twyla tharp on what makes for honest art
What we did was natural and honest. Pretty was never an issue. What was pretty, anyway? The lying ease of a retouched photograph over Collenette’s desk? If a movement felt good, that was pretty, and to this day those moments when my mind surrenders and my body takes over and moves of its own accord, governed only by muscles and reflexes — falling where it wants, stopping as it can, building the momentum to speed — are the only instances when I recognize true order. The body, outside the mind control, moves intuitively as though in a bar room brawl.