Real men don’t lift weights…

RAD Content Manager, Aiden Truss, shares his personal journey and looks at the challenges some men new to dance might face.

I don’t really fit easily into the dance world; I’m on the periphery, writing as I do for the RAD. I’m a generalist copywriter who has spent eight years familiarising myself with this – to outsiders – most effete of art forms. It doesn’t help that when I say I work there, people assume because of my appearance that I’m employed in security. This is partly because of my shorn head, fondness for wearing heavy metal t-shirts, and a physique that might be more fitting for rugby (if I could lose several stones and a couple of cruel decades!)

But here I am, a confirmed admirer of ballet and survivor of the crisis in masculinity that this triggers in other straight males of my vintage. We grew up on a diet of Airfix models, The Great Escape every Christmas, and grandparents who seemed to embody the ideals of a generation when men were men, women were women, children should be seen and not heard, and where anything not quite conforming to rigid societal norms (playground or otherwise) was denounced as suspicious. If you didn’t like football for example, you were considered effeminate if not a bit damaged.

We have, I hope, outgrown such things. But, other than exposure to the stylings of Lionel Blair and Hot Gossip on TV, my first ‘real’ exposure to dance didn’t come until studying for my A Levels. It was in Theatre Studies, and we were looking at Federico Lorca’s Blood Wedding. Our teacher got us tickets to see a performance of Cruel Garden by Ballet Rambert, which was based on his work.

If I’m honest, my now wife was in the same class, and I think much of my attention was on her rather than the stage. I think also that it was at Sadler’s Wells but couldn’t swear to it. But I do remember the mood and the spectacle, and the realisation that something passionate and almost numinous was unfolding. Perhaps it was just Lorca and his overwhelming melancholy that infused the production, but the dancers left a mark on me. I recall the reds and whites of the costumes, the swirling hems, expressive arms and staccato beats of both hearts and feet to the performance.

The next day, I didn’t dare admit to my friends that I’d got something from the evening. If I mentioned it at all, it was to complain that I had to go to some ‘girly’ show for Theatre Studies and that I’d never go again.

My next big exposure to dance was sitting next to my wife as she watched the 1994 Eurovision Song Contest in Ireland. I’m not a fan of Eurovision but I do remember that there was an interval after which we both sat there with our mouths agape at what we were watching. This was the advent of Michael Flatley and Jean Butler and the whole Riverdance phenomenon. I had never seen such artistry before. This was a whole company of such talent, exhibiting a form of dance that had previously been the preserve of social clubs and church halls and then, something only known to offspring of the Irish diaspora.

There was nothing ‘girly’ about this, and I wasn’t just feeling pride at my Irish heritage. This was something visceral, charged, and almost overwhelming. It was masculine, feminine and all shades in between – it was a celebration of humanity.

When the show toured soon after, we went to see it at Hammersmith Odeon. And the show wasn’t just about Irish dancing; it included flamenco, American jazz tap, and Macedonian traditional dance as well.

The piece that stayed with me though was called ‘Thunderstorm’, a rhythmic piece with no musical accompaniment, performed only by the male dancers. And it was a statement of pure masculinity. It was a challenge and a thumbing of the nose at adversity, a literal railing against a storm, as well as being a virtuoso display of choreography. The final roar of the dancers on the edge of the stage had everyone on their feet, squealing with delight – myself included!

So, I fell in love with the show, and secretly wished that someone had sent me to Irish dancing classes instead of Cub Scouts when I was younger. I don’t think this is something that you can come to later in life, like Silver Swans, though I’m happy to be proved wrong.

It was another few years before I was exposed to dance again. This time was when I was looking for my next gig as a copywriter and was offered an interview at the RAD.

Trepidation is the wrong word – when you write for a living, you adapt to what’s needed – but again, there was this ‘dance’ baggage and all the prejudices and expectations about who I might be working with. And yes, I work with lots of beautiful people, and yes, I’m in a distinct minority of males in the organisation, but I was quickly disabused of my hackneyed preconceptions.

For a start, when you work in an office below a dance studio, it’s noisy beyond imagining. Despite what you see on TV, dancers (especially the ballet variety) may look beautiful, but gravity conspires to destroy this illusion when you hear them move en masse. And have you ever met a ballet dancer in the flesh? They have muscles where the rest of us just have ambition. Despite their grace, they are severely solid units, and up there with gymnasts and lightweight boxers in terms of physical tuning.

As foreshadowed in the title of this piece, while searching for some quotations for a written piece I was working on in my early days at the RAD, I stumbled across something on Instagram that said: “Real men don’t lift weights, they lift women.”

I’ve used this almost as a defence against the ‘girly’ accusations on more than one occasion. I mean, have you seen the bods on male ballet dancers? These are seriously hardcore blokes who have the responsibility of underpinning that grace in female ballet dancers that I mentioned earlier. And being uncharacteristically crass about it, what would any young man rather lift to show his prowess – a set of weights, or a young woman?

I’m obviously posing that question from a straight male perspective. I think that most will get my drift though – that dance subverts gender (especially masculine) expectations. That it’s not effeminate, and that more boys need to be exposed unashamedly to the joys and possibilities offered by dance.

My last night out with dance was admittedly a few years ago when I went with friends to a cinema broadcast of Manon. From what I saw, I was one of only a handful of men in an auditorium full of ladies of a certain age. I had made no concessions to gentility as usual and was wearing an Iron Maiden t-shirt, and thoroughly enjoyed myself. Or does weeping like a baby at the final pas de deux count as enjoyment?

On International Men’s Day, I’m making my contribution to righting a misconception that deprives so many of dance – in whatever form it takes – that taking pleasure in dance is not a challenge to masculinity. We blokes have been knocked off our secure perch in recent years – and rightly so. As a society, we are now held to account over questions of what it is to be a man and I don’t see this self-examination as threatening, but healthy.

Take a chance, watch a show, or take a class. You’ve nothing to lose and so much to gain. And if anyone tells you differently, there’s a big rugby player-shaped, bouncer-looking, dance-loving bloke who’s happy to put you straight!