The events that took place a year ago this month catapulted Americans into a deep and dark place. In shock, horror, and disbelief, some New Yorkers had the surreal experience of bearing witness to the initial attack on the World Trade Center. The television coverage was so immediate that countless others, who first heard the news through the media, were at their windows in time to witness the collapse of the south tower. By the end of the day, this unthinkable, unimaginable event had been given a name. 9/11—a date and a telephone distress number—had become the logo for international terrorism. The event was placed in history as it unfolded, blurring the lines that separated depiction, perception, and reflection.

Courtney Blackwell, Laurel Lynch, Amina Royster, Peter Chu, Grasan Kingsberry, and Benjamin Stewart in Robert Battle’s Base Line.

News of the devastation had reached the Juilliard dancers in the middle of their morning technique classes, the first classes of a new and promising year. In the days immediately following, as the Juilliard community pulled together, we felt fortunate to have the rigor of our art form and cherished the opportunity to remain fully engaged in our work. In defiance of the powers of destruction, we intensified our resolve that life and creativity would prevail. The Dance Division could look forward to working with Juilliard alumnus Robert Battle on the creation of his new work, Base Line, a collaboration with Victor Goines, director of Juilliard's Jazz Studies program. Inspired by what Battle refers to as "the dark side of jazz," his original idea for the piece was to depict a series of scenes about relationships, touching on themes of unrequited love, anger, disappointment, desperation, and paranoia. The underlying theme was survival, coping with demons, and finding a lifeline. This was by no means the first work in which he has dealt with frenzy, darkness, and despair. In Damn (1997), we witness the psychotic episode of an individual reliving a traumatic event. Battle focuses our attention on the response and not the event itself, using fractured, erratic movement and splintered shapes to deconstruct emotion. A signature aspect of his work is the use of music that on the surface appears to "suit" or accompany the rhythms and mood of the dance—while, in fact, his unexpected, inorganic, illogical movement phrases create visual rather than rhythmic juxtapositions to the sound. The effect is often disturbing.

Base Line was evolving in this direction when, in the aftermath of September 11, Battle, like many artists, questioned the relevance of his work in light of the magnitude of this "real-life" tragedy. Artists were not the only ones to respond to the 9/11 events by re-examining their commitments and priorities. Most people find that their personal issues and concerns pale in the face of great tragedy, as the experience forces a broader perspective. The difference is that the artist has the vision and courage to visit those dark places on a regular basis and without external provocation, exploring what Martha Graham referred to as "the inner landscape," providing us with images of despair, rage, loneliness, insanity. Thus, although Battle addressed this concern about the relevance of his dance by introducing more literal elements, it was ultimately the power of his original concept that prevailed.

There has been a proliferation of new and "relevant" work created in response to September 11: among them, Donald McKayle's Ash, a work the New York-born choreographer has described as his personal response to the terrorist attacks; Canadian choreographer Brian Macdonald's Requiem 9/11, set to the Verdi Requiem; and Kitty McNamee's Sticks & Stones, which, in a Los Angeles Daily News article, the choreographer and director of the Los Angeles-based Hysterica Dance Company said is about "our resilience: how things bounce off us and we go forward. After 9/11, your eyes are more open because you can't take anything for granted."

At the same time, dance artists have also begun to re-examine both the choice of venues and the structure of performances. How important is applause? Does the proscenium stage create too much distance? Can a dance concert consist of a single short work? Should artists dealing with similar themes share concerts, as opposed to the old model in which the objective is to present a full evening of a single artist's work in a display of choreographic versatility? Is there a new or increased audience for less abstract work? These are timely questions given the current state of the dance field.

Over the past 20 years, dancers have been gradually moving themselves and their works out of studios and theaters and into the streets and other "alternative" spaces in pursuit of new and diverse audiences. The shift in venues has impacted the content of the work. Glibly stated, obscurity is "out," accessibility is "in." Several factors have contributed to these new attitudes and approaches. Since the early 1980s the dance community has been dealing with three major issues. The death of many of our American dance pioneers at the same time as the AIDS epidemic was consuming the lives of young dancers raised our awareness of the need to preserve and pass on the dance legacy. Decreased touring and loss of audiences for dance, caused by shifts in funding priorities, have awakened the need to create accessible, relevant work. The dance profession's lack of a substantive visibility in the national education initiative has compelled us to focus on making interdisciplinary connections through K-U outreach and education. As dance educators, we have had to re-examine both curriculum and methodology in preparing our students for a changing profession.

Most people find that their personal issues and concerns pale in the face of great tragedy, as the experience forces a broader perspective.

Back in the mid-1960s, at the beginning of what is referred to as the Golden Age of American dance, the parameters of the professional field were clear. There were just a handful of companies and, while the range of their viewpoints was vast, the field was relatively small. The modern dancers shared the Denishawn and Hanya Holm lineage. Dancers trained in a chosen technique and most devoted their entire careers to a single choreographer whose style emerged from a set of highly discernable core values. The prevailing notion was that only the chosen few could enter the profession, and, while audiences were needed and desired, some of the field's innovators rejected the notion of popularity as a sign of superficiality. The content of their dances did not have to "speak" to the masses.

Throughout the 1970s, American dance incorporated. Companies seeking funding at either the state or federal level had to prove they were fiscally responsible. They acquired not-for-profit status and boards of directors. Their company managers got separate offices, sometimes even in different buildings. American dance was in business. The most positive outcome of this period was that a generation of great choreographers was finally subsidized in their quest to bring forth a unique artistic vision. They created masterpieces. When viewed from our current perspective, the 1970s do not stand out as the decade of social consciousness in dance, though it was clearly a time of experimentation and innovation.

In the final decades of the 20th century, the AIDS epidemic spurred many dance artists to veer away from abstraction and to use the dance medium to convey a social message. But social issues had driven the works of those dance artists who were creating in the first half of the century. In the wake of World War I, the Depression, and the rise of socialism, a generation of dancers emerged, determined to bring their messages of social and political change to the masses. In 1932, a group of radical and idealistic young women who called themselves The Workers Dance Group performed for left-wing audiences in the union halls of New York City. They could also be found on picket lines and at protest marches. By 1933, in an effort to reach a broader audience, they changed their name to The New Dance Group. Between 1930 and 1960, The New Dance Group evolved a model for a modern-day dance institution. It embraced all dance forms, accepted all who came to study, provided creative space, supported and encouraged collaborations, and dared to put forth a set of beliefs about individual freedom and respect for diversity.

In 2002, we may have come full circle recognizing that, while it may be important to commemorate or acknowledge specific earth-shattering events such as the 9/11 attacks through our dances, it is perhaps even more important to ensure, on an ongoing basis, that we design our communities and institutions placing conscience above consensus.