Aging Through Dance

Among dancers, age is not just a number. Learning to dance is about teaching the body to remember, to retain in the muscles the sense of every perfectly balanced arabesque along with every bungled somersault. Success – executing a triple spin or landing a tricky leap – is remembered alongside failures and catastrophes – the ankle twisted years ago, as well as the shoulder wrenched last week. Over decades, the body collects an archive of its abilities and its limitations.

For a dancer in their 40s, 50s or 60s, maintaining performance readiness involves not just a capacity to withstand and accept a certain amount of physical pain, but also the ability to reflect on this physical archive, to listen to the body, to find new pathways around physical limits, and sometimes to say a graceful goodbye to steps and poses long cherished.

Overdue Solo Limelight

Few people know as much about pain as Aman Yap. His recent solo performance Late Love, presented by Dua Space Dance Theatre, relates the physical and emotional hardship that Aman, now aged 56, has endured for decades in pursuing his path as a dancer.

As a young adult, he left Malaysia in 1993 to train in Hong Kong. His beloved mother, who supported him in his unorthodox career, died before he returned home, causing him lasting regret. Aman was born with one defective eye; in his late 40s it began to deteriorate, and the pain became so bad that he could only sleep sitting up and leaning against a wall, with a warm compress against his face. After surgery to remove the eye, he returned to the stage, only for the pandemic to whittle Dua Space Dance Theatre down to the bone, forcing the company to shed employees to survive. Then in 2022, Aman’s older brother died unexpectedly, jolting Aman into confronting his own mortality. This, together with a brush with liver cancer, convinced Aman to finally present a solo show – it seemed like now or never.

Founding Dua Space

It’s surprising that Dua Space Dance Theatre, which Aman founded with Anthony Meh in 1998, waited so long for Aman’s solo – especially in the context of the Malaysian dance community where socially-accepted notions of seniority and, often, the ego of established dancers don’t allow them to sidestep the solo show for long. But Dua Space, which long prided itself on being the only independent professional dance company in the country, has been dedicated to nurturing a small group of full-time company dancers, in addition to Aman and Anthony. The company generally produces large-scale ensemble works, in its signature athletic crowd-pleasing format, rather than contained personality-driven shows.

Initially Aman took the starring roles in Dua Space works, like the award-winning Black&White@Variation (2016). As he grew older, he increasingly relegated himself to the role of elder statesman, as you can see in the 2021 dance film The Pulse of the Rainforest. 

Yet Aman can still subsume himself into the ensemble, as few principal dancers can or are willing to do. Last year, in the full-length Hijauan and in the excerpt of Roads Await performed for MyDance Festival 2024, Aman was practically indistinguishable from the other dancers in the synchronous group sections.

Aman Yap’s Spotlight

In the last few years, Aman has seemed content to relinquish leading dance roles to Kenny Leow and Lim Hong Jie, former junior dancers who are now assistant artistic directors in the company.

When I invited Dua Space to present one of their classic works in Dancebox Festival in 2018, the company proffered the solo Flow, which tells the story of a celebrated performer suddenly forsaken by fame and fortune. Originally choreographed and performed to great acclaim by Aman in Hong Kong in 2001, the company selected Kenny to dance the 2018 restaging.

But Flow also forms the central section of the four dance chapters in Late Love, and Aman returns to the role he made for himself. Being accustomed to watching Kenny’s performance, I was almost shocked to see the difference with Aman on stage.

Although the movements are exactly the same, in Aman’s hands all the nuances of the dance are revealed. When Aman belts out the opening song, wearing hot pants, a sparkly top and pink feather boa, you understand that part of being a great performer is loving to perform – Aman positively glows in the spotlight.

Amidst the shimmies, hip thrusts and high kicks that follow, you get a sense of a performer who knows full well that all his razzle-dazzle is just an illusion. He’s amazed by his lucky break, but he delights in it anyway. And when money and rose petals cease to fall from the sky, and the spotlight refuses to shine for him, Aman’s desperation conjures a moment of real heartbreak. Finally, watching young people eagerly scooping up the abandoned bank notes, Aman presents a figure both rueful and compassionate. Enjoy it while it lasts, kiddos, he seems to say; his sense of perspective is hard won.

A Dancer’s Enduring Eloquence

And yet in Aman’s case, time in the spotlight has lasted surprisingly long. Doubtless this is due not only to talent and perseverance in the face of personal pain and loss, but also to his partnership with Anthony Meh, and the community of support they have built together.

It is also thanks to long hours in the studio, keeping his body fit and limber. Aman’s hair may be graying, he is tighter in the hips now, and leaner in the body since his cancer diagnosis, but his range of movement is still admirable. There’s a thrilling moment in Late Love when Aman leaps onto the table in the centre of the stage – as light as a cat, as if he were all of 20 years old.

But there are other aspects to Aman’s performance which he has refined as his flexibility and power have waned – elements which are the true hallmarks of a mature dancer. His arms are more eloquent and expressive than ever; they are never simply doing something, they always mean something. Breathe is incorporated into the entire body. Small delicate movements are just as impactful as big showy ones. And he never takes being on stage for granted. It’s more worthwhile to watch Aman, even when he is simply sitting in stillness, than watching many younger performers dancing their guts out.’

Dancers past their prime walk a precarious line. Just because they are famous, or were once acclaimed as performers, doesn’t mean they should still be on stage. The ageing dancer must acknowledge with honesty and good humour what they can no longer do, or risk appearing ridiculous or pitiful.

Not A Swan Song

In Late Love, Aman navigates these pitfalls with grace, albeit sometimes with a frozen smile – guided, perhaps, by Anthony’s supportive but blunt artistic direction. In the final scene, Aman skips, runs and leaps until he can’t anymore. He pauses to catch his breath, laughing at himself, then dances again, over and over, until he finally collapses in the spotlight centre stage.

It’s a poignant suggestion of a possible future phase in Aman’s performance career, in which he abandons the pursuit of superhuman perfection in order to show us real human vulnerability. Aman is quick to tell us that Late Love is not a swan song; he’s not saying goodbye to dance but renewing his relationship with it.

Crucial to maintaining a long relationship, psychologists will tell us, is developing a sense of humour and a kind of acceptance, as well as appreciation for the little things. These kinds of traits allow Aman Yap to continue to shine on stage, 36 years after he began. Dancing is not so much a late love as a deeply enduring one.

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This is the first part of a series of reviews highlighting the continuing contributions and exciting new pathways of pioneers in Malaysian contemporary dance. The series considers issues of succession, creativity and novelty, as well as practices of archiving, documentation and restaging. This series was completed under the ArtsEquator Fellowship. Views expressed are solely those of the writer. Read the second installment here.

Bilqis Hijjas is the founding editor of Critics Republic. Formerly a producer and organizer in contemporary dance, she believes the main purpose of criticism is to enhance the audience’s appreciation of art.

Photos are by Weng Hong Leong, Chan Kien Ming and Shawn Tiger, courtesy of Dua Space Dance Theatre.