For some dancers, pursuing dance as a profession means navigating a gap between personal and collective values, traditions, and beliefs that don’t always recognize dance as a viable career. At the same time, facing conflict can strengthen commitment and fuel creativity. Exploring personal history and the challenges faced along the way can be a valuable source of inspiration.
Here, three artists share how navigating opposition or misunderstanding from their nondance communities has shaped their career paths and continues to inform their work, through cultivating discipline, informing their creative process, and creating new opportunities for other artists like themselves.
Diane Nicole Lee
Freelance dancer based in New York City
I’m originally from Manila, Philippines, but I’ve been living in the United States for almost eight years. I recently decided to go all-in with dance and am now enrolled in Ballet Arts’ international student visa program. I’ve been training hard and am working toward my artist visa.
I have lots of compassion and empathy toward my family and our culture. But in the Philippines, dance isn’t seen as a career. Ever since my mom fell into a coma when I was in high school, I felt a huge responsibility to stay and help run our family business—though I wanted to dance. I stayed for a year of college and got to represent the Philippines on “World of Dance.” After that year, I realized that I only have one life, and that I could help my family in different ways.
In 2017, I moved to New York City and transferred to Fordham University to get my bachelor’s degree in new media and digital design. I took dance classes in the city, but when the pandemic hit, I could take more virtually—even from choreographers from around the world. It was then that I thought I could still make dance a career. After graduating in 2021, I told my dad it was now or never. Knowing other Filipino dancers helped during that transition. The Manila dance community is very supportive, and it has so many talented dancers. I’d made a lot of connections during the pandemic and eventually found a community in New York City. That’s the beauty of being here: There are people from all over the world like you.
Diane Nicole Lee. Photo by James Jin, Courtesy Lee.
Sometimes, it can be difficult for me to not think, Do I even deserve to be in this room? I didn’t have the world-class training some of my peers have had. But I’m learning to own my path. This summer, I produced and performed in a dance showcase benefiting Share The Movement, a nonprofit promoting diversity in dance. I really resonated with their mission: providing more opportunities for young dancers of color to receive the kind of training they deserve. Ballet, especially, can sometimes feel like a selfish pursuit. We’re so focused on our own growth. But knowing that this work is all about the community reminds me of my purpose, and that we’re not alone.
Living here has given me the courage to create opportunities and to find people who want to support that vision. On the days when I feel discouraged or unmotivated, I remember the people who continue to support me. After all, dance won’t survive without community or the humans who make it an essential art form.
Culture Shock
Manish Chauhan
Peridance Contemporary Dance Company member
I grew up in Mumbai, India, and my father, grandfather, and uncle all drove taxis. My father didn’t want that for me; he wanted me to work somewhere air-conditioned. But in college, I realized what I wanted to do. I was already 20, and I wanted to dance.
My mom had always said that dance was a hobby for rich children, not us. But I taught myself, and I collected money from my 21st birthday to go to a ballet class at a studio called The Danceworx. I was so happy. But I didn’t know how to tell my family, so I danced in secret, using my college money. Then my sister got sick, and I had to stop and stay with her in the hospital. My parents learned about the money. I felt useless—like I wasn’t a good student, son, or dancer. In my family, no one did art, or even left India. I think my mother saw how sad I was; she spoke to my father. That was the first time they supported me dancing. When I started again, I survived on milk and bananas, but, thanks to scholarships, my parents never paid a single rupee.
My visa was rejected twice because I was unmarried. But at 23, I got a scholarship at Oregon Ballet Theatre and moved to the U.S. It was so difficult. I’d started late; everyone there was almost 10 years younger and much more experienced. I’d left my parents. The food was different. I didn’t have any friends. It was a lonely, lonely time. But I wanted to dance, and that made me resilient.
Now, with Peridance, I send my family money every month. And my different perspective is a blessing. In India, the teacher—your guru—is the most important person and deserves utmost respect. There’s a saying: If a god and a teacher stand at your doorstep, you bow and touch the teacher’s feet first. When I came to the U.S., the teachers were so nice. It took getting used to. Another thing I took from my upbringing is accepting and trying. You don’t say “I can’t do it.” You say yes, and if it doesn’t happen, it doesn’t happen. But you try and learn. I think those qualities show professionalism. They’ve helped me succeed here.
Identity as Inspiration
Peter Quanz
Canadian choreographer
Peter Quanz. Courtesy Quanz.
I’ve been a professional choreographer for 25 years. I grew up in a little village called Baden in Ontario. When I was 9 years old, my parents took me to a performance of Guys and Dolls, choreographed by Brian Macdonald, and I came out of it so excited—I wanted to be a choreographer. I started taking dance classes. At the same time, my parents had joined a Mennonite church. There’s a joke in the faith: You can’t have sex because it could lead to dancing. We kept things quiet about me going to ballet school. But, gradually, the cat came out of the bag.
Eventually, I danced a piece of mine at church, talking the congregation through the symbols involved. They’d had no idea that dance could be an art form. And they learned to accept that it was important to me. They never said “You can’t.” They would ask “Why?” That is a very different question. It helped me decide that dance was for me, and to defend why I had made that choice.
One thing that has served me well in dance is the idea that everybody in the room is important. I grew up listening to four-part harmonies during services, which was a great musical education, and it taught me that everyone has a necessary voice. Now, that’s how I approach my rehearsals; I never speak to each dancer the same way. As a choreographer, you need to develop the sensitivity to understand each individual in the group. One of my pieces, Untitled (2013), was inspired by inclusion and exclusion; at one point, the dancers hold hands in a circle. Just last year, my parents and I went for a drive near my hometown, and we saw some Old Order Mennonites sitting in circles in their yards. Suddenly, symbols from my childhood came flooding back. I understood so much of my choreography in that moment.
Even though I’m no longer actively part of the faith, it is still part of my life and DNA. And an honest community is never without conflict. We should embrace confrontation when it is an opportunity to gain a deeper understanding of each other. It took those experiences with my community to understand, on a really profound level, why I’m here, why I’m doing this, and why I need to keep going forward.
GIPHY App Key not set. Please check settings