As usual, I took the last few weeks of summer off from dance writing and from trying to keep up with anything dance-related. As has become more usual in recent years, I was slightly reluctant about coming back to it in late August. Perhaps I was burned out, but I predicted that once I was in the theatre with my notebook, things would click back into gear. And they did. But, sitting at Spokesman Coffee on the Sunday when I was supposed to write my first review of the fall season, between 2 and 4pm, I was overcome with sorrow. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to write it, nor did my feelings have anything to do with the performance I was writing on, except for the responsibility I felt to write a good response. I was simply despondent about coming to this practice, my true vocation and passion, with so little energy and enthusiasm left, and, because of the narrow time slot this work has in my current life, with all the distractions and pains of pulling.

I’ve written on dance for the Austin Chronicle for a decade, and for most of that time I thought I’d never voluntarily give up the niche I’ve been so lucky to win, at the paper and in this town. I’ve written good stuff and bad stuff, about all kinds of work, under the best and most benevolent editorial eye I’ve encountered anywhere, Robert Faires. It’s possible that I wouldn’t have written anything over the past ten years were it not for Robert and the Chronicle. I’ve gained perspective and knowledge about our local arts scene and how to approach it from my assignments, interviews, research, and discussions. I’ve learned the dangers of words wielded recklessly and experienced the thrills of getting it right. Writing for a free weekly has encouraged me to consider art in its cultural and sociopolitical contexts. This is sort of a kick in the shins: I believe deeply that arts journalism is important, especially now and especially in this town, as a record of culture and nonliteral experience, response, and progress. I just cannot do it as a side gig.

It has been suggested that I just take a break, but in my experience, a break doesn’t mitigate the pulling, since there is an implied responsibility to come back. So, while I don’t know what will happen in the future, I’m not going to call it a break. I’m going to call this “not doing freelance arts journalism anymore.” Perhaps this will open doors on all sides. 

To all the artists whose work I’ve covered, thank you a million times from the depths of my heart.

To those whose work I didn’t get to yet, I am sorry from the same place.

Support free press.

Photo by Jack Delano, 1942. Available from the Library of Congress photo archive.