Wade in the Water

I took a friend to see Alvin Ailey this weekend. It was their first time experiencing the company, and I hoped they’d find the magic in Ailey that I’ve found over the years—while giving me the gift of seeing it all again through their fresh eyes.

As we walked into the theatre, I said, “I hope they perform Revelations,” a piece I love and desperately wanted her to witness. Standing in the lobby, hurriedly scarfing down snacks and a little chardonnay (because: balance), we opened the program booklet—and there it was. Revelations was on the matinee schedule.

Revelations is a journey. A documentary told through bodies in motion. Mr. Ailey once said the heritage of African Americans is “sometimes sorrowful, sometimes jubilant, but always hopeful.” He captured that truth with choreography so honest that it sticks with you like a familiar memory. By the time you’ve traveled the piece with the dancers, you’re on your feet clapping, taken from sorrow into hope—and maybe even joy.

I am, of course, not alone in my deep love for Mr. Ailey’s enduring work. His choreography, born in the 1960s, has stood the test of time. It’s proof of art’s timeless power and its absolute necessity. I’ve seen Revelations live no less than five times—including once while sitting next to Ms. Judith Jamison in New York (the kids call that a flex).

But this time was different. Sure, sitting next to my friend made it special, but what struck me most was that I had my own fresh eyes again. It had been a few years since my last Ailey performance, and to say the world—and how I feel inside it—has changed would be an understatement.

Revelations had always felt like a retelling of history. This time, it felt present. Its sorrow wasn’t a distant memory on stage—it was here. Heavy. Sitting with us in the audience. Or at least sitting with me.

About halfway through the piece, “Wade in the Water” begins. And that’s when my tears came. Experiencing a daily onslaught of political mad power has sent my nervous system into freefall far too often as of late. But in that moment—watching dancers cloaked in white glide across the stage, blue fabric cascading the stage like water—I suddenly envisioned myself wading. No longer drowning in despair. Just wading. Calm. At peace. I was in the theatre but also somewhere else entirely, transedning in the moment to freedom, reminded of its existence and possibility.

That is the gift of art: it can remain unchanged while we—the ones experiencing it—transform. In doing so, the art becomes new without moving an inch.

Mr. Ailey created Revelations for the world he knew. Our time on this earth barely overlapped—he passed when I was eight—but somehow, his work, his gift, still helps me see the world more clearly and, hopefully, walk through it more bravely.

To those of us holding art in our bodies, afraid it won’t matter, afraid it will be judged—I say this to you:

I need your art.

People not yet born will need your art as they experience the version of the world heading towards them. What you create today might lead someone to their freedom tomorrow or at least help them wade a little while longer.