Dance Chat

A Power Cord From a Brooklyn WindowCaleaf Ramier Sellers does not begin his story in a studio. He begins at a window.He grew up in Brooklyn, on the border of Canarsie and East New York. Outside his home was a basketball court. People would knock on the window and ask if they could plug their sound system into his house. His mother would ask, “How long are they going to be out there?” He would say, “Until midnight.” Then a long extension cord would run from his home to the park, and music would fill the block.There were baby showers, birthdays, weddings, cookouts, and homecomings. Someone had returned from jail, and the neighborhood would celebrate. Before Caleaf knew the word “Hip Hop,” he knew the feeling: people gathering, music playing, bodies moving.His first teacher was his mother. She was not a professional dancer. She simply loved to dance. Music was always playing in the house. If she was cooking, cleaning, or moving through the day, she was dancing. She would grab him as a child, and he remembers looking up at her. Later, as he grew taller, he remembers looking down at her.Dance entered him not as a career, but as a way of being alive.“Hip Is to Know. Hop Is to Do.”For Caleaf, Hip Hop is not an abstract idea. It is something lived.He speaks of “peace, love, unity, and having fun” not as a slogan, but as an atmosphere he remembers. It did not mean the neighborhood was perfect. There were conflicts. There were nights when people knew it was time to leave. But most of the time, the jam was a space where people came together.There were no classes then. You learned by watching.Your eyes were the camera. Your brain stored the footage. You saw someone move their shoulders a certain way, catch the music a certain way, or step into a rhythm that touched you. Then you went home and replayed it in your head until your body could understand it.But copying was not the goal. Biting was a serious thing. You could be inspired by someone, but you had to make it your own. You had to turn influence into identity.That is why Caleaf’s generation carries something so unique. They were not manufactured by a system. They grew out of parties, parks, clubs, kitchens, and sidewalks.The Tunnel, Rosie Perez, and the Moment Dance Became a CareerCaleaf did not plan to become a professional dancer.He was in college when his student loan situation changed, and he began thinking he might have to come home. Henry Link told him he needed to come to The Tunnel on a Wednesday night. It was there that Rosie Perez saw them. She was scouting dancers for a Diana Ross music video.Caleaf, Link, and their friends auditioned. They got the job. Afterward, Rosie took them out to eat and asked if this was something they wanted to do as a career.She did not ask for a percentage. She did not try to manage them. In Caleaf’s words, she simply “put them on.” She placed them in the light where other people could see them.From there came work with artists such as Heavy D, Doug E. Fresh, Mariah Carey, and Michael Jackson. But when Caleaf is asked when he first felt he was truly “in the room,” he didn’t name the biggest star. He says it was when people came to see him.In 1993, he and Peter Paul were invited to Japan Dance Delight as guest judges and performers. There was no artist in front of them. They were the reason people were watching.For a dancer who had spent years behind artists, that changed everything.36 Chambers: Start From the First LevelYears later, Caleaf and Buddha Stretch created 36 Chambaz of Stylez.The idea came from a simple realization. They had traveled all over the world teaching and sharing the culture, yet New York itself did not have a true home base for this kind of training. People kept asking why there was no major camp in New York. Caleaf began to feel that something needed to be brought home.The name was inspired by the kung fu film The 36th Chamber of Shaolin. In the film, the main character wants to begin at the highest level, only to realize he must start from the first chamber.For Caleaf, that is the lesson. Many dancers want the most difficult material before they can do the most basic things. But the basics are not something to skip. They are where depth begins.At 36 Chambaz, a class may move through multiple teachers, multiple “chambers,” and multiple layers of training: footwork, foundation, technique, partner dance, floor work, freestyle, review, and history. The goal is not to hand students choreography and send them home. The goal is to give them something they can grow with.No Mirrors, No Recording, Just the RoomAnyone who has taken 36 Chambaz remembers the setup. No mirrors. No filming. Two circles. People facing each other, not just facing a teacher.Caleaf says he wanted to bring the atmosphere of the club or the party into the classroom. A stage would have been easier. A teacher in front and students behind would have been more familiar. But that would not create the same connection.In the circle, people have to pay attention. They have to feel the energy around them. They have to remember with their minds and bodies, not just with their phones.In an age of endless scrolling, Caleaf is asking students to stay present. Do not rush to document the moment. Be in it first.A Cypher Is Not a Place to Prove Yourself AloneAgain and again, Caleaf returns to the word love.He describes walking into parties today and seeing cyphers where people stand around waiting for their turn. Someone dances in the middle, and the circle watches silently. Each person seems to be preparing their own statement rather than feeding the person inside.But to him, a cypher is about building on top of each other. The person in the middle needs energy. The people around them have a responsibility. If you give energy, they give more back. Then the next person enters with more power. Everyone rises.The circle is not a courtroom. It is a structure of support.Caleaf says the circle is life. It begins at zero and returns to zero. In that shape, we look out for one another, witness one another, and push one another higher.From Battle to Contest: Did We Lose the Party?Caleaf makes a distinction between a battle and a contest.A battle, in his understanding, is continuous. Whenever you see the person, it is “on”, until one person concedes. A contest is structured. It has rounds, judges, brackets, and time limits.Many young dancers today encounter street dance through contests first. They learn to dance AT each other before they learn to dance WITH each other.That is why 36 Chambaz includes partner dance. It is not only about learning hustle, stepping, or other partner forms. It is about learning how to see another person. In house, Caleaf remembers “stalking,” a way of shadowing and responding to someone all night. You follow me. I follow you. We build something together.Dance began as a social act. Without connection, it becomes only movement.Freedom Begins When You Stop Judging YourselfYoung dancers often ask Caleaf how to freestyle.His answer begins with a song.“Find a song you love. Not a song you like. A song you love so much that when it comes on, your body starts moving before your mind can interfere.”Adults, he says, judge themselves too quickly. Before they move, they have already decided they are wrong, awkward, or not cool enough. Children do not do that. Children see something, like it, and try it.So perhaps freestyle begins by returning to the inner child. Start with one basic step. Change it. Change the level, the shape, the timing, the direction. Make variations until the step fits your body like a shoe you can walk in.Individuality is not magic. It is the result of transforming the basics until they become undeniably yours.Leaving Dance Made Him Realize He Had to ReturnThe hardest time in Caleaf’s career was not a dance job. It was the period when he left dance.He stepped away for about two years to raise his family and worked a regular job for five dollars an hour. Later, he worked at a hospital with benefits, insurance, a pension, and the possibility of going back to school.He left anyway.He came back to dance in 1997 with purpose. He and Shan S stopped waiting to be invited to Japan and decided to fly themselves there. They collected studio cards, built their own network, and created a route through Tokyo, Osaka, Nagoya, Hiroshima, Fukuoka, and Nagasaki.He remembers something Skeeter Rabbit said: 60 percent of the time, people will call you. The other 40 percent, you have to create opportunities for yourself.Caleaf’s life is a testament to that 40 percent.Maybe Dancers Should Have a Seat at the UNNear the end of the conversation, Caleaf says something that sounds like a joke until it does not: dancers should have a seat at the United Nations.Dancers know how to sit in a room with people from different countries, languages, and histories. They know how to disagree, compete, exchange, shake hands, and go home with respect.Music and dance keep people in the same room for four hours, six hours, sometimes ten. In a world that keeps teaching us separation, dance insists on connection.That may be the deepest message of this episode. Street dance is not only movement. It is memory, responsibility, transmission, and relationship.What you receive from the culture, you pass on. Whoever lit something in you, you honor by lighting something in someone else.And after all the steps, stories, techniques, tours, injuries, and rooms around the world, Caleaf leaves us with the simplest word: Love.Do it for the love.Follow 🔗Caleaf: ins@caleafsellers 36ChambazofStylz: ins@36chambazofstylz36ChambazofStylz Summer Camp: registrationHost: ins@ruijingshu rednote @theTryGirlPodcast: apple podcast 小宇宙 This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit thetrygirl.substack.com

Henry Link did not first meet music in a battle, a cypher, or a club.He met it at home.Every Sunday, his mother and grandmothers played old-school rhythm and blues while the house was being cleaned. As a child, Link mopped floors, wiped walls, and cleaned windows to songs he did not yet understand. At first, he hated that music. Then he saw his family dancing to it, laughing with it, living inside it.For many people, street dance begins with the street.For Link, it began with family.New Year’s, Christmas, Thanksgiving, birthdays, picnics — music was not a performance. It was how people gathered. Dance was not a career plan. It was not a strategy. It was simply what happened when people felt good together.That belief has stayed with him.He does not dance to be famous.He does not dance to be the best.He dances, he says, to connect people.Art brings people together. For Henry Link, that is not a slogan. It is the root.Mother’s Lesson: Stop Dancing With YourselfLink’s first dance was not hip hop. Not locking. Not popping.It was hustle.He was about five years old, standing on his mother’s feet as she held his hands and moved him around. His first dance lesson was not about isolations or technique. It was about dancing with another person.Years later, when he was practicing in front of a mirror, his mother saw him and asked what he was doing.“I’m dancing,” he said.She asked, in essence: Why are you dancing with yourself?From that day on, Link stopped relying on the mirror. Unless he was rehearsing for a show, a video, or teaching a class, he did not dance to look at himself. Even as a teacher, he says, he is not only teaching students — he is watching them, learning from them.When a student does not do a move exactly the way he showed it, he does not immediately see a mistake. He sees another way to do the same thing.In his view, the biggest teacher in the room is often the student.Katrina’s Gift: Dance for YourselfAfter his mother, Link’s second teacher was his sister Katrina.She was not a professional dancer. But she taught him almost everything: how to ride a bike, how to drive, how to DJ, how to fight, and how to move through life.What she gave him in dance was not a list of steps. It was a principle.Dance for yourself.If someone likes it, say thank you.If someone does not like it, say thank you.For Link, criticism is not something to fear. It is material. A dancer who cannot receive criticism cannot grow. But a dancer who knows why they dance can hear criticism without losing themselves.The Night at The Tunnel That Changed EverythingIn 1989, Link was dancing house at The Tunnel in New York.A woman sat next to him and told him he danced well. She said she was working on a music video and wanted him to come in. Link thought she was just trying to pick him up.A few days later, the call came through at the law office where he worked.The woman was Rosie Perez.The video was Diana Ross’s “Working Overtime.”At first, Link was hired as an extra. During a break, a director saw him dancing on the stairs and asked him to do it again. Suddenly, he was no longer an extra. He was a principal dancer. His pay changed from $250 to $1,500.That job led to an opportunity to dance with Diana Ross in London. To get his passport, Link needed his father’s help. His father agreed, but only after asking for one promise:If you are going to do this, do it 100 percent.Link says he has kept that promise ever since.Every show. Every performance. Every time. Start at 100.Elite Force: A Name Said in a Hurry, Then Written Into HistoryThe name Elite Force was born almost by accident.A Japanese organizer wanted to bring Link to Japan to perform and judge a dance competition. Link did not want to go alone, so he said he would bring Stretch and Loose Joint. The organizer asked for the crew’s name.They did not have one. Link said the first thing that came to him: Elite Force.This random name stayed in history.But the idea of “elite” had already appeared in his life. On the set of Michael Jackson’s “Remember the Time,” Link was sick with the flu but still auditioned. When he was asked to solo, he gave everything he had. Director John Singleton was so struck by the performance that he wanted to use him more prominently.During rehearsal, Link was placed in the back. He kept thinking: I belong in the front. I belong with the elite.Eventually, parts of his movement ideas were added to the choreography, and he was moved forward.For Link, the front line was never just a spot.It was a responsibility.A Real Battle Does Not End With a ScoreLink draws a sharp line between a dance competition and a battle.A competition has judges, rounds, and results.A battle is about respect.He talks about battling Rock Steady for years. It did not end after one round. It did not end because someone won that night. Every time they saw each other, it continued.Only when the other side finally said, “We respect y’all,” was it over.That is what battle means to Link. It is not simply about defeating someone. It is a conversation. One dancer asks questions through movement. The other answers.Floorwork is a question.A wave is a question.A glide is a question.A groove is a question.The point is not to copy the other person and do it bigger. The point is to answer in your own language.Warning to Today’s Dancers: Do Not Copy One of Link’s strongest critiques of today’s dance culture is copying.He sees dancers watch winners of major events and then imitate whatever helped that person win. If someone wins by going to the floor, suddenly everyone goes to the floor. If someone’s style becomes popular, everyone starts moving like that.But to Link, that was not “the formula.”That was one person’s moment.There is a difference between inspiration and biting. Inspiration transforms. Biting repeats.His generation was strict about that. You could be inspired by someone, but if you copied their exact move, their exact combination, their signature, you would be called out.For Link, the future of dance depends on people having the courage to remain individual.“A Lot of Class, But No Teaching”Link also speaks directly about the studio world.Street dance was not always welcomed in dance studios. Today, it is popular. But popularity, he warns, has created another problem: many classes, not enough teaching.Too often, a class begins immediately with choreography. Students count steps, memorize a routine, film the ending, and leave. But they may not have learned bounce, rock, groove, foundation, history, attitude, or meaning.Link’s own approach is different. He does not like to build a full routine before entering the room. He creates in class, with the students, in real time.That keeps the class alive. It also means everyone is learning together.A real teacher, he says, must be able to break the hardest step down to its simplest form. A real teacher must be able to explain not only how a movement works, but why it exists.The “why” changes the body.Musicality Is Not MemoryMany dancers think musicality means hitting every sound.Link disagrees.That, he says, is often music memory. You know the song. You remember the breaks. You hit the accents because you already know they are coming.Real musicality is different. It means understanding texture.On tour with Mariah Carey, Link spent time watching musicians warm up. He studied the drummer’s touch, the pianist’s fingers, the bassist’s minimal groove. He noticed that the same instrument could produce different weight, tone, and feeling depending on how it was played.That changed the way he danced.He does not only follow music. He enters it. Sometimes, when he does not like what is missing in a song, he says he dances to another rhythm in his head and layers it into what is playing.Musicality, for him, is not just hearing music.It is becoming part of the band.In China, He Looks for Grandmothers and Grandfathers Dancing OutsideOne of the most touching moments in the interview comes when Link talks about traveling.When he visits another country, he does not only want to see that country’s hip hop. He wants to see its cultural dance. In China, he says, he looks for older people dancing in public spaces. He watches them, joins them, and learns from them.Why older people?Because they are not dancing to win.They are not dancing to prove something.They are dancing to enjoy time with one another.He encourages dancers outside the United States not to simply imitate American hip hop. Bring your own culture in. Start with the dance, rhythm, and movement that come from where you are from. Then add hip hop foundation to it.That is how a dancer stops copying culture and starts creating language.His Message to Young Dancers: Get Out of Your Own WayAt the end of the conversation, Link’s advice is simple:Get out of your way.Look in the mirror and ask yourself why you dance. What is the point? What is the purpose? If the attention, jobs, stages, and applause disappeared, would you still dance?If the answer is not for yourself, he says, you may not survive.That is what makes Henry Link so compelling. He has worked with icons. He has witnessed the evolution of hip hop, house, club culture, battles, studios, music videos, and the dance industry itself. But when he speaks about dance, he keeps returning to something older and more intimate.A house being cleaned on Sunday.A mother’s feet.A sister’s advice.A club full of strangers.Elders dancing in the street.A moment when music brings people together.In this episode of Dance Chat, Henry Link is not only telling stories from dance history.He is asking a question that still matters:Why do you dance?Follow 🔗Link: ins@linkefc 36ChambazofStylz: ins@36chambazofstylz36ChambazofStylz Summer Camp: registrationHost: ins@ruijingshu rednote @theTryGirlPodcast: apple podcast 小宇宙 This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit thetrygirl.substack.com

In New York’s dance community, Peter’s path is a familiar one—starting from a high school dance team, moving through crews, choreography, directing, and competitions, eventually becoming a director of Project D.But what truly changed his relationship with dance didn’t happen during those years—it happened after he walked away from all of it.A Dream Without a RoadmapPeter didn’t grow up in the kind of environment that guarantees a path into dance. Born in Korea, raised between Michigan and New York, his early relationship with movement wasn’t formalized—it was more of a quiet, distant pull.“I think I always had an interest,” he recalls. “Like a dream… maybe auditioning for YG or something. But when you’re a kid, you don’t really know how to pursue that.”There was no clear entry point, no roadmap. Just fragments of influence, glimpses of possibility. So, like many dancers of his generation, he found his way in through something almost accidental.A high school audition. A performance team. A style that, at the time, didn’t even quite know what to call itself.Over the next decade, dance became less of an experiment and more of a commitment. Teams replaced classrooms. Rehearsals replaced casual interest. Eventually, Peter stepped into leadership, directing Project D. It’s also where roles begin to solidify.Leader. Choreographer. Mentor.And then, one day, he walked away.I’m no longer on a team. I’m a free agent now.That’s how Peter describes himself now. No team affiliation. No obligation to produce. For the first time in over a decade, dance is no longer tied to responsibility.After leaving his team, he stopped for a while. No choreography. Fewer classes. Minimal dancing.Because leaving a team after years of building within it isn’t just a logistical shift—it’s an identity rupture. The kind that forces uncomfortable questions:Who are you when you’re not needed in the same way?What does dance look like for you when no one is asking you to create?For Peter, the answer wasn’t immediate. It still isn’t. But there’s something intentional in the uncertainty.“Everything I created before was for competition, for the stage, for the team,” he says. “And that slowly changes how you see dance—you stop doing it for yourself. Now I’m just figuring it out,” he says. “Dancing on my own terms.”Leaving Google and Launching “Dance Club” Outside of dance, Peter was a software engineer at Google.He took severance and left the job a year ago. He considered returning to tech—but when it came time to prepare for interviews, something became clear: “I didn’t want it anymore.”So he made a decision many people thought about, but didn’t act on: he chose to build something for dance.The idea started with a simple frustration:Why is booking in dance so manual and so difficult?So he started building a platform that began with studio rentals, then expanded toward pop-up class booking, aiming to streamline the entire experience.More importantly, he made a conscious choice:He didn’t want to profit by exploiting dancers.“Dancers already struggle enough,” he says. “I don’t want to be another person taking from them.”We all have a responsibility in dance “If you’re in this space, the problems you see might be the ones you’re meant to solve.”A developer builds platforms.A director creates work.A dancer expresses.A storyteller documents.Dance has never been just about the people on stage.It’s a system—and it’s still being built. And we can all contribute in our own terms.FollowPeter Lee: ins @peterlee__Dance Club: ins@dnceclub_Host: ins@ruijingshu rednote @theTryGirlPodcast: apple podcast 小宇宙 This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit thetrygirl.substack.com

In New York City’s dance world, some chase the spotlight, some live inside studios, and others quietly question what “success” even means.Melanie belongs firmly to the last group.Her journey doesn’t follow a clean, linear arc. It feels more like improvisation—testing, detouring, and rediscovering—much like the way she dances.Living Two LivesDance wasn’t a sudden calling for Melanie—it was always there.She started dancing at 3, taught first by her parents. By 6, she was training in ballet, jazz, and tap. But it wasn’t until 16, when she stepped into Broadway Dance Center, that dance became something serious—something viable.That’s where she saw dancers who existed beyond the classroom—people in music videos, on stage, building careers.At the same time, she was studying criminal psychology in college.During the day, she took classes, studying human behavior; at night, she entered the studio, training physical expression.“I was living two lives,” she recalls.Then came the turning point:Stay in school for midterms—or fly to Africa to tour with Ashanti?She didn’t make the trip. But the decision was made.She dropped out of college—and chose dance.Finding Freedom in the BattleAt first, Melanie thought success meant one thing:dancing behind artists, appearing in music videos, being seen.That changed at 21, when she stepped into club culture—parties, cyphers, battles.“That’s where I found my freedom.”With almost no preparation, she entered a waacking vs. vogue battle at House Dance Conference—and made it to the finals.Back then, there was no social media. No Instagram. No footage to study.Just her instinct.She could read her opponents in minutes—their strengths, their insecurities, their habits.But more than that, she had a mindset most dancers spend years chasing:“I never cared what people thought. The only thing that mattered was my relationship with the music.”Your Style is What Comes Natural to YouMany dancers struggle with the question:What style should I focus on?Melanie’s answer is strikingly simple:“The style that comes most naturally to your body—that’s yours.”She’s trained in everything—hip hop, house, waacking, belly dance.But the ones that truly made her shine were the ones her body “just picked up.”And instead of separating styles, she blends them:* Street dance waves into belly dance* Belly isolations into battle roundsFor her, it’s respecting the roots while making yourself more complete.Motherhood Didn’t Slow Her DownFor many dancers, having a child is seen as a pause—if not a full stop.Melanie did the opposite:* Teaching until weeks before giving birth* Back to work two weeks postpartum* Competing internationally within months* Winning battles less than a year later“The only person who limits you is you.”She doesn’t deny recovery—but she reframes it:Movement is part of healing.Discipline, RedefinedMelanie’s philosophy centers on one idea: self-conditioningHer rule is simple:“Your confidence comes from keeping your promises to yourself.”If you say you’ll train, you better hit that gym.If you say you’ll show up, you better show up.Otherwise, you lose trust in yourself.That mindset extends into her lifestyle: no alcohol, conscious eating, periods of fasting, and avoiding draining relationships.Not out of restriction—but focus.Channel all your energy into becoming who you want to be.Who You Are is More Important than TechniqueFor Melanie, growth isn’t just physical.She strongly encourages dancers to study acting.Because acting forces you to confront: Are you being truthful?“You want to be seen, but you’re afraid to be seen. Acting strips that away.”And once those layers are gone, dance changes.What She’d Tell Her Younger SelfMelanie doesn’t regret her past—but she’s clear about what she’d do differently:* Avoid alcohol earlier* Take care of your body* Stay away from chaotic relationships* Put your focus on yourselfAnd perhaps most importantly:“Put the drama in your work—not your life.”In a dance world increasingly shaped by visibility, trends, and algorithms, Melanie is reminding us: Freedom is about whether you are truly yourself.👉🏻 Follow her ins @melanieaguirre This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit thetrygirl.substack.com

A girl “Banned” from Competition by Her Parents, Secretly Trained Her Way to the National TeamAt three in the morning, Qilin crawled out of bed and tiptoed down to the basement.That was during her second year of middle school in Canada. By day, she was an ordinary international student, sitting in classrooms taking academic courses; by night, she was a rhythmic gymnast practicing in secret—something her parents knew nothing about.Her father had made it clear to her coach: “Don’t let her train competitively.” In her parents’ eyes, sending their child abroad was the proper path; sports were, at most, for fitness. But Qilin had her own mind. From a young age, she knew her body was made for something extreme.Eventually, the truth came out because of a competition entry fee. Her mother saw the event title on the registration form and sensed something was off. “What kind of competition is this?” Qilin had no choice but to confess. But by then, she couldn’t stop—her coach had discovered her talent, and she had found her place in the sport.This was just the beginningUnderstanding body movement from physicsQilin first realized her body was “different” when she was 10.She was learning Chinese folk dance recreationally. The first time her teacher tried to press her back into a stretch, the teacher was startled: “I’ve never stretched you before—why are you this flexible?” Qilin herself couldn’t explain it. Later, when she joined rhythmic gymnastics, she noticed that movements others had to drill repeatedly seemed almost instinctive to her.Take a wave, for example. The dance teacher would spend ages explaining, yet her classmates couldn’t find the feeling of “rolling the spine down vertebra by vertebra.” Qilin didn’t understand what was so difficult about it. “It’s just the spine—starting from the thoracic vertebrae, one segment at a time…” She couldn’t quite articulate it, but her body simply knew.There’s nothing mystical about it. Later, studying sports anatomy, she learned the term: neuromuscular recruitment—the efficiency of communication between brain and muscle. Some people are simply better wired to “do exactly what they intend,” and her ability happened to align perfectly with rhythmic gymnastics.Rhythmic gymnastics training is brutal. Each session lasts four hours, with one or two sessions a day. It starts with fifteen minutes of jumping rope, followed by an hour of floor basics: stretching the top of the foot, flexing and extending the foot, knee awareness, hip alignment, core and back strength, spinal mobility, leg lifts, and backbends. Endurance holds—five minutes per leg, front, side, back, no exceptions. Then comes the apparatus work: putting routines together and drilling for success rates—if a sequence has three toss-and-catch elements, you need to land eight out of ten before moving on.This system shows no mercy. It asks only one question: What else can your body do?Qilin’s body answered. In her second month of training, she won her first competition. A year later, she won the Chinese Students Rhythmic Gymnastics Championship. She made district teams in basketball, showed promise in track, but only rhythmic gymnastics made sense. She knew how to improve, how to execute each movement, how her body should move through space.“My body was just made for rhythmic gymnastics,” she says.The Child “Abandoned” by Her CoachBut a lingering shadow has always cast over Qilin’s athletic career: she was a “child abandoned by her coach.”Her first coach had been told by her father not to train her competitively, so she was largely ignored. Later, a Ukrainian coach worked with her for six months before leaving due to visa issues. In Canada, her coach recommended her to a high-level training group comparable to national camps—but her father only allowed her to train four days a week, so the coach didn’t invest much in her.“I was a people pleaser as a kid. I just thought my coaches didn’t like me,” she says.Another coach wanted to take her on, but four months later, the pandemic hit. After returning to China, she went back to her first coach, who later embezzled five or ten million yuan and fled. Not only did he refuse to coach her, but he also barred her from entering domestic elite competitions—because he had a beef with the system, and as his student, she couldn’t even get her physical fitness or insurance forms.“I was pretty depressed during that time,” she said.In her junior year of high school, she didn’t train at all with a team—she practiced alone in her basement. Strangely, her technical skills improved significantly that year. Later, she returned to the national rhythmic gymnastics team and rejoined the national-level individual rhythmic gymnastics program—due to citizenship issues, she couldn’t join the official national team in Canada.Then came long COVID.When the body betrays youThe aftereffects of long COVID showed up as vestibular dysfunction and autonomic nervous system issues. Simply put, she would get dizzy mid-training, her vision drifting. Walking too fast made her faint; standing on a bus without a seat could make her collapse. At her worst, her exercise tolerance was measured at 5.0, where normal is 7 to 9, borderline disability is 4 to 5, and athletes are usually 18 to 22.“I couldn’t move at all,” she says. Once, during a fire alarm at school, she walked out — but couldn’t walk back. Her heart rate spiked; she had to sit down every few steps, wait for it to settle, then stand up, take two more steps, and sit down again.During that time, she began to ask: if my body can’t move anymore, who am I?Until then, her entire sense of identity had been built on what her body could do. She did well academically only because she treated school as a task — finish it, and you can train. Sport was her only passion. On the competition floor, there were moments when everything went quiet — when it was just her and the apparatus, in total focus. That state, she says, was the closest she had ever come to happiness.And now, that passion had been taken away.From sports to art, the body remainsIn December 2024, Qilin officially retired. But in reality, she had started dancing as early as 2023, after stopping competition.She started with commercial street styles, then discovered that heels suited her perfectly — the upright posture, knee awareness, and tight Achilles tendons honed through rhythmic gymnastics made wearing high heels surprisingly comfortable. Later, she tried krump and realized that the pursuit of intensity and power was exactly what she was looking for.Her krump teacher told her: it’s okay if you can’t hear the music — listen to your body’s dynamics. If you can’t see clearly, that blur can inform new movement. She found that when she improvises, the first thing she does is make her vision unclear — so she can “listen” to her body, quiet her mind, and her thoughts stop racing in all directions.“I don’t want to see things clearly,” she says. “That way, I feel more grounded.”This is actually a clash between two bodily logics. In rhythmic gymnastics, the body exists to execute difficult moves, meet standards, and earn points. Every movement has a clear objective: leg control must be 180°, spins must include an extra rotation, and tosses and catches must be successful. But in dance, the body exists to express. You don’t have to meet a fixed standard; what you must do is let your body speak.Qilin moves back and forth between these two logics. In heels, her gymnastics foundation gives her stability, straight knees, and clean lines. In Krump, she pursues raw power.“I’m still chasing the extreme,” she says. “Just in a different form.”No obsession, no masteryLooking back on her movement history, Qilin says that if she could give her younger self one piece of advice, she would say: manage your weight carefully during puberty, and don’t take school too seriously.“My entire movement journey has been for this one passion,” she says. School was merely an obligation — an inescapable duty for East Asian kids. To fulfill this duty, she slept five or six hours a day, woke up at 4 a.m. to do homework, trained during the day, and returned to the dorm at 11 p.m. Her severe long-COVID symptoms later on were likely related to this.But she has no regrets. Every decision was one she made herself — except, perhaps, for taking her studies too seriously.“Actually, if I’d been able to take things a bit less seriously back then, if I’d been a bit more self-centered — just focusing on what I wanted and cutting away those so-called obligations — it might have been better for my body.”But she also knows that, given who she was, she wouldn’t have listened anyway. People pleaser. Competitive. Obsessed with extremity. These traits are built into her body, just like her flexibility and strength—both gift and curse.Now, the life she wants is simple: teach heels classes, go out drinking after, sleep, choreograph, teach again. “I just want to live like an eighteen- or nineteen-year-old,” she says. “I didn’t get to have fun when I was younger.” What you suppress will eventually return.As for the future, she isn’t quite sure. She might join a contemporary dance company, or she might continue with fine arts — much of her work involves the body: installations, video, and performance. “Movement is the only thing that brings me peace,” she says.She has wondered: what if one day her body no longer allows her to dance? But she also doesn’t think that will really happen.“In dance, even someone with very limited physical ability can create something equally valuable,” she says. “Dance isn’t about testing the limits of the human body — it’s about expressing what your body wants to say.”The Weight of ExistenceToward the end of the interview, Qilin said something that sounded quite grand.She said she could not accept submitting to any power, nor did she wish to establish a power of her own, because power inevitably leads to oppression. She simply wanted to exist as an individual. If one day she ceased to exist, so what?“I think there’s only one reason I’d want to continue existing: I’d rather feel something than feel nothing.”She said this with great calm. In her early twenties, her body still bears the scars of long COVID; her ankle injury could flare up at any moment; she has mild tricuspid regurgitation — the doctor warned that if she kept training, the tendon in her big toe might rupture, to which she replied, “If it ruptures, it ruptures.”What kind of mindset is this? “If you don’t go all in, you aren’t living”.Her body is her best tool, and also her greatest enemy. It has taken her to the world stage, and it has trapped her in a daily life where she can barely walk. It has allowed her to experience the hyper-focused flow of the moment, and it has forced her to get up at 4 a.m. countless times to do homework. It has been stretched, strained, exhausted, overused — then rediscovered, repurposed, redefined.Now, she’s still using this body to dance. Not for scores, not for rankings, not even to prove anything. Just because she needs to feel something — and the body is the way she knows best how.“I guess I just want to move,” she says.🔗 Follow HerRednote@麒麟 qilin @麒小麟在加油ins @yunqiqilin This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit thetrygirl.substack.com

“I knew dance is my destiny when I first saw it”In most people’s imagination, a successful choreographer begins at three years old in a studio, enters a conservatory as a teenager, and stands center stage by twenty.Kitty McNamee’s story runs almost in reverse.She didn’t start dancing until she was seventeen.She grew up in a small town in Ohio.She didn’t have formal training as a child.And yet today, she is a choreographer, a director, and the founder of LA Pops Up — a curator who brings original dance films by Los Angeles artists to film festivals around the world.She laughs when she says it:“I don’t know why. But the moment I saw a ballet show, I just knew — that was what I was meant to do.”“My Body Couldn’t Do What I Saw in My Head — So I Started Directing Others”Many people enter dance because of physical talent. Kitty didn’t.“My body couldn’t do what I saw in my mind,” she says, completely matter-of-fact.Precisely because her body couldn’t fully execute the visuals in her imagination, she chose another path — she placed them on other bodies.She has the instinct of a director.In her head, she sees ensemble movement unfold like a film: blocking, rhythm, pacing — sometimes like a game screen switching back and forth.It’s a rare trajectory.Not from “I dance very well.”But from—“I imagine clearly and vividly.”She casts like a filmmaker, too. She doesn’t ask dancers to dance like her. She studies what is unique about each person, then builds work that is about them — more alive, less imitative.Some of those once “quirky,” “unusual,” “hard-to-place” young dancers went on to choreograph Super Bowl commercials. Some won Emmy Awards.“If I made them move like me, it would be boring, and sad” she says.The strongest creators don’t replicate themselves.They unlock other people.Dance Is Transient, She Turned to Film“Dance onstage vanishes. After the curtain call, it’s gone.”She worked in theater, created for dance companies, took on television and film-related projects. But one day she confronted the most brutal truth about live performance: it is fleeting. Once it ends, it dissolves. Even when it’s recorded, it’s not the same thing.So she began making her own short films and documentaries — using the camera to hold onto movement.Then she noticed something else. Around her, extraordinary artists were creating dance films. Emmy winners. Big-name collaborators. They would screen their films at festivals — and then the works would sit on a shelf, unseen.She realized:“These pieces are beautiful. Why isn’t anyone seeing them?”That’s how LA Pops Up was born.“I wanted to bring Los Angeles dance films to the world.”Why Are Dancers So Often Invisible?We can name pop stars. We can name film directors. But how many people know:* Who choreographed Bad Bunny’s Super Bowl performance?* Who designed the movement in a Harry Styles music video?* Who coached the physical language of actors in a film?“Even at the top of the industry, many choreographers and dance creators remain unknown to the public,” Kitty says.A dancer’s career is short. Income is unstable. Visibility is low. How do you survive?Her answer is clear:Diversify.Teach. Direct. Choreograph. Create your own films. Keep making your own work.“Don’t be a single vertical stick that falls with one push. Grow branches. Be versatile.”What Is a Dance Film, Really?Must it have no dialogue?Must it be large-scale choreography?Must the movement look technically difficult?She tells a story.A girl stands in a clown costume. The camera slowly pulls back. Almost no movement.“That’s a dance film too,” Kitty says.Her criteria are simple:* A strong, original voice.* Clear music rights so it can be screened widely.* As long as it centers around movement and the body, and involves a choreographer (as director or choreographer).She also emphasizes: LA Pops Up does not obsess over premieres or “brand new” work. She wanted to give already-screened, forgotten works a second life.Film Doesn’t Have to Be ExpensiveWhen asked whether dance films are costly to make, Kitty’s answer is grounded — and encouraging:They can be affordable.She’s seen filmmakers shoot on an iPhone and still create something breathtaking through editing and music. Budgets may range from $4,000 to $40,000 — but more money does not automatically mean better art.Dancers, she believes, are experts at making the impossible possible.When resources are scarce, imagination sharpens.When conditions are tight, creativity pushes harder.For the Late Starters: Stop Accepting “No” as Your Fate“If you could speak to your younger self, what would you say?”Kitty says she would stop listening to the voices that tried to limit her:“You started too late. You won’t have a career.”“You’re not a director. You can’t make documentaries.”She admits she once took those words to heart — enough to hold herself back from bigger possibilities.But to every late starter, she says:You don’t need to start earlier than anyone else. You only need to believe in yourself.No one is born knowing how. Passion is the best teacher.She says she’s had a lot of “crazy ideas.” Most of them didn’t work. LA Pops Up did — because she found someone willing to take a leap of faith, “Let’s try.”Sometimes, that’s just how life works.You toss a stone.It might sink.Or it might create ripples.Support & Getting Involved* Official Website* LA Pops Up — lapopsup.com* Dance Camera West — dancecamerawest.org* Instagram* @hystericaprods* @kittymcnamee* Dance Film Submission: Submit via official website / Submit via email* [email protected]* [email protected] This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit thetrygirl.substack.com

Five years after Naini’s passing, eight dancers still train for over four hours every day.Lights turn on and off, music plays on repeat. The tempo is fast, unrelenting. Sweat streams down spines, legs begin to shake, but the movement cannot stop — 8 counts, then another 8 counts.Executive Director Andy Chiang stands in the corner, eyes fixed on every detail. It’s hard to imagine that this figure behind the dance company is an MIT-graduated computer engineer.“We’re in a happy business,” Andy says. A Cultural Ambassador from Taiwan to BroadwayThe story begins in the 1970s. Nai-Ni Chen was already a star in Taiwan’s dance world, a principal dancer with Cloud Gate Dance Theatre, performed across 22 countries and even graced Broadway stages in the 1980s — an era when Asian performers had virtually no roles in America. When her company came to Boston for a tour, Andy, then studying at MIT, saw her performance. Andy had practiced martial arts since childhood and had a natural sensitivity to body language. The two bonded over their shared love of movement.The turning point came in 1988. Nai-Ni’s performance at a New York theater received a rave review from The New York Times — in those days, it was practically a golden ticket. The phone started ringing constantly, invitations poured in, and for the first time, Nai-Ni realized: perhaps she could gather these dancers together and build something lasting. Thus, Nai-Ni Chen Dance Company was born, starting with just five people, rehearsing in Fort Lee, New Jersey, performing mostly at community events and small theaters. Gradually, the company found its footing.Andy has been the company’s Executive Director from the very beginning, a role he’s held for forty years.Dance That “Belongs to Neither Side”Nai-Ni’s work was remarkably unique.Her dance was neither purely Chinese dance, nor Western contemporary dance, nor ballet. Her central question was: What can a body steeped in Chinese culture create when living in America?“She carried Chinese culture within her—that was her root,” Andy says. “But she lived in America, and her questions belonged to the present.”In her works, the postures of Chinese dance, the structure of modern dance, and the rhythms of street dance coexist. Not as a collage, but through relentless experiments and innovation.In a recent performance, audiences witnessed a startling piece: traditional lion dance fused with hip-hop. The lion head and dancers moved together to hip-hop beats, executing basic steps, while the tail dancer traversed the stage at high speed. Audiences were initially stunned, then realized: these two seemingly distant physical languages could actually converse.“That idea came from me,” Andy laughs. “I just asked a question: What would it look like if a lion danced hip-hop?”This is precisely the direction Nai-Ni Chen Dance Company has explored for over thirty years—cultural collision and fusion. Nai-Ni believed that combining Chinese and American contemporary culture could create new art forms. Every piece embodied this philosophy, creating an inclusive new language rooted in cultural exchange.To this end, the company collaborated with hip-hop legend Rokafella, a pivotal figure in hip-hop history who has even served as an Olympic judge. “We’ve done battles between Chinese dance and street dance,” Andy says. “We used kuaiban for rhythm, just like their rap.”The company’s diversity is also reflected in its members. Among the eight full-time dancers are Black, white, and Chinese performers. When a Black dancer performs Mongolian dance, the cross-cultural beauty is deeply moving. “If their culture can accept us Chinese people, why can’t we accept them?” Andy asks.“Culture is alive,” Andy emphasizes repeatedly. “If it stops growing, it dies.”The Difficult Life of New York DancersDancers are called “the most difficult profession in the arts.” They must maintain peak physical condition daily, constantly taking classes, rehearsing, and auditioning, yet earning meager wages. Some dancers share a single room among four people, eating nothing but pasta.“When I see these dancers, I’m truly moved,” Andy says. “They’re giving everything to dance for you, and they have no money. You feel like you must do something for them.”Inspired by the artists’ purity of purpose, Andy committed himself fully to supporting the company. “I always said I devoted 100% of my time to Nai-Ni—whatever she needed, I found a way to make it happen.” The company rehearses over four hours daily, their daily expenses would easily exceed thousands of dollars.“These dancers have trained since childhood, they’re dance majors,” Andy explains. “Nai-Ni herself had incredibly strong Peking Opera martial arts training, and her ballet and modern dance were also exceptional. Her standards for dancers were very high.”Maintaining such a professional company on performance revenue alone is impossible. The company holds a fundraising gala every February and accepts donations. “I hope young friends working on Wall Street can help us,” Andy says. “Every dancer needs support.”After She LeftIn 2021, Nai-Ni Chen passed away in an accident.For the company, it was an almost fatal rupture. She was the creator, the spiritual core, the source of all works.But the dancing didn’t stop.“Her choreography is incredibly valuable,” he says. “I don’t want these works to be locked away. They should be inspirations, and people can build on top of it.”The company continues performing her works while also inviting new choreographers and artists to join, attempting new cross-cultural experiments. The works are evolving, but the core remains unchanged—culture must enter the present, not be enshrined. In the upcoming Lunar New Year performances, the company will tour Queens, the Bronx, and New Jersey. The program features traditional pipa master Tang Liangxing, guzheng virtuoso Yang Yi, and new works fusing multiple styles.And Andy speaks out more often now.Before, he devoted all his time to Nai-Ni; now, he feels responsible for letting more people know what she was doing and why.The Artist Behind the ArtistWhen asked about being a “shadow artist,” Andy laughs. He handles administration, finds resources, manages budgets, and fundraises. Though never center stage, he’s not entirely removed from creation. After forty years, he’s seen countless dances and developed his own aesthetic sense. He knows when to speak up and when to step back.“Nai-Ni often said she choreographed to show people hope, not trauma,” Andy says. “Dance should give people something positive. Over these years, I’ve witnessed the growth of dancers and Nai-Ni’s evolution as a choreographer. It’s been a very enriching experience for me.”He has never stopped learning. In his youth, he studied with Nai-Ni’s teachers, spent two years at the Martha Graham School, and now practices tai chi. “All dance is about awareness, understanding how qi and muscles move in the body,” he says.To Andy, working with computers and working with dance aren’t contradictory. “I’m more organized in administration,” he says, “but more importantly, when people from different fields interact, sparks fly.” This cross-disciplinary thinking enabled him to conceive ideas like “lion dancing hip-hop.”“If Nai-Ni were here today and I talked to her about AI, we might discuss what true innovation really means,” Andy says. “Our approach to cultural fusion is something AI probably can’t do, because it requires genuine cross-cultural collision.”Dance is no longer just work for him—it’s part of his life. He doesn’t know what his life would look like if he hadn’t taken this path all those years ago. That parallel world is too distant now.For Every DancerFor those wanting to learn dance, Andy’s advice is simple: “Find what makes you happy.”He doesn’t believe in excessive comparison. “Everyone has their own characteristics. You don’t need to think about others dancing better than you. Even professional dancers don’t think that way. What matters is finding your freedom and means of expression in your body and in music.”To Andy, culture only has vitality when it’s alive. “If something is dead, that culture has no development, no vitality. We immigrants came to this country to bring it vitality. We have a lot to offer. Our culture is incredibly valuable.”“Why do we do this in this world?” he asks and answers himself. “To give the world richer experiences.”And that is the meaning of art.🔗 Follow* instagram @nainichendancecompany* Upcoming performances* Lunar New Year gala This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit thetrygirl.substack.com

The first time Eskillz realized that the body could be used did not happen in a dance studio, but in a dojo.At twelve, his father sent him to study karate. It wasn’t a decision about dance, but one about self-defense. Yet through the repeated cycles of punches, turns, and closures, he felt something awaken for the first time: the body could be activated, sculpted, and understood. In that moment, something opened.Before that, he was closer to a quiet art student. He drew, illustrated, immersed himself in comics, imagining one day creating his own graphic novels. Dance was never part of the plan— despite the fact that almost everyone in his family danced.Years later, after traveling the world to dance, teach, and create moving images — as a Jersey Club dancer, movement artist, director — he still looks back at that experience as the beginning.“You can draw with your body,” he says.The kid who danced in secretBorn in New Jersey, Eskillz grew up in a family where everyone danced. On his father’s Caribbean side: club culture, house, disco, breaking. On his mother’s side: jazz, swing, roller-skating culture. Dance didn’t need to be introduced—it existed like air.And yet, he was the child who danced in secret.In his room, he watched popping and animation videos on YouTube, practicing Jersey Club rhythms, stops, and accents. It was a private joy—one that didn’t need validation or definition.Until one day, during a school lunch break, someone noticed. “Skills can dance.”From that moment on, he slowly became the kid who dances.“I realized I didn’t just like dancing,” he says. “What I loved was body language itself.”Jersey Club: Not a Style, but a Way of BeingIn Eskillz’s narrative, Jersey Club is rarely framed as a “dance style.”First, it is a setting—parties, underground spaces, clubs.Second, it is music—rooted in Baltimore Club, brought back to New Jersey by local DJs, evolving into what became known as Brick City music.Only then did it gradually become a physical language.“In the beginning, it wasn’t freestyle,” he explains. “It was collective — call-and-response.”The DJ would shout commands over the music, like an advanced version of Cha Cha Slide: two steps left, two steps right, a named move, everyone doing it together. Dance didn’t ask who you were — it only asked that you be present.“Jersey Club was always for everyone.”Later, personal expression began to slip into the spaces between those shared movements, and freestyle slowly emerged. But even today, in Eskillz’s eyes, Jersey Club remains less a system to be ranked and more a way of existing in the club.He Doesn’t Really Believe in the Borders Between StylesOn paper, Eskillz’s journey doesn’t look like a typical street-dance trajectory. He has trained in contemporary dance, explored ballet, tap dance, and worked in theater and stage projects. When he speaks about the body, he references anatomy, foot placement, center of gravity, weight distribution.“These aren’t exclusive to any one style,” he says.“We’re talking about the same thing—just using different vocabulary.”To him, all dancers operate within a shared physical logic: balance, rhythm, awareness, gravity. They are all asking the same question — how does the body exist in space?This perspective owes much to his background in visual art.“I watch dance the way I look at a painting.”He Films Dance, but not “Dance Video”It’s hard to label Eskillz’s work simply as dance videos. In his films, dance is rarely the protagonist. Composition, space, narrative, and silence often matter more than the movement itself. The body feels placed inside a painting that happens to move.“That’s because I started as a visual artist,” he says.He first sees the image in his mind — then sketches it, storyboards it, and only later searches for the right space and body. The camera is not a recording device; it is a canvas.He is drawn to surrealism — not for spectacle, but for moments that feel as though they could only exist if you had witnessed them yourself.“I want that feeling where you’ve clearly seen it,” he says, “but it still feels impossible.”He isn’t eager for the audience to analyze the steps. He wants them to be trapped inside the moment.Here, dance is no longer a display of technique, but an event that is unfolding.How to define a “Dancer”?When asked how he defines a dancer, Eskillz pauses for a long time.“Some of the best dancers are non-dancers.”For him, being a dancer has little to do with making a living from it. It has everything to do with whether you remain in conversation with the art.“If one day you can no longer dance,” he says, “but you are still moved by dance — then you are a dancer.”Because real dance is not movement, but perception: how you feel, how you respond, how you exist in the world. Some professionals at the top of the industry felt profoundly empty, and untrained individuals might possess a deep, intuitive understanding of dance.Dancer’s identity, to him, is not decided by income, labels, or credentials — but by relationship.“If you truly love dance,” he says, “you would want to see it on more people. You love it enough that it’s no longer just about yourself.”Space, Responsibility, and KindnessHe has little interest in ranking dancers. Instead, he prefers to speak of maturity. Dance, to him, is not a hierarchy, but an expanding territory — each person has a different range of comfort zone. No one is above another.What concerns him are environments where fear is created through technique, reputation, or power.“If you’re more experienced in dance,” he says, “you’re responsible for making the space safe for exploration.”Not by lowering standards — but through understanding.“Everyone’s bag can be deeper.”He has seen dancers at the peak of technique who were deeply miserable, and others with nothing who were utterly free in the music. Once, at a house festival, he was stunned by the groove of a homeless drug-addict — and for the first time, he felt envy for that kind of freedom.“That’s when I realized,” he says, “that I might have been looking at dance wrong.”The Best Artist Is the Most HumanIn the latter part of the conversation, the focus drifts away from technique and into something more personal, deeper.Eskillz keeps returning to one word: human.In a world saturated with algorithms, metrics, and perfected images, dance matters not because it is impressive — but because it is real.“AI will never be depressed, never lost, never doubt whether it can keep creating.”“The best dancers,” he says, “are the most human.”It took him a long time to finally say he was a good dancer — because he had to stop beating himself up for imperfection. Those imperfections, he realized, were the very essence of art.“Learning to be kind to yourself, is an art form in itself.” he says.Returning Dance to LifeEskillz offers no grand manifesto, but repeats only one thing: dance was always meant to be free.Not for résumés.Not for rankings.Not for algorithms.“Did you like the song? Did you nod your head? Did your foot move? Congratulations, you danced today.”In a world increasingly obsessed with outcomes, efficiency, and perfection, his stance feels almost defiant. And precisely because of that, it feels clear.He is not teaching people how to dance. He is reminding them of something simpler:You already know how to move. Everyone can dance.🔗 Follow* Eskillz* ins: @eskilllz* Class Schedule* All Levels JerZ @MODEGA Thursday 8pm* DM for private sessions This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit thetrygirl.substack.com

When winter light falls across her shoulders in New York, Julie Ludwick has already been dancing for sixty years.Sixty years — what does that mean?It means a person has given her entire body to time, her entire spirit to the stage.It means choosing to trust her weight to a steel bar, a gently swaying low-flying trapeze, or a ladder hung in the air — and choosing to do so again and again for decades.At Fly-by-Night, the nonprofit aerial dance company she founded in 1999, Julie is not just a “director.” She is still, first and foremost, a dancer who has not come down to earth — someone who continues to fight the world’s heaviness with her own weightlessness.I. A Child Who Grew Out of Alaska’s DarknessJulie grew up in Alaska: a place of long rains, longer nights, and deep isolation.When she was six, a classically trained ballet teacher happened to move into their small town. Ballet became a narrow beam of light cutting through the pervasive dark.Years later her sister would tell her: “You always stood at the front of the barre, like you already knew where you were going.”At twelve, her older brother died by suicide — a rupture no one talked about. In that era, in that place, grief was something swallowed, not spoken.“Dance saved me,” she says.It became the only space where her sadness could be worked through physically, where discipline and sweat could temporarily silence fear.II. Her First FlightIn college she shifted toward modern dance and eventually found her way to a pivotal moment: performing in an aerial work by mentor Robert Davidson.The first time she floated off the floor, she understood something immediate and irreversible:Dance didn’t have to happen only on the ground.And she didn’t have to forever obey gravity.“It felt like climbing trees as a kid,” she says — except this time she could stay in the air.She moved to New York, juggling teaching jobs, late-night rehearsals, grant proposals, and endless freelance gigs — anything to keep flying.Fly-by-Night became an official nonprofit in 1999, built with exhaustion and faith.III. Between Flight and the Ground, She Is Always BalancingFrom the outside, aerial dance looks effortless: bodies floating, twirling, defying physics.Behind the scenes, Julie spends far more time with spreadsheets than spotlights.Insurance forms, grant applications, rehearsal contracts, theater negotiations — the invisible labor that makes one hour of performance possible.“To keep dancers safe, I have to pay for liability insurance, workers’ comp, high-ceiling rehearsal spaces, everything,” she says.“And to make one dance, I might need to write dozens of documents.”She advises her students: Artists don’t retire.But in private she admits: “I’m always exhausted.”She does not romanticize the artist’s life — not because she is cynical, but because she knows: what sustains her is not comfort, but the stories that are worth being told.IV. Her Works Are Born from the Fractures of Her LifeJulie’s choreography often rises from grief.On the flight home after her father died, she saw an entire dance unfold in her mind, scene by scene, like clouds arranging themselves into meaning. She returned to New York and immediately began rehearsals.During the pandemic, her sister fell ill and Julie’s family sent her “joys” — little things that made them happy.After her sister passed, Julie continued to find joy but no longer knew where to send it.So she sent it to the stage.“Dance makes these experience meaningful,” she says — not because it erases pain, but because it transforms it.V. In Her Classroom, Dancers Return to Their Bodies — and to ThemselvesJulie often tells her students: “Listen to the body,”“Let the image move you.”Her teaching blends somatic awareness, improvisation, and Eastern philosophy. She is not interested in producing copies of herself but in helping each dancer uncover movement that belongs only to them.“Technique matters,” she says, “but the movement has to grow out of you.”She loves watching a student find something new in the air — like a stone cracking open to reveal light.VI. On Continuity and Hardship: The System Has Never Favored ArtistsJulie speaks candidly about the systemic challenges facing dancers: underfunding, costly rentals, little pay, shrinking grants, and the near impossibility of financial stability.“It’s a risky life,” she says. “But I don’t know what else I’d do.”She understands clearly:Being an artist is not freedom — it is perpetual balancing, a kind of lifelong improvisation.But “If you choose it, it will give you what you most need in your life.”VII. The Future: Flying Until the Body Says NoToday, her company faces tightening resources.She continues to write grants, run small fundraisers, nurture her dancers, and imagine the next work — even as the arts landscape grows more uncertain.She doesn’t know whether the future of dance in New York will improve.She doesn’t know whether the city will become too expensive for dreams that require so much space — literal and figurative.But she knows one thing: as long as her body can fly, she will fly.Support Fly-By-Nightins @flybynightdanceHoliday Auction: https://www.32auctions.com/HolidayAuctionFBNDonate: https://flybynightdance.org/donate/Audition: https://flybynightdance.org/participate/classes/collab & contact: [email protected] This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit thetrygirl.substack.com

Four years ago, as the pandemic brought the world to a standstill, Tako was simply looking for a place to restart dance, and created a Xiaohongshu account called “Tako Dancing in Los Angeles” to share her training. Little did she know that she would start from scratch in LA’s professional dance scene and, within four years, evolve from a dancer who was “almost like a beginner” to one selected by choreography masters like Keone and Mari, performing on a film set.“The Heart Was Willing, but the Body Was Weak—Yet It Comes Back with Practice”Tako’s dance journey has unfolded in two distinct chapters.Her first exposure was at just seven years old, placed into a gymnastics team. She recalls crying, being stubborn, refusing to do backbends or leg stretches. Later, in elementary school dance classes, she gradually rediscovered the joy of expressing herself through movement.But dance soon faded into the background amid academic pressures and parental expectations. She studied piano for ten years, and was finally “allowed” to dance. During high school, she went to Japan for a month of intensive training; upon returning, she was noticed by the owner of Shenzhen’s Tianwu IDG and began getting involved in commercial performances and substitute teaching. But even then, dance remained just a hobby, not something she committed to fully.University pulled her further away from dance. High school, college, graduate school—she stepped onto a standard life path. Then the pandemic hit, pressing pause on everything.“People say the prime age for dancers is 18 to 25, and I completely stopped dancing during that period,” she says. “Restarting after seven years, I really was like a beginner again. My heart was willing, but my body was weak.” She quickly realized, however, that with systematic training and fitness, the body’s condition can return.She doesn’t see age as a barrier to dance. She notes that dancers abroad often say “30 is the best age for dancing,” and believes a dancer’s prime might even be around 35.“LA Can Be Snobby, but Dance Is the Best Companion”When Tako first arrived in Los Angeles, she juggled a full-time job, a Master’s in Computer Science at Georgia Tech, and squeezing in time for dance. “I eventually realized I couldn’t manage it all,” she says. Coinciding with the wave of layoffs in the US tech industry, she decisively dropped the Master’s program to invest more time in dance.“For the first year or two, I really had no friends. I just kept my head down and danced,” she recalls. “LA can be very snobby; everyone is like that.” She describes the local dance scene: people check your Instagram, see whose classes you’ve taken, what commercial projects you’ve worked on, which famous choreographers you know—all before deciding whether to befriend you.“I’m not here to network or climb social ladders,” she states. “Dance is my best companion.”It wasn’t until the third year that her efforts began to get noticed. “People start to see you getting picked —‘Wow, so Tako can actually dance!’” she says with a laugh. “Then they start wanting to be friends.”“Masochistic” Training and a “Wolf-Like” MentorTako admits she’s a student who “likes a bit of masochism, because that’s how I improve fastest.”Her first major mentor is Kolanie Marks, whom she’s been training under for over four years. “The first time I went to his class, I didn’t even know who he was,” she laughs. “I just stumbled right into the lion’s den.”It was during the pandemic, with only fifteen people in the rehearsal studio. The intensity was extreme; she felt pushed to the brink of collapse almost every class. Yet, it was precisely this training that catalyzed her rapid transformation. “He’s 43, still full of passion, still constantly evolving,” Tako says. “He never lowers the standard or difficulty for his students. Even after dancing with him for so long, I still often find myself in a state of not knowing how to dance.”“He doesn’t just inspire me in dance; he inspires my outlook on life,” Tako reflects. In four years, she has never seen him take a sick day or miss a class. During Christmas week, he was still in the group chat asking, “Does anyone want to train?” Tako says she learned this sense of “showing up” from him. When she started teaching her own Sunday classes, she made it a point never to cancel lightly. “I feel that as long as I’m there, my students can find me.”Recently, she found another teacher, Free Boogie, whom she calls “an even more terrifying instructor.” In a choreography session with only four people, Tako couldn’t get one move right. The teacher made everyone stop and sit in front, watching her until she executed it correctly.“The sweat was just pouring off me; the pressure was immense,” she recalls. “But in that moment, I suddenly understood one of my flaws and exactly how to improve.”Her learning style is high-pressure, disciplined, and intensely self-reflective. She records her practice from each class and sends it to her teachers. Even if they don’t reply, she persists. “I’m not asking for feedback; I’m holding myself accountable, telling myself I’ve completed the assignment.” Sometimes, months later, a teacher might suddenly share her video. In those moments of being “seen,” she feels it’s all worth it.A Healing Journey with Keone and MariIn 2023, Tako was selected by Keone and Mari to participate in a film dance project. She describes it as the most healing experience of her dance career.“They were so laid-back. They taught the routines incredibly fast. Many people couldn’t keep up on the spot, and they’d just say, ‘I trust you guys gonna work on it,’ and sent us home,” she laughs. “During filming, they were even more relaxed. They said, ‘Just stand wherever you want,’ and honestly, no one fought for the center spot.”What moved her most was that Keone remembered every dancer’s name. “Forty people, and he remembered them all,” she says. “He isn’t the type to pressure you, but precisely because of that, you want to deliver your best for him.”During the final scene shot in a church, all the dancers were crying as they performed. “Even though I’m not a Christian, that energy was truly healing,” she shares. “After it ended, I got back to my car and cried for a long time.”Regrets and “No Rush for Fame”Tako once came incredibly close to a dancer’s career peak.This year, she received an offer to be a dancer for BTS member J-Hope’s tour but couldn’t accept due to work visa restrictions. “That was the closest I’ve ever been to the top in my dance career,” she says softly. “But because of my immigration status, I couldn’t grasp it.”She didn’t let it discourage her; instead, it solidified her resolve to keep training. “I know my skills are sufficient; I just need the right visa status,” she explains. “I’m in no rush to become famous. I’m willing to take it slower.”She’s seen too many young dancers get lost in the whirlwind of fame and recognition. “If you become famous before you’re ready, you stop making progress,” she observes. She aspires to be like Keone and Mari, letting time and work speak for themselves. “Being hot for two or three years isn’t my goal. I want what they have—staying relevant and respected for years.”Advice to Her Younger Self: Know Yourself First, Then DanceAt the end of our conversation, when asked what advice she would give her younger self just starting out with dance, Tako pondered for a moment.“Know yourself first, then dance,” she says. “But you can do both simultaneously. The most important thing isn’t just to dance mechanically, but to think, to understand the world.”She believes the maturity of one’s dance stems from the maturity of the person. “The more you experience in life, the more flavor comes through in your movement,” she reflects. “Dance isn’t just steps; it’s the expression of your life.”Tako still trains daily in Los Angeles.“Dance itself is already a companion,” she says.🔗 Follow* ins@tako_sauce8* RedNote@洛杉矶跳舞的TAKO This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit thetrygirl.substack.com

1. The Spider Mama's NameLili's Instagram is called Black Spider Mama.The name sounds absurd yet carries a hint of mystery. She explains with a laugh: "I just wanted to shed those pressures and expectations, to have the most casual, most random, most mischievous name possible."She says spiders are precise hunters and also wild, resilient creatures — "Others may destroy its web, but it always weaves it back together." In her eyes, this name is like her spirit animal, a way of resisting fragility and embracing fierce femininity.2. Before Dancing: The Two Years of Losing DanceLili has been dancing since kindergarten. Back then, she always shone on stage—Chinese dance, Latin, and then street dance, each step felt destined.But fate took a turn when she was fourteen. She contracted myocarditis, and doctors forbade her from dancing for two years. “My body was changing, I was gaining weight, and people looked at me differently,” she recalls. "That was the first time I truly realized what dance meant to me—only through loss do you understand what it is."After recovery, she attended university in the State. She initially studied world literature, then switched to psychology, and finally transferred to dance. She studied ballet and modern dance, but at the most "academic" moment, she grew skeptical of the so-called "system": "They were being abstract for abstraction's sake, deliberately obscure to make others feel they couldn't understand."She realized she wasn't pursuing a certain "style," but rather an authentic feeling—that kind of real vibration, as genuine as sunset or breathing.3. Learning to Heal in Street Dance's FamilyIn Ohio, she found her first real street-dance community—a group of Black dancers who called themselves a Family."Family isn't a crew," she explains. “A crew performs together. A Family lives together.”Cypher, Battle, Session — she learned to express, release, and listen with her body. She says: "That intense, angry, repressed energy eventually becomes a form of healing. Its aggressiveness is actually gentle, it's healing."But in this black-dominated circle, she also experienced the awkwardness and conflict woven from culture, gender, and race. She admits: "Sometimes they wouldn't treat me as an equal. Some teachers would cross boundaries." She experienced sexual harassment—"I just wanted to learn the culture, but they had other intentions."She once fell into confusion and anger because of this, but ultimately chose acceptance and understanding: "You can't control others; you can only learn to protect yourself. When you accept this reality, you regain power."4. The Cost of "Freedom"When Lili is asked about why she still stays in this chaotic dance world, she answers quickly: "Because it's free."She says the chaos and beauty of the dance world are two sides of the same thing. "Freedom can give birth to what you love and also what you hate. But if you only stay where you won't get hurt, you'll never become strong."New York, to her, is that kind of wild soil — noisy, chaotic, yet full of vitality. She says with a laugh: "This city is like a womb, nurturing all kinds of things. The key is—you need to know what kind of seed you are."5. African Drums and the Rhythm of BreathingLater, she began learning West African dance. It was a more primal, more intricate world. Twenty drummers playing simultaneously, rhythms overlapping, chaotic, yet precise."In African dance, no one counts five-six-seven-eight," she says. "You have to listen to the drums to know when to start, when to change movements."She loves that feeling of having "no safety net"—"It forces you to listen, to feel. That sense of rhythm is like life itself."She believes dance has never been about stacking techniques, but about breathing together with the earth, air, and music. "I've found that those who dance best are actually like babies — they're completely immersed in a movement, and that pure energy is divinity."6. The Moment of "Stopping Dance""If you start counting beats, thinking about how to dance, at that moment you've actually stopped dancing."She talks about her understanding of "dance"—"It's not you dancing; it's letting your body do what it does. Walking, breathing, sweating, closing your eyes... these are all dance. As long as you're flowing, you're alive."She laughs softly, a laugh containing the serenity of letting go.7. "I'm Not Trying to Be a Good Dancer"When asked about her view on "becoming a good dancer," Lili shakes her head: "'Good' is a meaningless word. Comparison is meaningless."She explains: "I don't feel I'm better now than before. I'm just different. My dance then was me at that time; my dance now is me now. Both are real, both precious."She even refuses to use "progress" to describe change. "If you say I’m better now, it means you’re denying who I used to be." She pauses, "I don't want to deny any version of myself."8. Expressing AuthenticallyLili speaks with the clarity of someone who has lived many lives in one body. When she talks, she often leaps from the physical to the spiritual, from the personal to the universal.But ultimately, all her answers return to one word: truthfulness."When I stop judging myself, I also stop judging others," she says. "When I find someone interesting, it’s because I am too. All the power is in my own hands."At the end of this podcast episode, she says softly—"If you want to dance, first allow yourself to be a complete person."🔗 Follow* ins@bigblackspidermama This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit thetrygirl.substack.com

When Justin “Ice-o” walks into a room, there’s no mistaking the calm, self-possessed presence he brings with him. Born and raised in the Bronx, the 37-year-old popper has turned what began as a playful wave with his cousin into a life of artistry, discipline, and unapologetic authenticity.A Wave That Started It AllIce-o formally stepped into the world of popping in 2013. But his bond with dance began much earlier — with a single wave. One day, his cousin casually performed the ripple-like arm movement, and it captivated him. They passed the wave back and forth, like a game, but the seed had been planted.Soon after, Ice-o was scouring YouTube, teaching himself slides and glides. His first battle was a disaster — he had no preparation, no connections, no chance. But at that same event, he saw Monster Pop and Venom Pop perform: two tall, Black dancers, dressed like him, in hoodies and sneakers.“That was the moment,” he recalls. “I realized popping didn’t have to be corny. It could be me.”“I Don’t Dance Just for Social Reasons”For Ice-o, dance is not just movement — it’s research. “A lot of people dance for social reasons — and I do too, sometimes. But more than anything, I dance because I want to be good.” He breaks down patterns in music like equations, experiments with isolations in front of mirrors, and treats his practice like a scientist running tests. “Every time you dance, you’re doing physical research,” he explains. “It’s about min-maxing — refining your preferences and sharpening your skills.”He goes to the gym before shows, before battles. “Taking care of my body makes my dance better,” he says. “Most people turn on their brain for dance only when others are watching. For me, it’s constant.” He records practice sessions, rewatches them, and picks apart every detail. He talks about dance like a scientist: using words like “muscle contraction” and “tension” to describe what others simply call “groove.”Some tell him he “overthinks.” He disagrees. “Analyzing doesn’t kill the love — it makes me love it more.”A Late Start, a Fierce DriveUnlike many dancers who began formal training as kids, Ice-o didn’t commit to popping until the age of 25. Far from a disadvantage, he now sees it as a gift. “I chose dance when I was ready,” he reflects. “Because I was older, I took it hyper seriously. I never took weeks off. I also didn’t wreck my body doing reckless tricks at ten years old.”His obsession bordered on superhuman. He recalls working a 6 a.m. shift, commuting hours into the city, battling until 2 a.m., then sleeping 30 minutes in his car before clocking in again. “People think it’s impossible,” he laughs. “But when you want it bad enough, you find a way.”The Hard Part Wasn’t DancingFor Ice-o, the hardest part of this life hasn’t been dancing — it’s the things around it.“I thought being good would be enough. Work hard, train, you’ll get opportunities. That’s not true. Sometimes without network, without connections, you never even get in the door.”So he forced himself to learn video editing, social media, and the business side of being an artist. “Those skills have nothing to do with dance — but if you want to survive through dance, you need them.”Reconciling With HimselfDance itself has never betrayed him. The frustrations came from politics, unfair battles, and people. But once he returns to a practice room, all of that fades.“I’ve never felt tired of dance. If I’m frustrated, it’s because of people — never because of dance.”Though he radiates composure today, Ice-o admits he struggled with confidence. The turning point came when he stopped relying on others for validation. “I don’t ask if my outfit looks good anymore,” he says. “I decide for myself.” Over time, he’s learned to build confidence internally, not through applause. “When people tell you you’re good, they’re using their own standards. My most important standard has to come from myself.”This mindset even shapes how he navigates relationships and rejection. “If I don’t get an audition, it’s fine. I know who I am. I’ll keep working until the right door opens.”“It All Begins in the Mind”For Ice-o, dance is more than movement. It’s a discipline of life. He treats training like eating or sleeping: necessary, non-negotiable. He has already performed with Passion Fruit Dance Company at Duke University, graced an Off-Broadway stage with his name on the marquee, and won battles against New York’s best. But he’s never complacent. “I always need the next thing,” he admits. In a community full of uniforms and traditions, Ice-o insists on individuality. He doesn’t need costumes to validate his identity. His method is obsessive, solitary, even ascetic at times. But through it, he has built his own system.“Dance isn’t about looking like someone else,” he says. “It’s about looking more like yourself.”Advice to his younger selfHis message to beginners — and perhaps to his younger self — is simple but profound: “Learn to love training. Make it part of your life the way eating is part of your life. Don’t wait for opportunities to prepare. Be ready, always.”🔗 Follow* Justin Ice-O* ins: @king.ice.o * RedNote: @king.ice.o * Class Schedule* Popping @Peridance* Floorwork @ MODEGA This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit thetrygirl.substack.com

In the studios of New York City, 17-year-old Una is often the youngest in the room. But don’t let her age fool you. Barely a year into her life in the United States, she has already carved out a place for herself on stage after stage. For her, dance isn’t a passing interest—it’s the foundation she has grown up on.From Ballet Shoes to Street BeatsUna’s first steps into a dance class came at five, when her mother, tired of watching her spin around the living room, signed her up for lessons. Ballet and contemporary dance came first. “I actually didn’t like the girly stuff,” she recalled with a laugh. “I resisted it a bit.”Everything changed at eight, when her mother stumbled across a video from a street dance studio in Taiwan and took her to try a class. From that day on, she never looked back.Her first teacher was famously strict. “If you danced badly, you’d be yelled at, even kicked out of class,” Una said. Harsh as it was, the training drilled discipline into her from the start. “He never treated us like kids, but as dancers. It forced us to meet adult standards, even when we wanted to slack off.”A Crew That Grew TogetherDance, for Una, has never been a solitary pursuit. The crew she joined at eight has been with her for a decade now. Together, they’ve practiced, argued, reconciled, and celebrated victories. Recently, she flew back to Taiwan to mark the group’s 10-year anniversary. “We’re basically childhood friends,” she said. “We’ve grown up dancing side by side.”The crew taught her resilience. “Training alone can feel exhausting. But when everyone is pushing each other, it gives you momentum,” she explained. For her, the team has always been more than medals—it’s a reason to keep going.Balancing Books and the Dance FloorLike many students in Taiwan, Una grew up under heavy academic pressure. At times, she wondered if she’d have to give one up—dance or school. “Sometimes I felt so tired I thought, maybe I should just pick one. But I couldn’t let either go.” Her compromise was to scale back training during exams, but never to cut it off entirely. Even if she could only make it to the studio once a week, she insisted on keeping the connection alive.The journey hasn’t been without setbacks. At 11, intensive training left her with a fractured kneecap, forcing her to pause for the first time. It made her ask: what if one day I can’t dance anymore? Now, as a high school senior, she plans to apply to college as a pre-veterinary student. “Dance is my passion, but vet could be another path. I want to give myself both options.”A New Chapter in New YorkLast year, Una moved to New York with her family. At first, the transition was daunting—language barriers, few friends, and the pressure of joining a new crew. But once again, dance opened the door. She joined the renowned Brickhouse dance crew, where the talent around her kept her on her toes. “They’re so strong. I can’t afford to fall behind,” she said. In just a year, her skills and her confidence have sharpened dramatically.Her hard work is paying off. She has already begun making her mark on the U.S. competition circuit, winning her first championship at Monster Camp in New Jersey. “When my teammates shouted my name from the audience, it meant the world,” she said. “It was a real milestone.”Only the BeginningUna knows the path of a dancer is uncertain, that life is always more complicated than the stage. And she’s well aware that true artistry isn’t just clean moves, but the ability to dance with the weight of lived experience.Her own style is taking shape, but she’s quick to admit she sometimes feels boxed in. “Sometimes I think I’m always moving within the same frame. I need to break it apart and rebuild.” For her, dance is a constant cycle of tearing down and starting anew.Looking ahead, she dreams of testing herself on a world stage—whether at Red Bull or Summer Dance. “I feel like it’s something I have to do at least once in my life.”This is the story of a 17-year-old dancer: balancing books and dance, forged in discipline yet lifted by community, finding her footing in a new country while keeping her passion steady. For Una, the journey has only just begun.🔗 Follow* ins @okok_uuuna This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit thetrygirl.substack.com

"If I could dance like this for a lifetime, I'd be perfectly happy."🟠 01 | From Beijing to New York: A Dancer’s AwakeningMini still remembers her first dance performance during elementary school. But what truly ignited her passion was a hip-hop experience in high school."I didn’t want to learn Jazz back then—everyone was doing ‘girly’ dances, and I wanted to be different."So she chose Hip-hop. Because it was "cool," and because it represented freedom of expression beyond gender labels.In 2015, driven by the dream of "pilgrimaging to the birthplace of Hip-hop," she arrived in New York alone.🟠 02 | First Club Experience: Dance as a Way of LifeIn her early days in New York, stepping into a club for the first time, Mini witnessed dance as lived experience—not performance, not competition, not spectacle. Amidst a crowd of OGs, locals, Black and Asian dancers, she saw:"Everyone was dancing for themselves, not for an audience."She describes it as a state of freedom and authenticity: "Not about being seen, but about existing."🟠 03 | Mentor Ryan: Style and Creativity Over TechniqueMini’s deepest inspiration came from her teacher Ryan Davis (aka RK Davis). He told her:"Style and creativity matter more than technique."Ryan later left the dance world due to industry disillusionment and health reasons, but Mini never forgot: A dancer’s power comes from within, not external applause.🟠 04 | Student to Teacher: Not All Teaching Is "Teaching Dance"Mini’s teaching journey began unconventionally. Her first class was a favor—covering for a friend. Back then, she was still taking classes at BDC and wasn’t the strongest dancer in the room.But she accepted the challenge:"If someone trusted me, why couldn’t I trust myself?"That trust became her driving force. During the pandemic, as she taught online, she redefined dance education:"Teaching dance isn’t about teaching moves. Whether I’m sharing original choreography or steps from a video, my goal is to deepen students’ understanding of their bodies."🟠 05 | Pandemic Breakthrough: The Birth of PJMWhen COVID-19 hit New York in 2020, the dance scene froze. Studios closed, classes vanished. But Mini and co-founder Peter saw an opening:"Dancers desperately needed space—physically and spiritually."They started small, renting a local venue intending to serve Chinese students. Unexpectedly, it grew into a multicultural hub. Unlike tourist-driven studios (e.g., BDC or Brickhouse), PJM thrived on authenticity:"I hire teachers based on trust, not hype. I know why they’re great."🟠 06 | When Clubs Fade, Battle EmergesMini admits today’s NYC club scene is unrecognizable from her early days. Yet she believes true dance lives in improvisation.At PJM, she launched freestyle battles—giving choreography-focused students a space for self-expression. Judges like OG Future evaluate not technique, but:"Are you listening to the music?"🟠 07 | Fast-Food Dance Culture: Same Moves, Lost SoulsMini observes a troubling trend:"10 dancers used to perform one move in 10 unique ways. Now, 10 dancers look like clones."Body control can be trained—but style demands lived experience. She reminds students:"Street dance isn’t just steps; it’s attitude, it’s lifestyle."Recalling her Litefeet days in Harlem’s community centers, dancing alongside Black teens who asked if she’d "become a disciple":"To learn their culture, you had to live it. I’ll never be them—but I honor their energy by weaving it into my own dance language."🟠 08 | "I’m Just a Person Who Dances"Mini still takes weekly classes—Heels, Contemporary, House, Litefeet—exploring her multitudes."Different life stages crave different styles. Dance evolves with you."Her secret?Surrender to what your body needs now.🟠 09 | Industry Exhaustion, Dance as SanctuaryThe dance industry offers two paths: fit in (chase commercial gigs) or be yourself (build authentic community). Mini chose the latter.This road has no template. As creator/operator/community-builder, burnout comes from logistics—not dancing:"The hardest part? Handling people, operations, drama."Yet after every class, the fog lifts:"Dance isn’t about performing on a stage. It’s about courage—to express, to practice, to own your choices."🟠 10 | For Beginners: Three TruthsTo new dancers, Mini offers grounded wisdom:✨ Seek the source (learn from OGs)✨ Honor your pace (don’t rush "mastery")✨ Know your why (dance doesn’t require professionalism)"Dancing is a privilege: health, safety, resources—not everyone has this."🟣 Epilogue｜Keep on DancingMini Zhang’s story isn’t a "dreamer-turns-star" fairy tale. It’s real—full of crossroads, grit, luck, and unwavering loyalty to her craft.She dances not to become someone else, but to become fully herself.🔗 Follow * Mini Zhang:* Instagram: @minizhang._* RedNote: @Mini Zhang* PJM Studio:* Instagram: @pjmdancenyc* RedNote: @PJM Dance NYC* Class schedule: Pinned on the RedNote — daily classes available! This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit thetrygirl.substack.com

"I didn't plan to become a dancer. I just followed my interests and danced my way into my current life."She's not a dance academy graduate, nor did she start with childhood dance training. She began with Breaking, started in Taiwan, and journeyed through New York's subway streets, studio mirrors, and spotlights to become a choreographer, videographer, performer, and "Teacher Rose" to countless students.This time, we dive into Rose's dance life.🎬 A Breaking Journey That Started with "So Cool""In high school, I first saw a dancer jump up and then sit cross-legged on the ground. It was so cool that I said: I want to learn this."That was the moment Rose began her Breaking journey. From Taiwan to New York, dance became her anchor for finding belonging in a foreign city. While studying film at SVA, she stumbled upon a Breaking club one day, and her life quietly changed forever.But her dance journey wasn't smooth sailing. New to New York, she faced language barriers, cultural differences, and lack of practice spaces that almost made her give up. Yet it was this "active choice within passivity" that opened another door for her.💃 From Breaking to Choreography: A Transformation Born from "Saving Face""I took my friend to a choreography class, and I said I wouldn't take class with you—too embarrassing... But as soon as he left, I went by myself."She originally had prejudices against choreography (Choreo), viewing it as imitative movement, until she actually entered the classroom and discovered—"How is this so hard? Why can't I keep up?"This "I refuse to believe I can't learn this" competitive spirit became her driving force to persist. Through this determination, she continued to grow in classes with top New York choreographers like Carlos Neto and Bo Park, eventually becoming a teacher and creator herself.🧑‍🏫 From Student to Teacher: K-pop as Catalyst, Teaching as ExpressionA Facebook message invitation led her to start teaching K-pop. "Back then, you didn't need to advertise. Just say you're teaching K-pop, and the studio would be packed."Rose's first class made her so nervous her palms were sweating. But her natural love for sharing and expression found an outlet in teaching. From then on, she danced while teaching, gradually building her own student community and style.She emphasizes: "Teaching isn't about showing off skills, but helping others better understand dance itself."🧘‍♀️ Hustle Beyond the Hustle: A Space to Slow DownNew York's dance scene moves fast with high intensity, but Rose goes against the grain. She created the class program Hustle, focusing on foundational training and emphasizing movement quality and control."I want people to come here without anxiety about memorizing choreography, but to truly practice 'into their bodies.'"Though the project is called Hustle (meaning "grind"), it aims to let dancers briefly step away from the city's grinding pace and rediscover their body's authentic voice.🎥 Beyond Dancing: Photography, Filming, and "The Art of Survival"Rose is also a dance photographer, creating class recordings, music videos, and social media content for many New York dancers."I film for whoever pays me," she says honestly but without dismissiveness. She jokes about being the type who "uses dance to feed dance": making her own posters, creating her own forms, editing her own videos, balancing her own books, while managing her social image."You even have to be careful about posting photos of yourself holding alcohol. With students of all ages, you have to think, 'How can I be a better role model?'"She laughs that she's "not a celebrity," but she's indeed becoming an artist who speaks through her work.🎭 On Stage and Behind: Choreographic Thinking and Creative PhilosophyFor Rose, creating a routine versus creating a stage work are completely different things.She's choreographed for PGM showcases and performed with Kenichi's dance company. She began shifting from "self-expression" to "effect presentation":"Looking neat and good on stage is more important than everyone dancing difficult moves."She also discovered that choreographing helped her understand others' choreography. "Before, when teachers talked about 'choreographic logic,' I couldn't understand at all. Now I analyze: why did they use this movement to connect, how does this musical accent cut in... these are all things you have to practice."🧠 Dancing with Your Brain: The Fastest Way to ImproveWhen asked about the fastest way to improve in dance, Rose thought for a moment and said:"Realize earlier that dancing requires using your brain, not just taking classes and learning moves."She doesn't deny the value of taking many classes, but values post-class reflection and body memory more. "I don't practice at home much, but I constantly watch recordings, reviewing every part of what I did wrong."She also advises everyone: "Don't be afraid to watch yourself looking ugly. Only by watching will you know what needs to be changed."🎤 Epilogue: On Authenticity and PersistenceThroughout the interview, Rose mentioned "somehow" more than once. She had no clear goals, no deliberate path-building, no grand plans, but she always walked step by step on "the track she chose."She wouldn't define herself as an "artist" or "success story." She's more like an ordinary person supporting a dance life with passion and thoughtfulness.But perhaps that's exactly why her story feels so real."Keep on dancing, that's all."She said this with a smile, ending our interview.🔗 Follow Rose 👉* ins & RedNote: @erose_mulan_lu* ins Film portfolio: @mulanfilm * Monthly Program: Hustle (choreo foundations) & Breaking* Weekly Class: int Choreo @PJM Sat 3:30 pm This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit thetrygirl.substack.com

"I am a human being." He says this with a bit of a joke, but this inexplicable introduction ends up sounding like a metaphor - a creator with two feet on the ground, a "human being" who jumps between on and off camera, between reality and expression.He’s the guy filming dancers, and someone who never really stopped dancing — just switched sides with the lens. Behind the camera, another life unfolds.🪩 From the Chubby Kid Who Didn't Dare to Dance, to the One Holding the Camera“I loved moving to music as a kid. But I was chubby, got bullied, and was afraid to dance.”Kevin’s beginning wasn’t glamorous. But one day in high school, he saw a group of bigger guys popping and had a moment of clarity:“They looked so cool. I thought — if they can do it, so can I.”And so began four years of "chaotic learning," as he calls it. No formal training. Just dancing.Then came the camera — and everything changed.🎬 A Gap Year That Captured a Generation of DancersDuring the pandemic, Kevin returned to Shanghai for a gap year. By chance, his high school had some students passionate about dance — and they knew he could film.“We filmed 20 freestyles a week. Over 400 videos now live on our YouTube channel.”Only later did he realize just how talented those dancers were. "They were just high school students at the time, but looking back now, I met five ‘Sean Lew’ at once: some were famous dance teachers from Australia, some were competition winners, and some became directors."His camera didn’t just record them — it helped shape them.📸 “When I film freestyle, I'm dancing too.”Kevin prefers filming freestyles over choreographed pieces. And he always shoots handheld — no tripod. “I’m doing isolation with my hands.”“Because I used to dance, I can predict their movements — when they'll go up, when they’ll drop. I just follow with the lens.”He doesn’t record movement. He dances with it. Instead of pointing the camera at a subject, he turns the camera into a dance partner, into springs, rhythms, and breathing.“My best synergy is with Andrew. We’re like two springs — he moves forward, I move back.”This sense of "synergy" runs through all his work. A good freestyle video is not about editing skills, but about "whether you can predict what the other person is going to do, whether you can follow him in advance when he squats, and whether you can back off moderately when he is exerting force".🎭 Be a "photographer who dances" or a "dancer who photographs"When it comes to "how a dancer can perform better in front of the camera", the answer given by Kevin is not "expression management" or "find the right angle", but: "Know how you look on camera."Many dancers, even good dancers, are uncomfortable on camera. It's not that they don't feel confident, but they want to "look good" so badly that they start "acting."He encourages every dancer to get used to being filmed.“Mirrors lie. Videos don’t. Mirrors are too subjective, but video is objective. Film yourself. It doesn’t matter if it’s your phone. What matters is learning how you look.”One of the most inspiring stories? A girl who had only danced for six months. She filmed with him every week. Each time, she tried to outdo her previous self.Today, she’s at Stanford. Her dance videos helped her get there.📷 Dance Photography vs Dance FilmKevin also does dance photography — a craft with very different rules than film.“Photography captures a single moment. You have to hit the beat.”From timing shutter clicks like a drummer, to anticipating a dancer’s arc in mid-air — everything must be precise.At the Jam’s showcase, he took 1,200 photos and ended up with less than 50. "That's the difference between photography and video. Video is rhythm and process, photography is moments and tension."🎥 What Makes a Good Dance Film?Kevin believes a solid dance film has three essentials:* Moves that hit with the beat* A lens that amplifies a dancer’s intention* Editing that respects the dance’s rhythm — not overcuttingHe points to K-pop as a gold standard — balanced between choreography, storytelling, and visual craft. Some directors, he says, get too artistic and forget the dance.🧱 No One Teaches You How to Film Street Dance — So He Taught Himself“B-boys are easiest to shoot — they take time to prep and their movements are big. Tutting is brutal — fast micro-movements that demand geometric precision.”He even tailors frame rate to dance style:* 24fps for popping* 30fps for choreo* 60fps for house“More isn’t always better — it has to feel right.”🌱 A Dance Archivist Who Doesn’t Need the SpotlightToday, Kevin lives in New York, still filming and dancing. Kevin recalls many dancers who surprised him:* One only danced well to songs he’d never heard* One needed a huge crowd to dance his best* One thrived dancing in the rain* One could only freestyle when dancing with someone elseAll illogical. All perfectly human. Maybe Kevin is the same — not the main character on the stage, nor the center of attention in the spotlight. But the dancers in his camera, little by little, became themselves. Original podcast in Chinese: epContact him:ins@fatplanediaries; his Youtube Channel This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit thetrygirl.substack.com

Zhang Jingxian's dance story begins with an emotional moment in kindergarten and evolves into leadership in one of China's most prestigious university dance crews: FL Crew at Peking University. His journey reflects persistence, passion, and personal growth through the expressive world of street dance.Early Beginnings and RediscoveryXian’s introduction to dance came after a tearful rejection from a kindergarten performance. When his mother discovered him crying, she and his grandfather approached his teacher and helped him practice. "After that, I became the best male dancer—though there were only three boys in class," he recalls with a smile. This experience taught him that dance requires not just talent but also dedication and a desire to be seen.His dance journey paused in fourth grade due to a leg injury but resumed in high school when he began dancing for weight loss. "At that time, dancing once a week felt exhausting. Looking back, that intensity was nothing compared to now," he reflects.FengLei Dance Crew at Peking UniversityIn 2019, Xian entered Peking University's Law School and joined the Fenglei Street Dance Society. During his freshman year, he was persuaded by a senior student to participate in a group dance competition. Despite practicing until midnight and temporarily abandoning his weight loss plans, he unexpectedly achieved his highest GPA of his first three university years. "People always forget the pain after healing, but that experience turned my teammates into comrades," he says, scrolling through old social media posts. "I felt emotional then, but now I only remember the passion."From Team Member to Choreography LeaderThe real turning point came in his sophomore year when Xian became captain of the choreography team. He established a new rule: all team members must train in different old-school dance styles. "Choreography doesn't exist in a vacuum. Its elements come from hip-hop, popping, house... If you've practiced these styles, a cross step becomes one cohesive movement rather than three separate moves." Under his leadership, the team moved beyond simply replicating popular choreography, creating innovative performances that impressed audiences at university events.Creative Process: Dancing Through EmotionsIn his junior year, Xian created his first original piece, "Heartbreak Anniversary." Using emotions as creative fuel, he worked late into the night in stairwells, incorporating balloon props and complex formations. "After completing that dance, I no longer had any lingering thoughts about that person," he shares. The performance received over 400 likes on his personal WeChat video channel and was even shared by professional choreographers in Beijing. Through this experience, he realized that dance is about expressing emotions rather than telling stories—like a ceremonial bonfire where repetitive movements can deeply touch the heart.Competition and LeadershipDuring his senior year, Xian led the Fenglei Dance Club in the Nike National University Street Dance League. Over 33 days, he balanced slow and fast movements, formations, and freestyle segments, sometimes practicing until midnight to perfect an 8-count sequence. "Eventually I realized that excessive pursuit of 'balance' can rob a piece of its spirit," he reflects. The team ultimately won second place in the Beijing division, while their freestyle team surprisingly defeated a strong Taiwanese team in the Crew Battle, becoming the highlight of the competition.Balancing Passion with ManagementAs president of the dance club, Xian navigated more complex challenges. For the society's reputation, he learned patience and cooperation; for promotional videos, he had to ask members to sacrifice their time. "After becoming president, I grew distant from some friends. You can't please everyone, but you must take responsibility for a club of 400+ people," he admits frankly. Though the experience was "harder than expected," it also brought unprecedented support from those who truly understood him.The Future: Dance as Life, Not a PromiseNow in his first year of graduate studies, Xian has stepped back from leadership roles but still occasionally choreographs and trains teams. He continues to participate in freestyle competitions, exploring different dance styles to express music. "People with a choreography background have more 'fragmented' bodies, which actually makes it easier to adapt to new styles," he explains.Regarding his future, he hasn't set a goal to become a professional choreographer: "If you don't live well, you can't dance well. Dance can be a lifelong pursuit, but I don't need to promise 'forever' to anyone."At the end of the interview, he mentions recently choreographing a piece to Beyoncé's "Two Hands to Heaven," noting that "the movements appeared in my mind fully formed, almost requiring no adjustments." This effortless creativity perhaps represents the answer that time has given him.The link to the original podcast in Chinese: Ep1, Ep2Contact:ins @fl_crew_ ; douyin 衔宝Xian ; bilibili 北京大学风雷街舞社 ；his personal bilibili 衔儿是笨笨熊 This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit thetrygirl.substack.com

“I’ve been dancing for 16 years. But for the first 14, I didn’t really know what I was doing.”This is not a story about viral choreography or street dance battles. This is a story about slowness, search, and subtle transformation.From a nightclub dancer to a dance company founder, from a freestyler in the session to a "storyteller" in the theater, Guangmin uses dance to tell not only movements, but also growth, struggles, epiphanies, and freedom.🧑‍🎓 The Accidental BeginningThe summer after he graduated from high school, Guangmin was dragged to a street dance class by a friend. That friend quit after two sessions. Guangmin never stopped.In his hometown of Yanji, a Korean-Chinese region near the border, he studied under a local teacher who had trained in Korea. “He taught everything,” Guangmin recalls. “Hip hop, popping, locking, house, street jazz—no explanations, just movement.”At the time, he didn’t know these were distinct styles. “I thought it was all just ‘street dance.’”When he went to university in Tianjin, he joined the dance club and wanted to continue learning Street Jazz, but was told that the club only taught Popping, so he had no choice but to "dance and learn". "When I learned Popping at that time, I really thought it was ugly. It was very mechanical and boring."It wasn't until a competition judge's show that Xiao Hai's Popping blew him away. "Popping can be so cool."🔄 Chasing the Feeling of FloatingHe saw House for the first time and was mesmerized, "The dancer looked like he was floating, it was totally hard to see how." He loved the smooth, free feeling of House, but didn't have a teacher to teach it. It was after he came to New York that he really started to understand house. He worked as a Data Scientist during the day and went to classes, sessions, and clubs at night, but it was the two years of training with his mentor, Cricket, who would keep repeating a word: Up. "He said, 'You need to find the up.' I didn’t understand what that meant."One night around 1 am, he was practicing dance in the pavilion downstairs. He repeated the same step again and again — and suddenly, it aligned."I saw the trees swaying in the breeze. Their timing matched the music. Matched me. And in that moment, I felt it: this sense of flow, of rising and falling, as if the ground wasn't quite solid. At that moment I realized what 'Up' was. That floating feeling, not by technique, but by all the body parts being 'on frequency'."House is no longer a "movement" for him, but a tuning between body, music, and emotion.🎧 Club Culture as a Spiritual PracticeWhen he first came to New York, he was not used to the club culture.It wasn't until an Afterparty where the DJ Spinna was amazing and the emotions of a Korean House dancer infected him and made him realize, "Club is not a performance, it's a release, it's a way to find your body in music.""When you're in that state, you're not dancing what you were taught, you're dancing what you are."🎭 The Birth of UmamiIn late 2021, during the pandemic’s lull, Guangmin founded a dance company called Umami.It wasn’t just another dance team. It was a dance theater project. Inspired by mentors like Cricket and Bo Park, Guangmin wanted to tell stories, not just perform combos.Unlike ordinary commercial dance companies, he prefers to do "dance theater with expression and narrative". He said he didn't want to be a company that did "routines for competitions".Their first showcase was recorded and shared online. A few months later, festival invitations started rolling in—from Boston, Philadelphia, Austin.They didn’t have slick marketing. Just raw movement. A shared spirit. "It's really just always rehearsing, always creating. cricket taught me: don't get too attached to one movement, create a lot of them, and then choose and tell a story from there."Influenced by Bo Park, he creates in a "life-like" way, using dance to express what is already there in life. "The way you look at a person's walking posture could be the starting point of a set of movements."🌏 Street dance as a cultureIt took over a decade of dancing for Guangmin to understand what many OGs had said all along: Street dance is a culture, not a technique.Under the guidance of his mentor, he began to understand that cypher is not just a battle, but a kind of "emotional communication"; that dancing is not just cool, but a response to oneself, one's community, and even one's ancestors."He's not dancing, he's 'talking' to a friend who passed away."He says this softly, with a choked sob, but it stays in the air for a long time. This "spiritual" feeling began to enter his body and influence his expression. "Street dance is not just a cool move for young people, it is the life of someone who has danced for fifty years, the common memory of a nation, an era, a community."He also began to reflect on his own identity. Two years ago, he went back to his hometown to learn a Korean dance systematically. "Some of the moves in traditional Korean dance are exactly like house." He laughs. “Same bounce. Same rhythm. Just different music.”For him, it confirmed a deeper belief: Dance is universal. Cultures differ, but bodies move similarly when they’re expressing joy, loss, or love."That's why many folk dances and street dances are, simply, connected. Dancing is a form of human expression."🧩 "I work during the day and dance at night, I have no other life."Nowadays, Guangmin works on data science during the day and practices dancing or rehearsals at night. He tries to compress his work efficiency to the limit, just to give the dance a little more space in his limited energy."I have no other life."He says it lightly, but with a certain gentle firmness.He was occasionally confused, tired, and yanked out of rhythm by reality. But he knew that dancing was a part of his life, as natural as eating and sleeping.The link to the original podcast in Chinese: Ep1, Ep2Contact Him:ins @guangminshen; his dance company Umami: @umamiplayground This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit thetrygirl.substack.com

In all the parallel universes, this is the choice Shu Yiran feels most proud of – leaving behind her career in architectural design to pursue her passion for street dance in New York City.New York has always welcomed dreamers, and Yiran is one of many who found her true calling in this vibrant metropolis. Though trained as an architectural designer, a field of precision and structure, she discovered freedom and self-expression through street dance.She first encountered street dance during her student days in Boston, but it was merely a hobby then. A transformative trip to New York changed everything when she attended a House dance class. "It was like an explosion in my mind," she describes. For the first time, she understood that dance wasn't about mimicking movements but about truly connecting with the music and expressing what's inside.This revelation led her to commute regularly between Boston and New York before ultimately relocating to fully immerse herself in street dance culture. She joined the MOPTOP program and studied under legendary OG dancers, experiencing not only technical growth but also profound personal discovery. "Dance is therapeutic for me – a way to explore my inner world," she explains.Her dance philosophy is beautifully simple: "Dancing means forgetting about constraints." Though dance should be liberating, we often limit ourselves. "I used to think I couldn't freestyle because my upbringing taught me everything has a correct answer, but dance is different." Her breakthrough came during a late-night dance party where she felt completely guided by the music, forgetting all external expectations: "It was like an out-of-body experience. I wasn't thinking – the music was moving me, and my movements had never felt so natural."Beyond her personal journey, Yiran has created opportunities for others by founding the Summer Breeze Showcase, providing a platform for young New York dancers to express themselves. "I know this city is full of people like me who love dance but lack spaces to express themselves," she says modestly, adding that she's deeply moved whenever she sees friends dancing freely.When asked if dance can provide a living, she responds thoughtfully: "I'm still figuring that out. But isn't that what life is about? Doing what you love without waiting for the 'perfect moment.'"On the streets of New York, Yiran proves through every dance move that it's never too late to follow your passion.The link to the original podcast in Chinese: Ep1, Ep2Contact Her:the RedNote @19ins @yiranshu @summerbreezeshow This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit thetrygirl.substack.com

In the bustling dance scene of New York City, every dancer has a unique story. Today, we sit down with Charlene, a dancer and instructor with a diverse background, to explore her dance journey, her insights on teaching, and her perspective on the ever-evolving world of dance.From Chinese Dance to K-Pop: The Early YearsCharlene's dance journey began at the tender age of three with Chinese dance. "I was learning Chinese dance, including folk and classical styles". However, her teacher steered her towards academics, believing a professional dance career would be too demanding. Despite this, her passion for dance persisted. "I discovered I still loved to dance". This love led her to K-pop, where she started learning choreography from groups like EXO online.Cheerleading in Southern CaliforniaMoving to San Diego, California, Charlene joined her high school dance team. However, this was not the street dance she was used to. She recalls that it was "more of a cheerleading style" with a focus on gymnastics-style routines.Lockdown in Shanghai: An Intensive Dance EducationThe COVID-19 pandemic and subsequent lockdown in Shanghai provided an unexpected opportunity for Charlene to immerse herself in dance. "I was taking online dance classes and intensely studying choreography, sometimes taking seven classes a day," she recalls. This intensive period allowed her to explore various styles.Teaching and TechniqueNow an instructor herself, Charlene offers insights into the importance of foundational training and technique. She emphasizes the need for detailed observation and understanding of how movements originate. "You really have to look closely," she advises, noting that many dancers focus on the final shape of a movement without understanding the critical starting and ending points.Charlene also touches on the challenge of systematically teaching dance. Unlike academic subjects, dance knowledge often feels fragmented. She stresses the importance of teachers who can break down movements into understandable details.The Role of Other Physical TrainingWhen asked about the benefits of supplementary training, such as weight training, Charlene confirmed that it helps build necessary muscle groups and develop muscle memory. However, she cautions against relying solely on fitness training without understanding how to apply that strength to dance.Overcoming Creative Blocks and Finding InspirationCharlene shares her methods for overcoming creative blocks in choreography. She finds inspiration in diverse sources, including attending classes in different styles and even drawing from the movements of others.The New York Dance CommunityReflecting on the New York dance scene, Charlene notes a strong emphasis on personal expression and style. She contrasts this with her earlier experiences where technical skill was more highly valued. She describes that in New York, "your technique doesn't seem to be as important, it seems like being more wild and raw and the expression is amazing".Teaching in New YorkCharlene discusses her experience teaching in New York studios and her decision to start teaching independently. While grateful for the opportunities, she felt limited by the studio environment. Teaching independently allows her greater control over her curriculum and a closer connection with her students.AdviceWhen it comes to navigating the dance world, Charlene advises aspiring dancers to stay true to themselves and explore various styles to find what resonates with them. She also cautions against comparing oneself too closely to others and emphasizes that "you really don't have to force yourself to go party if you're not the kind of person that enjoys it".The link to the original podcast in Chinese: 小宇宙Contact Her:Thanks for reading TheTryGirl’s Substack! This post is public so feel free to share it. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit thetrygirl.substack.com