Until I became involved in dance, I believed that art is public property. It seemed there was a definite connection between the personal, even intimate character of the artist's process and the generosity with which he or she relinquishes a work when it is completed. This interchange might partly define the altruism that people have associated with artists—up to the twentieth century anyway.

Since the last millenium, Western culture has undergone many drastic shocks that have redefined the transaction known as artmaking. Mechanical and electronic reproduction techniques have put the uniqueness of the art object into question. They have transformed visual arts and music into commodities—”cheapened” them by diminishing their exclusivity and multiplying the number of people who can enjoy them. Yet dance continues to elude capture by the potent, ever-present media of films, video and computers. A dance is still a singular event—but, it seems to me, one that's even more vulnerable now to disappearance. Dance images submerge almost instantly in the flood of other visual stimuli that's constantly washing over us; dance is everywhere but the choreographic entity has resisted translation to film. As an inherently live phenomenon dance preserves its aura of spontaneity and surprise, but it loses some of the visibility, and the standards and protections, that benefit artworks with a more permanent format.