DESIGN
I. Symmetry and Asymmetry
I think of design in general as falling into two major categories, symmetrical and asymmetrical, each of which may be of two kinds, oppositional or successional. Consider the meaning of symmetry first. Symmetry always suggests stability, but is subject to gradations of this feeling according to the purpose which it serves. The armchair promises comfort and support for the symmetrically formed human body; the door is a reassuring framework to go through for the same reason; the Arch of Triumph is a grandiose symmetrical structure inspiring courage and pride in the solid achievements of a country (how disconcerting if it were full of knobs and asymmetrical quirks; a Christopher Wren church rises serenely to God with a promise of spiritual safety. There are thousands of balanced designs, some to serve symmetrically proportioned people; some from an emotional demand for balance and security; some to fulfill a function, such as a car; but all making an indelible connection in the mind of man between symmetry and stability. But when people leave these appropriate designs for living, and enter the world of aesthetics, the demands and the values are completely reversed. No longer do they want security, comfort, repose. Art is for stimulation, excitement, adventure. Painters know very well that this calls for asymmetry. So do sculptors and musicians. Choreographers are apt to use too much symmetry, however, for reasons which are stated elsewhere, and this will spell monotony and death for a dance. If audiences were looking for a soothing, unexciting evening, the chances are they would rather be home in their armchairs, drowsing beside their symmetrical fireplaces. This is not to say that symmetry has no function in dance. The movement art, like others, must have moments of rest and repose, which are often more satisfying when symmetrically designed. Also, absolute balance of parts has its uses at the beginning of a sequence, to indicate a serenity of spirit before desire has begun, or again at an ending, when some denouement of peace or conviction is to be stated.
If symmetry should be used sparingly in choreography because of its calming effect, then asymmetry, which stimulates the senses, is the area to court and understand for dancing. People have no less fundamental reactions to this than to symmetry, again gained through thousands of associations in everyday living, which they bring to the theater. For instance, large numbers of people can hardly avoid being exposed to the design of contests, all asymmetrical and exciting, whether in sports, politics, wars, business or whatever. The unpredictability of the contest, and the imbalance in which the weight of the outcome swings now this way and now that-leaving aside the emotional involvement-make a major impression of an uneven pattern on everybody-and they will find this design stimulating wherever it occurs. This is probably largely unconscious, but it seems to be there nevertheless. Utopian schemes for a perfectly balanced society in which all the horrid competition has been eliminated, in which everything is evenly proportioned and unpredictability is ruled out, have often foundered on the rock of boredom. Security is essential for human happiness in some things, but in everything, no. Nietzsche stated this long ago in his analysis of Greek society. He saw clearly that the Greek ideal of moderation and balance in all things was Apollonian, but that they very wisely provided an escape from this monotony in their Dionysian rites. There lived within the Apollonian man a Dionysus, an unquenchable desire for excitement in breaking all the rules, indulging in the passion for unevenness-and freedom from rational balance. The dance is an experience from which excitement is demanded, and in this sense it is Dionysian.
Within these two major divisions of design-symmetry and asymmetry - are two subdivisions. Any of these major patterns is either oppositional or successional. By this I mean that their lines are either opposed, in a right angle, or are flowing, as in a curve. These two design elements have an exactly opposite effect on the eye, and are of great importance in the understanding of choreography. Opposed lines always suggest force; energy moving in two directions dramatizes and emphasizes the very idea of energy and vitality. The closer the opposition comes to a right angle, the more power is suggested. The more the angle is narrowed, the weaker it becomes. Were the ideal in dancing to be as strong as possible, then the best dance would be done in nothing but asymmetrical right-angle designs, indicating maximum power (in the right angle) and maximum excitement (in the asymmetry). This, of course, would be a colossal bore. As a matter of fact, something close to this was tried as a vocabulary in the early days of modern dance, but fortunately it was soon abandoned in favor of a more comprehensive eloquence. The oppositional design strengthens and fortifies any mood or meaning which calls for aggressive energy and vitality. It is indispensable for any idea of conflict, either emotional and subjective or with some outside person or force. But it is also useful for happier expressions of energy, as in an exuberant joyousness, or an exultant hope. Contrary to this is the successional design, which is always milder and gentler. Whether in curves or straight lines, the unobstructed linear shape, which flows pleasantly along its comfortable paths, offers no resistance to the eye. The most soothing design, therefore, is a symmetrical one with a successional pattern. Considerably more stimulating is the asymmetrical succession, which is the area of grace and beauty; here there is just enough asymmetry to provide a pleasant alertness, with neither oppositional shocks, on the one hand, nor the deadly balance of symmetry, on the other. These two kinds of body organization bear a further suggestion of meaning. The contrasted-energy design, opposition, seems always to retain some or all of its power, no matter how much the lines extend outward from the body. The crossing of the energy directions seems to anchor, or imprison, some of the force, so that not all of it escapes into space. The body still looks energized. Not so with the successional design. Here the energy necessary to make the movement seems to flow along the paths of the body, like electricity through a wire, and escapes through whatever terminal the eye is led to. Unless energized by another flow, the body remains a passive instrument without a sense of force of its own. Of course, if the energy injections are rapid enough so that one flow scarcely dies before another is begun, there is a continuous impression of energy being expanded, but all of it is escaping from the body, so that the dancer does not seem to be "doing" with his strength, but appears to be played upon by a force which goes through him.
All the above observations are of oppositions and successions as found with their natural meanings, so to speak. It seems obvious that the choreographer should use their potentialities to strengthen whatever his idea calls for. But it must be pointed out that one of the other elements could be so applied to design as to weaken its natural effect. For instance, a strong oppositional design could be done with such a slow effortless legato that its natural force would be almost completely dissipated. It is conceivable that one might wish this very effect, but without understanding these matters the choreographer might fall (and has) into such a passage inadvertently. Conversely, the most determined and stabbing effort to look strong or angry or combative with the use of successional design is not going to be nearly as convincing as it would be if oppositions were used; the wrong design has weakened the idea.
From The Art of Making Dances by Doris Humphrey
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