ABSTRACT
In the late 1950s I attended a recital by Ruth St. Denis. It took place in a New York dance studio, maybe Dance Players on Sixth Avenue. She was about the same age as I am now (78 years as of January 2013). Taller than I by a good four or five inches, she was clad in a long sleeveless black gown of a filmy texture. Her hair was white, but it was her arms that drew my attention, for they were not only the sole source of movement but also snowy white in contrast to the blackness of her dress. The flabby undersides of her upper arms created their own autonomous swaying motion. That was my primary recollection: those ivory undulating arms lifted in supplication or some such appeal to a transcendent spirituality.
