I've been thinking a lot lately about the concept of "form follows function." The idea that the design of a structure is a direct result of its intended use is kind of groundbreaking. I look at other dancers and also just regular people and I can energetically sense something about their personalities based on their shape and form. I want to preface that I am not making judgments about people when I do this; it’s merely an observation. For example, if someone has very pronounced lips, and a well developed jaw and neck I assume that this person likes to speak a lot or is perhaps a singer. In terms of ballet, if someone has lean and long limbs it is usually easier for that person to extend his or her legs higher and further to achieve the visual effect of long romanticized movement versus someone shorter and stouter with more developed muscles. The shorter person with more developed muscles might find it easier to turn and execute steps because they won't have to exert as much force as the longer and leaner person. The same is true in painting; consideration is given to what materials are needed to achieve a certain visual effect. Using watercolors will result in something entirely different than if pastels or charcoal are used. In both cases, we’ve got two very different forms for two very different functions. One is not better than the other; however, since art is a subjective topic, it’s important to understand the intention of the artist whether it’s a choreographer or a painter.

Taking ballet back to its poorly preserved roots, bodies and the actual ballets themselves were divided into three categories. In Jennifer Homan’s book on the history of ballet Apollo’s Angeles she discusses the idea of these three distinct forms or bodies. There’s the noble or serious style that’s predicated on the pre-French Revolutionary edict of composure and manners of the King’s Court; there’s the demi-character; and there’s the comic character predicated on crass acrobatics. All dancers, then and now and even the ballets themselves “have an inherent character, defined and classified by physical attributes and style.” (Homans p.122, italics added) The idea with these archetypes is to convey a social distinction, something that is still incredibly prevalent in ballet today, with the Kings and noblemen being closer to God and more elevated than the rest. Only in the late 19^th century did French dancer and ballet master Auguste Vestris enter the picture and change this outdated social order by implementing his own unique method that melded together all three genres into a single technique. (Homans P.13) The noble style became the adagio lyrical type of movement, quick steps and intricate jumps now represented the demi-character; and the comic style was now represented by an even more athletic and acrobatic series of movements. According to Vestris’ method, one dancer or one ballet can embody all three of these genres. This is true but only to a degree.

Arguably one dancer can embody all three genres, but one of these genres will always be dominant. No doubt that one dancer or one ballet touches on all three genres in terms of physical movement. However, certain structures (bodies are structures) are more conducive to achieving one or maybe even two of these styles without too much effort. As with the doshas, we all have all three, but one is usually dominant. The expression: “If it walks like a duck, quacks like a duck, then it’s a duck!” comes to my mind here. It goes against nature to deliberately choreograph a break-dance routine with succinct, short, jagged and vulgar movements for a well-refined ballerina. Similarly, it would be ludicrous for an architect to construct a building for a hospital with excessive ornamentation or to put it the lamest terms I can think of: you wouldn’t eat a steak with a spoon.