I was recently asked to review a dance performance for another publication (conflict of interest? Maybe, but the Jimmy Choo’s have to get paid for) and I was excited to put my Pro Diligo mantra of total transparency aside and follow some editorial (and as it turns out, marketing) guidelines.

So there I was in the front row press seats with my little moleskin reporters notebook and my black pilot G-2 pen, which I stole from a friend back in April when I needed to review Trisha Browne’s BAM work and was penless (I normally give things that I borrow back, but this pen is too good). Seating was general admission, so aside from the few reserved press seats, people sat where they wanted. I have been going to performances by myself alot lately and am always a bit reluctant to tell the ticket vendor that I won’t be needing my second ticket because I enjoy a little elbow room to write. My sense of fairness kicked up and I relinquished my second seat, which turned out to be a big mistake.

With one seat in between, to my right were two press reserves for “The New York Times.” I knew it wouldn’t be Alistar, and was hoping it might be Claudia who I hadn’t seen since our conversation about Edwin Denby. (Her writing is a wonderful example of how criticism should be handled, by the way.) I felt a small sense of pride when I saw the two tags. It was like a David and Goliath story, my little Pro Diligo publication next to the paper of record–THE New York Times.

My dreams were interrupted by a slender woman (I’d guess she was about 50 years old), “May I sit here?” she asked. “No,” I thought. “I want to sit next to the NYTs people.” But, being the somewhat  non-confrontational person that I am, I obliged her, “Of course.”

As luck would have it, my kindness was quickly punished. The smell of cheap, musky perfume infiltrated my nostrils and gave me a headache that was bound to mean bad things for the performance I was about to review (yes, writers are human too, and we, like dancers, actors, and singers, have off nights.). I looked at her with evil eyes: one spritz is enough, lady. Before I could start rudely sniffing around, as though to suggest something smelled awful, Roslyn Sulcas sat down in the NYTs spot. I had met her through Claudia a while back and she was kind enough to answer all my questions on what it’s like to write in France. It was good to see her again, though this smelly old lady got in the way of a greeting before the show started. I would have to wait until intermission.

Reviewing a piece when you’re sitting next to one of your favorite critics is daunting. Suddenly, my little moleskin felt pretentious and unnecessary next to her re-used printer pages. My pen, a cheap tool to write nonsense. It’s what’s most portable and comfortable for me so I shouldn’t forsake my methods, but there are moments of revere and doubt when sitting next to someone who’s career you emulate. The truth is, I love to write and I’m honest and generous in my words, and that’s all that should matter, but at the end of each piece I would slyly try to sneak a peak at what Roslyn was writing, as though she had the answers I needed to ace this test. I don’t think I saw anything she even wrote; she was a seat down and I was trying to be inconspicuous, but the idea that I was even trying made me laugh at myself. First of all, I HATE when people do that to me when I’m reviewing; I don’t look at the pad so most likely I’m writing a descriptive visual like “butter” in a slanted, incomprehensible smear. I’ve been known to hoard my paper, like the smart kid during the final exam. And secondly, what is to be gained by looking at another critics notes? And how unconfident could I be? I suppose it was just the excitement of seeing the work process of someone you admire, and I had so many rules to follow from this publication that I couldn’t be sincere in my assessment anyway. And you simply can’t cheat your way out of how art speaks to you. There’s no right or wrong answer in the end. You have to feel it for yourself.