“Hi. My name is Thomas Houseman, and I am a modern dancer.”

I feel like I am at a support group. Dancers Anonymous. I wonder what kind of a 12 Step Program that would be? Would I get to make up the steps or are they already choreographed? Cue up the sound and let’s start again from the top.

“Hi. My name is Thomas Houseman, and I am a modern dancer.”

Although I haven’t performed in 10 years you’ll notice I still use the present tense. Am, not was. I am an audience member now. I am one of the glowing faces illuminated from the stage light wash that spills into the audience. Also, inevitably spilling into the audience is the dancer’s energy, their vital force. My muscles are still attuned to that frequency. I am the guy in the audience who is well-behaved and quiet. Attentive. Then, without warning, my muscles spasm. A leg twitches, an arm wants to stretch and my head wants to roll. I am involuntarily dancing in my seat. The poor souls on either side of me-the ones I am kicking and elbowing like I am suffering from a muscular version of Tourrett’s, endure me. Embarrassed, I try to contain myself. Focus. Relax. Still dancing. In my seat.

“Hi. My name is Thomas Houseman, and I am a modern dancer.”

Not technically. I am a winemaker now. I wear boots and drive a truck. I have a desk and a Blackberry. While I get to express my creativity in other non- verbal ways, I don’t come into work, strip down and sprawl on the floor with my co-workers. We don’t discuss the day’s events while lying on our backs and rocking back and forth, extending our legs to the ceiling and groaning about how sore we are from yesterday. We drink coffee and try to act dignified. Well, that is until there is a prop. An excuse. Say, a pallet jack. Or a floor steamer. Really, anything. Then, it’s dancing time. Time to move through space. Feel space pressing against our flesh. Time to let the dancer inside out for a little stroll. You can check our website if you’d like to see evidence. I believe there are photos (www.anneamie.com).

“Hi. My name is Thomas Houseman, and I am a modern dancer.”

But the worst, by far is the empty stage that appears at night- the one inside my head. The one I can’t control. Switch off the bedroom light. Switch on the stage lights. I dream dance as much as I did when I was performing, maybe more. And, maybe as a tribute to Elizabeth Streb, or maybe because I miss flying and smacking into things, it is her movement vocabulary that fills most of my nights. I rarely dream of fluid, lyrical movement. I came to NYC in the early 90s, mostly because I fell in love with Doug Varone’s gestural fluidity, yet I rarely visit that style in my sleep. I danced with many choreographers in my brief moment in NY, from the twitchy rigidity of Nikolais, to the “fall and release” of Humphrey. And everything in between.

When my mind drifts to that gauzy place of dreams I sail, spring and rebound off surfaces. I bounce and smack and fling. Amazingly, in the morning I am not sore. I don’t have to roll out of bed and crawl to the shower. I have no road-rash or angry yellowing bruises. As I eat breakfast, I look out the window not at apartments, but at vineyards.
I may re-visit my dreams, but more often than not, I am focused on the day before me, making a mental map of what lies ahead. In that respect and many others, dancing and winemaking are very much alike. Vision. Focus. Trial. Error. Create something and if it doesn’t resonate, start again. Put the pieces together in a different order. A dance and wine are just blends of components. Steps. Barrels. Components. A bottle of wine is my performance. The vintage my rehearsal, where I exercise all my training and creativity. So, as you drink a glass of wine think about the person behind that wine. Their story. Their path. Their dance.

“Hi. My name is Thomas Houseman, and I am a winemaker.”