Eleven years before “self-isolation” entered the public lexicon, in a quiet studio south of Houston Street, I warmed up with Sara Rudner and a group of dancers. The cohort stretched and chatted about things: the proper colored bra to wear underneath a white costume; a contestable review of Yvonne Rainer’s newest piece, which I had danced in. Sara wore white sneakers and black woolen tights, a t-shirt, and a close-fitting gray sweater. She made even blue-striped bobby socks seem sexy. The young women hovered between late twenties to early thirties and had all studied with her at Sarah Lawrence College, where she was the director of dance. Megan, Ashley, Chia Ying, Rachel, Lynne, Maggie, and Lori were regulars.1 After about half an hour of individual rolling and flexing, we got to work. “Let’s start with an improvisation,” Sara suggested. She scanned the room, sensing what our bodies and hers...

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