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With my hair growing longer and my eyes opening wider, I became an avid reader of The Village Voice. It was considered an alternate weekly – that is alternate to such choices as the more lofty New York Times or the close-to-the-street reporting of the New York Daily News. There was also The East Village Other, more connected to the grittier side of cultural politics and the revolution as it was happening, or what we thought was the revolution happening. I read both weeklies for their politics, their reviews of films and theatre, and especially for the concert schedules.

But the one thing I looked forward to in the Voice was Jules Feiffer’s The Dancer. Her black leotard, her dialog a cross between between beat philosophy and contemporary art, and her interpretive leaping dance was an insight into a larger world I was still trying to understand and a modern movement I was attempting to join. How could you not fall in love with her?

That was a long time ago…but I go on dancing anyway…

 

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