went to the Bryant Lake Bowl to have a beer and listen to our new president speak, and the whole experience was so moving, so thrilling, so awe inspiring. I felt a particular jolt when he announced Michelle Obama as the first lady, and I shouted without even realizing it. I have no better words now than "THIS IS SO NECESSARY, THIS IS SO WONDERFUL!" I feel so heartened and inspired to be an American today, and it's not an experience that is familiar. I acknowledge that we could be in situations far worse, but here we are, on the cusp of a tragic and embarrassing presidency and on the verge of what I hope will be a progressive and healing time for our country. And *bonus* no more political ads on tv! I hope that all of my friends and family are feeling as gratified and optimistic as I am today.

Girls on film

There is some new work on my website http://www.ellenfitzgerald.net from this summer. It is tentatively titled "Away With" until I finish editing the images and statement. Please take a look!

Honeymoon Part 3

Venezia! The Floating City

The last leg of our trip was spent toddling around Venice. It was only by the time that we arrived there that I realized all three of our destinations were water based cities. I found Italians to be all-around awesome people: good looking, chic, friendly, laid back...I guess it doesn't hurt to live in a place that is so freakishly picturesque. This photo doesn't really accentuate the unusual minty green color of the canal water, but the color of the city in general is really luscious.


An example of the beautiful ornamentation that can be found just about anywhere. There is a heavy use of lion motifs, which are sometimes winged and really appealed to the mythological nerd in me.


The palette of the city.


We made a brief stop in some of the more touristy spots.


Italian sky rats.


The zodiac clock-you can see where the sun is in Gemini. Duuuuuude.

Some of the marble work at the Governor's Palace-I wish that I had been able to photograph inside, but it wasn't allowed much. The Palace was a giant complex that was part dungeon, part palace, part baroque gallery, part court. It was one cavernous room after the other, with walls covered in dark wood, gold and intricate portraits of dozens of governors (who were the equivalent of the president? Grand Poo-bah? Ryan Seacrest?) sitting in the clouds with the Virgin Mary and baby Jesus. It was so heady and over the top-it felt like a period piece film set.

The courtyard of the Palace. This must be where all the chill backyard hangouts happened. You know...something low-key.


Venice was plastered with Carnivale shops selling really gaudy masks-of course I had to photograph the unicorn mask.


We opted out of taking a gondola ride. It was outrageously expensive, and there was plenty of cheap and accessible water transportation. Besides, I didn't fancy the idea of being on display trying to have a "romantic" moment while every tourist within throwing distance is photographing like their lives depended on it.


Other things we did in Venice: saw the Peggy Guggenheim museum which is in her old villa on the Canal, drank Prosecco at 2 in the afternoon, had dinner in an amazing little cramped restaurant that no tourist could ever find on a map, saw a ton of art, walked miles without realizing it...it was a brief flash of the city but it was a lovely end to our trip.

Honeymoon Part 2

Crucial Croatia



We spent most of our trip in Dubrovnik, Croatia, which is one of three preserved medieval cities in Europe. The plane touched down in an airport hidden in a valley, and our ride into the city unfolded into a ridiculous view of sea and sky. The city itself is a white marble walled-in fortress.

The view from our apartment.

Dubrovnik is a steep place-lots of winding stairs and crooked walls. Best of all, it's practically covered with tropical plants. Nearly every home has a pergola, and everything is in bloom.

Here's me getting winded on some wack staircase. It just kept going and going. I need to stop for a beer, please.

A view of the city from the walls. You can take a 1 mile tour of the fortress walls which really gives you a bird's eye view of the layout of the area. I've never seen so many terracotta roofs in my life. There is a good chunk of the city that is still very much under renovation after being bombed during the Serbian-Croatian War.


It was the World Cup while we were here, and Croatia was kicking ass and taking names. It was cool to walk to down to the bar and watch the game-you could literally hear a unified victory cheer throughout the entire city when they scored! Then you hear what I think was the national anthem...over and over again with dudes zipping by on tiny motorcycles getting wasted and just freaking out. The girl in the photo had a Croatian flag painted on her cheek, which is somehow cuter than getting drunk on a motorcycle.

Robert plunging into the Adriatic off of Lokrum island.

A beautiful maritime cemetery in Cavtat.

Rob and I drove to the top of a nearby mountain for a dinner made "under the bell" which describes a local food prep method: basically they take whatever meat you want to dine on and cook it for 4-5 hours over smoldering embers covered by a (yup) giant metal bell. You have to call a day or so in advance, which Rob did, and was presented with a list of potential meats we could have. We chose the lamb, since we figured it would be a bit more local (no beef or pork....nowhere....not that I really care that much, because ~duh~ we are in a seafaring town and I love seafood) When we arrived at the mountain top, we found a sweet little patio and a server in full native dress. She kept suggesting dishes and we just kept saying yes, because we didn't know any better and we didn't want to be rude. All of it was delicious: local meats and cheeses, brandy, "salad" (shredded lettuce and tomato-how I was longing for some spinach and tempeh and such!) and then a massive platter of our lamb with potatoes in what basically constituted a stick of butter. IT WAS AWESOME! High five Croatia!

A view from the mountain after our infamous dinner.

One of our day trips was to Montenegro, which borders Croatia on the east. I believe it translates to roughly "Black Mountain" which has a distinct metal appeal, but it was a very discomforting and emotionally draining day for me. This whole country seems oppressed, whether financially or politically, and is sorely underdeveloped. Even the weather was bleak: a kind of half-hearted overcast sky, a slight drizzle of unconvincing rain, a breeze that often fell flat. We eventually stopped for lunch and I had the most depressing bowl of spaghetti and meat sauce ever. Really, did I come all this way to sit in some strip mall and eat this slop with a bunch of surly locals? Where's the interesting local specialty? Where's the charming waterfront cafe? Where's the freaking booze already!? Bitching aside, we did stop and see some ancient Roman mosaics dating 300B.C. on the drive home which gave the landscape a little context.

Miljet! Whoo-hoo Miljet!! (pronounced Mill-yet) One of our last little hurrahs in Croatia was to take a 2 hour boat ride to Miljet island for a sleepover. It's basically a giant national park, and we were restricted to a few areas, but it was so quiet and beautiful that it didn't feel restrictive. We rented a scooter and traveled all over the place, which was seriously the best thing ever because we were all alone on this green island just humming away under the blue sky and bright sun. It's one of my favorite memories of our whole trip.

While we were on our scooter, we passed this elderly woman at her roadside shop and we pulled over to check out her goods (the food and drink goods I mean. Ew, stop it. I know what you're thinking. Ew.) She had bottles of homemade brandy and wine for sale, and by that point we had finally learned the words for wine and brandy so we could communicate with her. She had the gnarliest hands I'd ever seen, and all her liquors were bottled in used water and juice bottles. It was nice to have this encounter since so much of our time had been spent in relatively touristy spots, where everything is prepackaged and orderly. We went back to our room to make dinner and get relaxed with our backwoods-peasant-lady-moonshine.

Easy summer fishing on Miljet.

There really were an endless supply of great sights on this leg of the trip. I didn't even get to the feral cat population, the squid incident, the monastery with the bomb hole, the Serbian-Croatian war crimes photo exhibit (WHOA), the ice cream proliferation, the bar on the rocks right on the ocean...But! I will leave you with this: a photo of a sunbather's butt. You're welcome!

Honeymoon, part 1

So, I've been sitting on a recap of the honeymoon for a few months. Ultimately, I think that this sort of trip is essentially a private experience, the first few weeks spent as husband and wife, and I'm sure nobody wants to hear the lovey-dovey details. But I do bet that people would be into seeing some of the amazing sights from all our destinations.

AMSTERDAM

It lives up to the legend. Everyone rides a bike there from scrappy little kids to wobbly old ladies. I was immediately struck by how different the biking culture differed from the USA: everyone rides nice and slow, and they almost all ride cruiser bikes, so they sit upright and have the most amazing posture. I think I saw one rider with their pant-leg rolled up...everyone else was wearing cute outfits and the coolest shoes.

Cate, cats, cats! Amsterdam is replete with cats! They are under every nook and cranny, they are silky and sedate, they are AWESOME! I was in heaven, however Rob did find cause to poke fun at my desire to photograph every single street cat we came across.

The famed Vermeer light.

We were staying very near the Jordaan, and passed this doorway each morning. Nearly every house we passed had flowers bursting from the front entrance. The effect is that you feel like you are tip-toeing through some amazing secret garden every time you turn a corner. Another weird fact: Amsterdam residents feel totally ok with leaving all of their front curtains open. And since a lot of housing is on the street level, you have a bird's-eye view right into their lives. At first it's unnerving, and you feel like a creepy American tourist, but after a while you find yourself envious of all the cool interior design.

The Nationaal Monument (no, that's not a type-o)

Crazy Dutch pigeons do this.

Herons on the canal.

Rob caught me mid-bacon-and-apple-panakoken glory. God, that was a brilliant moment.

Even the dogs are amazing.

Getting tranquil on the canal.

The time that we spent in Amsterdam was really peaceful and lazy. It was possible to wake up late, stroll down for a coffee (espresso, actually...boy did i state to miss 16oz cups of coffee) and just walk around the neighborhoods until the sun set. We had meals at a different spot each day, and took lots of beer breaks. The energy of the city put us at ease, and it was especially fun to rent bicycles and cover some new territory.

You give me (Cabin) fever.

My grandparents-in-law recently offered me the use of their cabin for a girl's trip, and I a group of 7 of us went up last weekend for some badly needed partying and bonding. As the school year is approaching, and I'm getting totally burned out on serving, I really wanted some time where I wasn't staring balefully at my piles of books and notes and all the tedious Power Point presentations I've been fussing over...I needed a lot of laughs, nature, sleeping in, and just a touch of booze. Growing up in Florida, I never experienced the "cabin culture" that is so deeply ingrained here in Minnesota, and I don't think I've ever quite appreciated it the right way until this trip. Portia, Jenn, Kelsey, Kristina, Helen, Erika and myself really maxed out on the pontoon boat, the quiet of the lake and the trees, and all the cocktails we could mix up.

Everyone smile and say "Pontoon boat!"

Righteous mermaids.

Kelsey would not want me to write about the time when she wondered out loud if a bottle of beer would float in the lake...because it's full of liquid, right?...and then tossed a bottle into the water. It sank. Actually, a lot of beer was spilt that weekend. Just a little sacrifice to the party gods I guess!

hhrrmmmmm....yesssss.

A couple of dudes were paddling around the lake and asked us to tow them back in to shore. Jenn told them that they looked like they needed the exercise. Well, it was true! Sorry, but how hard is it to paddle a stupid little boat with your legs? Do they ask their girlfriends to carry them when they get tired of walking?

There were gorgeous ladies relaxing everywhere!

Things got a little silly, but it was fun to turn off the responsible woman part of our brains and act like little kids. We did speculate on whether or not guys get so ridiculous when they go on similar trips. Do they talk about their periods synching up, and banning all "feeling fat" talk, and getting in touch with, you know, their feelings? Do they have dogpiles inbetween margaritas and a game of "Apples to Apples?" They should!

Thank you girls, thank you for making it the best weekend in a long time!

Ahhh...the surprising vegan treat.

When Rob and I first started dating, he was sticking to a vegan diet. I had dated vegetarians before, but never a vegan, and I was a little leery of diving into it, seeing as how I try to subsist on bacon alone when I can. (I was a rebellious and inexperienced vegetarian for years, and was done in by a BLT. Sorry, ethics police, but it's my vice.) I quickly found out what an exceptional cook Rob was, so I was excited to see what kind of vegan cuisine he would be whipping up. One of our first hang-outs involved him making me beet soup, which was sweet because it was healthy and a lovely scarlet shade, and DANG, no guy had ever made me soup before. It was a new beginning for us, so I figured I would venture into unfamiliar territory and try making a vegan dessert. I've had a soft spot for baking ever since I was young, and I decided to make a vegan chocolate cake with homemade strawberry icing. I was completely shocked when the cake not only turned out, but tasted light and delicious, and not remotely like cardboard or...i don't know...bran. When I brought my triumphant cake to a backyard hang-out, I was hoping to impress Rob, and I think I not only impressed him, but the rest of the group. It was GOOD!!! As that summer wore on, I tried more and more vegan recipes, eventually honing in on cupcakes and an occasional carrot cake. I'd like to think that my vegan cupcakes are famous within our little social circle. It's such a rush to see someone's eyes light up when you tell them that there are cupcakes to be had, and vegan nonetheless. We have a lot of friends who are very conscious of their diets, and vegan treats let them party too.

Last night I got the baking prerogative, and i made some chocolate cupcakes with peanut butter frosting. Totally vegan, totally awesome. We got a mechanical pastry bag for a wedding gift, so I've been luxuriating with that instead of having to slop my precious frosting like a bricklayer. When Rob got home from work at 4am, and kissed me as he crawled into bed, I could taste a little chocolate-y, peanut-buttery goodness in his smooch.

Please stop when you should.

Today I was driving home with Robert behind a car that ran over a cat and didn't stop to deal with the aftermath. The woman driving the car clearly saw the animal streaking through the street, because i saw her tap her breaks. I can't be angry that she hit the cat, because it sort of came out of nowhere, but I think it's disgusting that she kept driving on. I watched that poor beast convulse and writhe on the pavement and die in a pool of it's own blood within 30 seconds of her speeding off in her posh sedan. Rob called Animal Control, and I couldn't help but sob against the steering wheel. I don't think the cat had a collar on, so who knows who the owners are or if they will ever find out what happened to their pet. It didn't look like a stray: it looked sleek and well fed. I hope that driver feels like shit for not stopping. I hope that if she has a pet at home, she takes better care of it than she did of the animal she killed.

Bachelorette Bacchanal

My girlfriends know me well enough to know that I couldn't bear to have a bachelorette party decorated primarily in penises. Nor could I ever envision myself stumbling downtown covered in a sash with a cheap tiara dangling on my head soliciting people for dollar bills while I throw lollipops at them. (Although it is funny to imagine just HOW DRUNK I would have to be to do that.) I count myself lucky to have such stellar ladyfriends, some of whom flew from the opposite end of the country to be with me for my wedding.


Virginia has been one of my very best friends since the first week of high school, when I volunteered to carry her books across campus due to her injured foot. It was a rare moment of outgoingness for me, and I was richly rewarded with a friend who grew from a chatty, headstrong girl to a fiercely loyal, steadfast and nurturing woman. Ginny was my maid of honor, and the first and only person that I hoped would fill that role.

Kristina planned my bachelorette party, which involved a ridiculously delicious dinner at The Red Stag Supper Club followed by dancing. This photo doesn't foreshadow the kind of windmilling, booty-shaking, sweat-flinging that occurred later that night on the dancefloor (it kind of sounds like Ultimate Fighting, yeah? Instead of dancing? Well, we take our dancing VERY seriously.)

As the evening wore on, Portia and I started to feel...pinker.








My sister-in-law Elizabeth and I had never gone out dancing together before...and it looks like we are using Jazzercise as our inspiration.





Eventually we cleared the bar out with our high-kicks and whirling dervishes. Portia invented a dance that gracefully channeled a drunk guy throwing punches (no photo available, unfortunately.) It felt so awesome to have the space to move like this, and the privacy to act like little girls at a frantic slumber party, plus booze. (I swear, someone handed me a cocktail every 10 minutes!) But, despite all the boozing and bumping, I made it to the next morning sans hangover.