When I pull up to the dance studio for my morning class and rehearsal, I notice that all the parking spots are already taken. It's not unusual, since there are only four spots, but today there are two vehicles I don’t recognize. One is a sleek black Rivian SUV with a black matte finish and the other is a property inspection van. I park on the tree-lined street in Denver and crunch the dead leaves under my feet as I walk half a block to Hannah Kahn’s Open Studio. The air is still hot, and I can already feel sweat building under my long sleeves, but the trees know that fall is on its way and drop their leaves on my shoulders.
I know what’s coming too. Hannah Kahn, prolific Denver choreographer and master teacher, is selling her building. I’ve known this for months, but the reality feels especially jarring today. I don’t greet the smartly dressed real estate broker and his client as I pass them to kick off the dirty sandals my puppy chewed up, but they don’t notice because they’re pointing to the back corner of the huge studio murmuring to each other. The property inspector traipses around with loud boots, clinking and clanking something back by the water heater housed in the bathroom.
I slouch the multiple bags I always carry off my shoulder to the floor, near the stack of rectangular carpets that Hannah uses as mats for students to use when they’re doing floor barre and settle in to begin the arduous process of coaxing my (nearing) middle-aged body to move. My colleagues and I lay on our backs and complete various series in which we spread out on the cool smooth floor in extended X shapes and curl onto our sides like infants. We expand our energy and breath to the furthest reaches of our fingers and toes and contract to pull all of our limbs into the center of of our selves, stretching and compressing our muscles and organs. It’s growing-shrinking, it’s core-distal, it’s laughing-crying. I realize I am crying a little bit, and I blink the tears away as I shift from my side on to my back and stare up at the steel beams. The property inspector snaps a loud picture of the studio, the digitized shutter sound on his phone turned up to full volume.
I've been dancing for most of my life—having the means to attend a specialized arts boarding school and earning a fine arts degree from a prestigious conservatory. After that, I moved to New York to do the thing. I auditioned, danced for free, helped produce low-budget arts events, and choreographed while juggling bartending, catering, serving, commuting, and struggling to make rent. It was a privilege, but it was tough, and by the time I left, I felt defeated. I moved to Denver, found a stable job with a salary and benefits, and pushed my dreams of dancing professionally to the back of my mind. It wasn’t until the COVID-19 pandemic hit that I realized I still wanted to perform. I wanted to get back in shape, be stronger, and better than before. So, I took a chance on my buried dreams and auditioned for the Hannah Kahn Dance Company.
Rehearsal was twice a week in Hannah’s Open Studio on Tuesdays and Thursdays for a total time commitment of 10 hours per week. My legs, core and arms toughened, and I got better at picking up Hannah’s complex and detailed dance style. Twice a week I dragged out those carpet squares and focused on using exact precision in Hannah’s floor barre, staring with intensity at the unaesthetic fluorescent lights on the ceiling. Here, I took myself seriously as a dancer again.
Open Studio was the incubator of this process. In the spring, an occasional green tendril of life would sprout at the little joint between where the floor met the wall, searching for sunshine but finding only sweaty feet. A tiny statue of superman held down our center mark, over Hannah’s chair. The heater clicked loudly in the winter, osbcuring any instruction given by Hannah as it blasted hair-dryer hot air down at the chilly yawning space. I looked for the square of sunshine on the floor to warm my toes–the left big toe that refused to accept regular circulation in particular–where I could execute my plies in relative comfort. The company took our lunch breaks on the comfy worn-out teal carpet, surrounded by peeling posters and photos from shows and dancers past. There is a small library of books about dance, and dance review journals dating back to the 80s. One of the company members, Danielle, told us absolutely riveting and slightly insane stories over lunch in the little space between the bathrooms and the dressing room as we fueled up for the rehearsal ahead.
Later, Hannah rented the space to me to develop my own choreography, and I worked with other choreographers, dancers, and artists in collaborations under that roof. A large stack of drums occupied one corner, used for Brazilian Zouk classes. Classes for children, performances, and burlesque rehearsals all happened there. It was, as the name suggested, “open” for whatever it was needed for.
The next week, I walk into the studio and immediately notice that Superman is gone from his perch on center. Nothing else has been packed up yet, the studio looks mostly the same, but this small change feels symbolic to me.
I’ve moved countless times in my life, so I’m not unfamiliar with saying goodbye to places. Over this past summer, I visited some of my old haunts in New York City on a vacation and found myself standing listlessly on the patio of a shuttered restaurant I used to hate working at, inexplicably feeling nostalgic. I’ve left towns, apartments, lovers, and friends in my past somewhat comfortably. But saying goodbye to Open Studio feels harder.
More spaces for dance to be created, performed, and nourished should exist in Denver. Open Studio is a place where people connected literally and figuratively, communed with their bodies, and finally figured out their turnout muscles (me, specifically.) Friendships forged! Works of art birthed! Social commentary presented through the medium of abstract non-verbal movement manifested! There will be a gaping hole left behind when Open Studio goes for good. My wish is that soon, Denver will have another space dedicated to dance where studios can be rented for cheap, where professional-level classes can be taught, and casual performances shown and enjoyed. There are so many passionate, kind, and brilliant dance professionals here who share this wish, and they have my undying support and probably some of my volunteer hours.
Hannah Kahn named her space “Open Studio,” and this moniker contained a promise of sorts. On Sunday, September 29th at 7pm, she’s presenting an evening of work to say goodbye to it. I can’t make it, so if you go in my stead, I give you permission to be as open as the promise contained in the name. You’re open to dance, you’re open to enjoy, you’re open to “not really get modern dance,” you’re open to have a glass or two of wine, you’re open to understand modern dance better after than second glass of wine, you’re open to laugh, and you’re certainly open to cry.
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