‘The traditional duet always has the woman reliant on the man. I’m sick of it’


In September 2016, Julie Cunningham became the first recipient of the Leverhulme choreography fellowship, which helps professional dancers to become full-time working choreographers. Cunningham trained at the Rambert school, then spent 10 years dancing for Merce Cunningham (no relation) in New York before returning to Britain to join Michael Clark’s company, where her performances won her a Critics’ Circle award. This week, at the Barbican in London, she launches her own four-strong company with a choreographic double bill, To Be Me.

Can you tell me how the new work came about?
The first piece is set to a recording of poetry read by Kate Tempest. I saw her perform at Glastonbury in 2015, and when I got home I bought the audiobook of her collection Hold Your Own, a reworking of the ancient Greek myth of Tiresias. I loved its rhythm, Kate’s voice, and the way she used her breath. I knew a bit about Tiresias, that he was turned into a woman for seven years by the gods, and then blinded but given the gift of insight. I liked the idea of changing from one sex to another. Of knowing what it’s like to be another.

Does that idea have personal resonance for you?
I’m gay, and my experience of the world is not represented on the dance stage. Gender is a social construct. It doesn’t exist – it’s just a box. The body is unstable, and constantly changing. This is me today. This piece is how I see the world.

How did you become a dancer?
I was born in Liverpool and went to after-school classes. I did ballet, modern, jazz and tap – I was the world’s worst tapper. In my early teens, I wanted to be a ballet dancer. I was pretty obsessed with Darcey Bussell and Sylvie Guillem. Then when I was 14, I saw a documentary about Merce Cunningham. I’d never seen anything like it. No music in rehearsal – what is this? I wanted to write to Cunningham and ask: how do I join your company?

But you went on to join a ballet company.
Yes, briefly. I trained at the Rambert school, and when I was 21 joined a company in Koblenz in Germany. For six months I danced Sleeping Beauty in a tutu, with my hair in a bun. I was a fairy, and I didn’t feel like myself at all. Ballet dancers want to look beautiful all the time; they have a real problem with imperfection. I ended up in Paris at the same time as Merce Cunningham’s company were there on tour. I took a class with them, and it turned out they needed an understudy. Two weeks later I was flying to New York with a suitcase. They told me it was just for four weeks, but it turned out to be 10 years.

That must have been an adventure.
Yes, within a week I was working with Merce on new material. I was so amazed this was happening to me. Even if this goes no further, I told myself, I’ll never forget this experience. I apartment-hopped, cat-sat and scrambled around. I lived in Brooklyn and then moved to Harlem. But we were on tour a lot of the time. I remember dancing in Paris at the Palais Garnier, with its steeply raked stage. And performing Ocean at the Roundhouse in London – that was amazing. Within the company, it was very competitive, though. Everyone wanted Merce’s attention; stress levels were high. You never felt you were good enough; it wasn’t what was said but what was not said. People were hard on themselves; it was a punishing environment. Merce was just doing what he wanted to do, using the people he wanted, and that caused tension. Eventually, I got an injury, and my lumbar spine was in spasm for six months.

Every dancer’s nightmare.
I couldn’t dance for a year, so I studied at New York City University. Physics, chemistry and biology – I still have five credits. And then Michael Clark came knocking at my door in 2012. I stayed with his company for three years and then started choreographing and performing my own work. I’m 37 now and still consider myself a dance artist.

Can you describe your process?
It’s about finding new ways of moving. The translation of feelings into the quality of movement. I’m consciously not making pieces that are gender specific. We can all do all the parts. We don’t do lifts. The traditional duet always has the woman reliant on the man, him leading and her going along with it. Even with Merce, partnering was traditionally gendered. Sexual but “pure”. I’m sick of it. I’m trying to be human, to make something that is ourselves. It’s about stripping away mannerisms and affect. So you just see the person, moving.

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