stumbling into dance

I’m not a dancer, and no one can convince me otherwise…

True, I do dance. But truly, I’m not a career performer. In fact, I loathe being on stage. Plus, I lack many physical attributes of a good dancer. For starters, genetics did not provide me a sturdy or flexible spine. Once a doctor suggested that I take ballet classes for alignment. In one ear, and out the other. But dance would find me, over and over again. 

My relationship with this art form started with a chance encounter in the mid-1970s. Early on, while embarking on a career in the field of horticulture, I was introduced to Meg who owned a plant shop called -- get this -- “Megalomania,” which describes her to a tee.  This all-over-the-map lady needed management at her shop (as well as in her life). Due to my background in botanicals, I was hired on the spot. The quaint indoor greenery --along with many other boutique establishments –was situated in an old-world indoor arcade called “The Louisiana Purchase.” With a French Quarter feel, an upscale diner anchored the voluminous space, adorned with scrolly white wrought iron railings throughout, and a grand centerpiece open-air staircase. The ornate landing doubled as a circular dining pergola punctuated with hanging ferns.

Megalomania cared for the ferns, and likely, those hillbilly fronds could very well be the reason I was summoned to my new position. These tropicals decidedly drooped, but not Meg. Personality, perky! Her bubbliness magnified due to daily doses of Ritalin prescribed by her sugar-daddy supplier, Dr Sugarman (you can’t make these names up).  Mind you, she did not have ADHD, she simply liked the buzz.  Also in the mix was her energetic charm. For example, Meg could get anything she wanted with a few eyelash bats over her big browns mixed with “oh, please, please, Billy, would you do that for me? I would be ever so grateful.”  Seemed more like she was beseeching Ashely Wilkes. In fact, her look took on the Miss Scarlett ilk, but contemporary – comprised of snug jeans, and floral blouses tied at the waist. I always knew when Meg was approaching, due to the rapid clicks of mile-high espadrille heels.  Once I entered her orbit, she shored up contracts with other restaurants, supplying greenery and fresh flowers daily. During that time, my day started at 4AM: I would head to the flower mart, pick up the goods, deliver and primp, and head back to open the shop at 10AM. I did this dance while Meg was snug in her bed. Back then, I considered myself the lucky one. Who was I kidding?

One fateful day she asked me to drop off house plants at her apartment. That’s the day I met Terrance, and in turn my life took a sharp pivot. Or a pirouette, as it were. Arriving at the 1920s Spanish duplex, I was distracted by a striking man sitting on a stoop, smoking a reefer. Taken by his Robert Wagner chiseled appearance, I stumbled.

He parted his pearly-whites, and his reaction to my near fall? An unexpected three words:

 “Oh dear! Puff?”  (he extended the smokey stick toward me) 

“No thanks”  

“I am Terrance Hare, and who might you be?” He couldn’t be more friendly.  

I offered my name, and my reason for being there. 

 “Oh, do you dance?” A creative come-on?  Okay, I’m game.  

“I mean, yeah, I dance the hustle at Studio One.”  

“No, do you take proper training, ballet, jazz? If not, you must.” I was intrigued and puzzled. Is he high, or is he always like this? In any event, he had a certain something. 

Did I fall in love with him immediately? Well, everybody did.  

Prior to meeting this inspired individual, my life had been pretty much culturally bankrupt (consider me a late bloomer) but due to subsequent visits to Meg’s apartment, a cultural cascade surged in my direction. Terrance introduced me to Gilbert and Sullivan, “The Fantasticks,” “The Red Shoes” and naturally the Kirov Ballet. One day, to no surprise, Terrance shared with me how much he loved the waltz “You must come up to my apartment and I’ll play Jacques Berel on my record player, “La valse à mille temps.”  

That’s the day I met his roommate, the elegant and witty, Wendy Hill. Wendy stood out. Features included an Australian accent, cat-shaped eyes of emerald green, a galaxy of freckles, and a luminous red bob. She was an actress. Upon first sight, I caught her skillfully tap dancing on the kitchen floor. (Dance was everywhere in Terrance’s sphere). Out of breath, she uttered a cheerful “hello.” Then back to her business. Like Wendy’s rhythmic shoes to the floor, these bohemian roommates had an impressive metronomic way of speaking.  They tossed words back and forth in a brisk Noel Coward tongue. (Although at the time I didn’t know Noel Coward from boo). She addressed Terrance as “my dear” and he to her as “Miss Hill” or “my darling,” or “toots.” After some time, Wendy started referring to me as “the Boy.” It was soon revealed Terrance was 15 years my senior. Didn’t matter to me. In fact, in record time we became a two-some. I would spend nights at his apartment, and we would head off to dance class the following morning. While I struggled with forms and steps, he shined. With his unrivaled head rolls, and masterful spins, sweat would fly. So much that he needed to change his tank top more than once in the span of an hour-and-a-half dance class. Me? Not even a trickle. Some day.

 Meanwhile, back at the duplex, it became clear that three’s a crowd, so Terrance and I found our own place on Rodney Drive.  In Lauren Bacall’s autobiography, she refers to an apartment compound on Rodney Drive where she and her mother lived when they first arrived in Hollywood. The book pretty much describes our living quarters, so we told friends we were enjoying ‘the glamorous life’ in the movie star’s former home. Never verified, but an impressive tale.   

This two-floor dream not only became our residence for the next eleven years (and longer for Terrance), but also doubled as location of our very first dance studio. The oak-floored dining room is where the unveiling occurred one early spring day. That’s when the wall-sized mirror was raised, and his chatty actress friends entered like an energized ensemble crowding a dressing room on opening night. In this cozy space where morning sun streamed in, five was considered a full class.  But I felt more at home here, rather than at the massive Joe Tremaine Studio, where the only vibe I experienced was self-imposed intimidation. Terrance’s class on the other hand felt safe, and in this supportive setting, I could absorb jazz moves with ease.  

Any chance an up-and-coming dancer was in the making? Hardly. Step, stumble, rise, repeat. 

Months later as the gate-leg table, bentwood chairs and the stark Strelitzia returned to their proper home, “Terrance Curtis Dance” uprooted and landed at an official studio in the local Jewish Community Center. A bit of buzz brought on more attendees, and class size tripled to twelve. By now I was considered “Terrance’s protégé.” I followed the choreography well, but sadly, I still lacked flexibility (what I’d give for an exquisite arched back, like those sweeping fern fronds I nursed back to health) Still, I had no turnout -- and to this day, still nada. In fact, in my early dance days, an aimless attempt to improve my 2nd position flopped: I tried sleeping on my back frog-leg-style with a telephone book belted on each inner thigh. Yellow pages had good heft. This misguided determination led to sleepless nights. Well, only three. Reason being, Terrance intervened and tossed me his wisdom and perspective, that landed as epiphany. “Your turnout, or the height of your battement is not essential. Dance with your gifts” Encouragingly, he continued “No doubt toes must be pointed when you battement, but show the audience what really counts, your lovely facial expression, and exquisite arms. You are a lovely man” He always complimented me on my “port de bras.” Following is an example of Terrance’s writing that illuminates his philosophy: 

BODY PARTS EXERCISE:  I'd never seen such a foot in my life.  It was attached to a young girl of fourteen who had been pushed into ballet from year one.  You could just tell, it was so obvious.  The mother was too forward during enrollment, downright pushy if you ask me.  But then, I wasn't running the desk.  I wonder where these students come from, let alone their mothers.  They say the feet are important, but you'd think what was on top had some importance too.  Anyway, the girl's foot had a perfect point.  They will just have to rebuild the rest of her body, and that's the school's job.  And what a job. 

Just because the kid has a "foot", they think she can dance.  What a fantasy!  Most of the young maidens who attend this fine academy for dance, dance with every part of their body weight heading down, all at once, no matter how hard we work!  Perhaps I'm being harsh, but more eating seems to go on around her than dancing.  More interest in the costumes for recital than for the actual performance itself.  More is the pity.  Ah well, they come, they go.  But the girl really does have a lovely foot. 

Around 1980, we escaped the “community” aspect and moved to what we considered a professional studio on Hillhurst Ave, and our dance patrons followed. We sublet from Bob Burns Tap Studio, but unfortunately the situation soon surfaced as a sordid state. Firstly, the floors were linoleum-covered concrete, and secondly, Bob Burns –to put it bluntly—was a lush.   In order to save our joints, Terrance deemed no jumps were allowed. (okay with me, because my leaps hardly bounded anyway), and many mornings we had to clean up Mr. Burns’ aftermath of a night of impropriety. And on occasionally he’d still be there on his blue sofa snoring away, bottle tipped over. With flair, Terrance would gently tap this this sad sack on the shoulder and heralded motivational words, “My good man, you must go home and shower now. The day’s art is about to begin!”  

Eventually, this depleted tapper shuffled off to parts unknown, and to our good fortune, a bay two doors down became available, so we leapt on it. That is when Terrance decreed the business’s new name as “Studio A Dance!” Within a few weeks, we were up and running. My devoted parents loaned us $3k to get the ball rolling. Through the “Recycler” floors were procured from a defunct racquetball court in Simi Valley, and mirrors purchased from a nearby yoga studio.   

I started an aerobics program to draw masses, as Terrance spearheaded dance. Weeks later, when a lady named Margaret Shore purchased the first unlimited class pass we ever sold, we knew we were on our way. “God bless Margaret Shore,” Terrance would repeat this over and over. For years to come, he often revisited this platitude that verified our vision of Studio A Dance was fully realized. Before long, fortune rained as well-qualified folks became the Studio A “staff”. Christine Verse, a Belgian ballerina —who studied with Bejart — taught ballet. She eventually moved to Argentina, switched gears and became a tango dancer, and joined the university's dance department staff.  Marilyn Carter, a modern dancer, with a form Bernini would have cherished—and a Ruth St Denis pedigree — taught modern classes. Leslie Aqua Viva who followed us over from the Jewish Community center took charge of the children’s program, and my sister Debbie, the wild child of the Brown family, taught a class called “aggressive Aerobics.” That class title is an understatement. Trust me. 

Although my fan kicks still barely peaked at shoulder level, and splits would never be in my future, I soon became a beginning jazz instructor. As prescribed, I relied on my long lean arms, good facial expression, and boundless energy to inspire my students. It worked!  But more importantly, I discovered that joy -- dance’s most essential element -- is highly contagious. Dance may be a learned craft, but when soul and spirit attach, the human condition ascends. Side note: There’s the 1980s “ballet/jazz buzz,” specific to Studio A Dance. A boon for us die-hards. Caffeine flowed freely 24/7 for all dancers because we were situated next door to Hollywood Coffee Service.  

Jump forward to some sixteen-thousand cups of coffee later (in 2025), and I’m still dancing. At one point, Studio A Dance relocates to a larger space, our present home.  But back in the early days, with encouragement from Terrance, I danced in two musicals “Cosmic Sands” and “Earl Carroll Revisited.” Later on, I hit the stage occasionally, mostly at the studio, but in other venues around town. I modeled in a few shows, choreographed musicals, many at a local high school. Still today I produce shows at the studio. But I still profess “I‘m not really a dancer.” Instead, I make up moves to share –infused with joy.  

Although I’m proud to say that I’m a natural for a triple pirouette, three significant hiccups nearly ended my decades-long “dance dream sequence.”  Firstly, Terrance passed away in 2003. A hard hit for myself and our community. Could we continue without our shepherd of dance? Tough, but his awe-inspiring words still resonate like a heavenly choir: “dance darling, til there’s nothing left” Ten years later, with little warning, the landlord sold the building, and gave me 60 days to clear out. Time to call it quits?  Not quite.

Lo and behold, a mizvah had manifested!

Escrow fell through, so I learned a different dance. A ditty of finesse and finance. I purchased the building -- with help from many generous friends, and the SBA. The Studio A community came through with loans (some individuals as much as 20K), for the down payment to keep this institution of happiness happening. Within a period of five years, loans were all paid back with interest. And as a safety net, I purchased a life insurance policy on myself, so if by chance I would elevé to the heavens, my generous friends would have their investment returned.  

Roadblock number three:  Early summer in 2016, at age 63 while teaching a rousing funk jazz class, I collapsed, and my life took another pivot.  Up sprouted a potentially lethal condition known as ventricular tachycardia. During the premier episode, my heart clocked in at 235 beats per minute for the duration of 35 minutes. My vision temporarily blurred, and my words came out garbled.

One nurse friend described my form of VT as the heart beats so fast that the blood can hardly circulate. Instead, it shakes like Jell-O, and is unable to pick up enough oxygen for vitals to function properly.  Luckily, at the ER, a magic injection slowed down the rate to a normal, steady pace.

I now have an implanted defibrillator to shock my heart back into rhythm (and no blues) whenever V-tach makes surprise visits. (about a dozen visits to date). Strong jolts, but nothing compared to the charge I get out of dancing. Yep, against all odds, dance found me once again. 

To honor Terrance—and ourselves-- we keep on ‘til there’s nothing left” Darling.

In closing, at Terrance’s life celebration in 2003 one dancer aptly describes this guru of mind and body, which captures why we all fell in love with him (yes, everybody did): When conversing with an artist such as Terrance Curtis, one experiences a departure from linear reality.  Curtis is a dancer, and listening to his story is like exploring multi-dimensional space—and is to be moved by his in-the-moment coloration, by his graceful swoops and curves, and by the occasional jarring of something abstract or unexpected.