Emma Portner FTW

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Clad in her signature loose black T-shirt and baggy gym shorts, Emma Portner is standing in a cavernous industrial space in downtown Los Angeles. A glass box—big enough to fit five dancers with only a little room to maneuver inside—sits in the middle. The five performers, Portner included, are standing inside it, side by side, palms on the glass.

“Question,” Portner asks. “Are we looking at our hands?”

She steps out to watch the others try the phrase, and adds a few more steps. Quick, staccato movement, legs kicking out, torsos swiveling around, fists hitting glass. “This is a puzzle,” she says, almost to herself. “I’m not sure I’ll like it.” The statement, like so many, is punctured with a sweet, nervous laugh.

Portner, 23, may be soft-spoken, but she’s a powerhouse mover. Anyone who has seen her Instagram videos can recognize the ferocity with which she throws her body—and seemingly her soul—into each moment.

That said, the energy in the rehearsal space is anything but frenetic. A calm, collaborative feel permeates. “What do we need to do next?” she asks the dancers. “Is everyone okay?”

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It was a total joy to write about the incredible choreographer/dancer/revolutionary, Emma Portner, for Dance Magazine. Read the full cover story here.

[Photo by Quinn Wharton]

xx

 

Three New Reads

Happy Spring, all! I’m delighted to share three new pieces.

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I wrote about my inability to make decisions on my own for Lenny.

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I wrote about how much I love my own Mama for Mother’s Day for Land’s End Journal.

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And! I wrote about getting up at the crack of dawn to have some time for myself (for crying out loud!). (It will shock no one to learn that since I published this, my kid’s been waking up much earlier. #Momfail.) This one was for Healthline.

xoxoxox

The Ambivalent Expat

I wrote a piece that I feared would offend everyone I know about life as an expat in Vienna. Luckily no one has written me hate mail who was offended has told me so! Yay!

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(Life as an expat: Lots of dirty baby clothes. No dryer.)

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When my husband and I moved to Vienna, Austria, two years ago, we were frequently set up on friend dates. This is par for the course for a new expat — someone hears that you’ve moved to some faraway city, and their coworker’s cat’s former owner’s cousin always knows someone who — can you believe it? — just happens to be your neighbor. No matter how outlandish the setup — they were born-again Christians or Hassidic Jews, they were hated by the very people who’d put us in touch — we always went.

After these meetings, I would invariably turn to my husband and say: We’d never be friends with these people in real life.

Real life: this was my phrase. Not in New York, where I had lived for 12 years, or the vague back home, but in real life, as though I had skipped a track and found myself in a different, parallel universe.

Read the rest on Medium!

xoxo

The Secrets We Keep

It’s October! Which means that two years ago (!), right around this time, I thought I had the stomach flu found out that I was pregnant. It was a pretty miserable miraculous time; I felt very confused about the fact that I wasn’t supposed to share the news until I hit 12 or 13 weeks, when the pregnancy was deemed “viable.” So between watching serial episodes of The Good Wife trying to teach my students without puking, I wrote about it.

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This week, the Archipelago on Medium published my essay, I’m Pregnant. So Why Can’t I Tell You? (How’s that for a direct title?) This is a subject that people have wildly differing views about (SHARE! DON’T SHARE!). The discussion about it out there in the cyber world is already mind-blowing. (I especially love the comments made by people who clearly don’t read very closely.) I’m always curious to hear what you think. xo

Happy Pesach! Or As I Like to Call It, Thanksgiving.

As most of you know, Passover is all about deprivation, although of a lesser kind than at Yom Kippur the Jews’ exodus from Egypt. It is about getting drunk and sitting through the most drawn out, hunger-inducing meal of the year eating a lot of crackers Matzoh, and forcing asking the youngest child to open the front door for a ghost or a stranger Elijah. It is about spending a long, boozy evening with your extended family, or if you live abroad, your four wonderful Jewish friends.

Over here, at our house, we also think of it as Finding Your Spouse Day.

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We think of Passover as a kind of Thanksgiving, a moment to reflect on all we are thankful for — or as a kind of Christmas (well, not as Christmas because we’re Jews, but some equivalent holiday where magical things come true and you get lots of presents, and no, Hannukah doesn’t count). In any event, it’s a significant, beautiful holiday for us. Our favorite. Proof that Hashem love and the internet are real. That one’s bashert might exist.

This morning (and by “this morning” I mean 5:30am when the sky was utterly black) when I looked at our daughter (who, by the way, has decided to no longer sleep through the night because I made an official declaration that she was doing so), I thought, Why the hell won’t you sleep through the night anymore? Thank God for Passover (minus the enslavement and exodus), because without it, you wouldn’t be here!

Seven years ago, when I still had my nice, pre-baby figure was a lonely, single New York City girl, I was Seder-less. A wonderful friend urged me to host a goy Seder. I did. Then I wrote about it. Fast forward many, many years and a random man across the world read it and wrote to me.

And now we are three.

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The short version of this story is here.

The longer one (complete with an incredibly embarrassing video) is here.

The original piece is here.

The moral of the story is: write about being single and someone might take pity on you and marry you Passover really is about finding (or, you know, giving birth to) your chosen people.

May it be a happy, healthy, beautiful one for you and yours. Next year, in Brooklyn Jerusalem!

xo

PS: We’re bringing the little lady to her first Seder tonight. Wish us luck.

 

 

 

I Finally Wrote Something With My Baby Brain

Oy, oy, oy Hello, hello, hello!

Thanks, beloved readers, for forgetting I had a blog your patience. It only took me six months, but I finally turned the computer back on birthed something other than a baby. You can read it over at the fabulous Mother Sugar. It’s about, among other things, whether this little lady in her LGTB shoes should appear here, on the blog, or let’s be honest, on Facebook anywhere else online.

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I’d love to argue with you about it hear your thoughts.

xo