A couple of years ago, I came across a blog post by the British dancer and choreographer Eleanor Sikorski called Rape Culture and the Duet. It began: ‘We’ve all seen it. The dance duet. One woman and one man.’ It went on to describe the gendered movements in these so-called romantic duets: ‘The man is reaching out to touch her, she is reluctant to enter his embrace. She seems unsure of whether she wants to be there or not. She throws herself away from him and pauses, then she throws herself towards him and pauses again, never really touching him. He is less confused, he wants her. He keeps reaching out to her with his outstretched fingers. He follows and circles.’

Added to Sikorski’s text was a list of seven references¹ to exemplify her point. I didn’t know any of the performances nor choreographers shown in the online links, except for one, an excerpt from Black Swan, the Hollywood psycho-horror movie from 2010 with Natalie Portman as a prima ballerina. I remember watching the excerpt and feeling surprised. Although I had seen the film several years ago, I hadn’t picked up on the blatant sexual harassment and power abuse on display. Or maybe I had, and simply processed it as a hyper cliché of the ballet world, not my dance world per se. In the clip that Sikorski shared, we see a rehearsal coming to an end. The choreographer, played by Vincent Cassel, tells the other dancers, who are all male, to leave, so he can continue with Portman alone. As they exit, one of the guys says ‘have fun’, to which Cassel quickly replies, ‘hey ho’. Then the private rehearsal starts. Cassel places himself behind Portman, who looks tense and scared. He breathes down her neck, while giving instructions like ‘feel my touch, respond to it,’ grabbing her thighs in a manner both intimate and invasive. When she pushes him away, he launches himself back at her and forcefully kisses her on the mouth. Then he stops for a moment, looks down at her, before kissing her again, commanding her to open her mouth, which she does. Her hand slides to the back of his neck. She is giving in. End of clip.

The other examples in Sikorski’s list come from YouTube, a random collection of contemporary dance fragments from stage or screen, all different spins on the heterosexual duet as we know it from classical ballet, although endowed with a more explicit, what I would call ‘soft prey-predator edge’. In classical ballet, the duet has a deeply gendered history, with the female dancer as an object of desire for our eyes to enjoy. The male dancer, meanwhile, existing in the shadow of her immaculate beauty, has little more to do than to lift her up and put her on display. Neither female nor male dancers are empowered here. Their subordination functions as a perverse tandem that serves a very particular gaze — a gaze rooted in a history of 19th-century operas operating as brothels, where the audience, mainly wealthy men, came to check out the latest stock, and frankly did not want to be distracted by (or God forbid: attracted to!) any male presence on stage. This is also why, even today, you will never see a strip club with both men and women on the same stage. If your audience is composed mainly of straight men, you don’t want to confuse them with even the slightest whiff of homoeroticism. As many feminist and queer thinkers have pointed out: homophobia keeps the men in check. It’s an essential part of patriarchy.

“In classical ballet, the duet has a deeply gendered history, with the female dancer as an object of desire for our eyes to enjoy.”

Looking again at Sikorski’s examples, I would say that many of the duets are stuck in a simulation of a heterosexual romantic narrative. There is no critical layer and consent is unconsciously portrayed as ambiguous and confusing. In some of the examples, the duets are more raw and rough — a choreographic choice probably made with the exact purpose to criticise violence against women by emphasising, even exaggerating, the gender binary through the use of these particular movement qualities. In two of the duets, the female dancers are simply thrown up in the air and pushed around. Even though their movements are controlled and virtuosic, their agency appears to be little more than that of dolls. Such a strategy is of course problematic as critically intended reproduction of ‘more of the same’ does not necessarily produce criticality. These are only fragments; I am not familiar with the choreographers’ work and therefore might be missing out on context. But that is precisely why they intrigue me: these kinds of duets are so deeply coded they don’t need context. If I had seen the softer romantic duets separately from the rougher ones, I might have thought of them as simply ‘passionate’, albeit extremely tacky, dance duets. But seeing them all together, the similarities of choreography (attraction/repulsion, yes / no/yes/no, running away/catching to stillness), patterns of expression (scared/lustful, confused/determined, wanting/not wanting) and the constant, crystal clear power dynamic of the ‘dominant man’ and the ‘submissive woman’ is just baffling. ‘This is rape culture,’ Sikorski concludes, and finishes her blog with a poem-like text:

‘The female body is lifted off the floor, denied its own weight / The female body is limp, a doll/The female body is under attack (grab grab grab)/The female body is not listened to (she said ‘no’ the first time, idiot) / The female body is more naked / The female body is on display / The female body is made flexible (pulled open) / The female body is a toy / The female body is hairless / The female body is a vessel / The female body is undecided / The female body is available / Over and over again. It’s statistics, baby.’

Image 1: ‘Falling backwards’

Feminist catalogues

The term ‘rape culture’ was first used by second-wave feminists in the United States in the 1970s and applied to contemporary American culture as a whole. It has often been accused of being an exaggeration, a feminist claim from a bygone era that caused more hysteria and fear of sex (with men) than actually solving the problem of rape. But if rape culture is, among others, about normalising, aestheticising, even eroticising nonconsensual sex in arts and popular culture, Sikorski unquestionably confirms its existence.

The feminist writer and independent scholar Sara Ahmed talks about feminist catalogues as places, online or offline, where sexist evidence is collected to prove that sexist patterns, and therefore sexist structures, exist. Like Sikorski, I have over the years collected sexist promotional pictures from dance performances. They are what I would call obvious examples and function as a perfect study of feminist semiotics and its market logic. Conclusion: sexism attracts audiences. What intrigued me about Sikorski’s blog post is that by watching her examples, I could spontaneously add to the list myself. One example that came to mind was my all-time favourite, What the Body Does Not Remember (1987) by Ultima Vez/Wim Vandekeybus in which male dancers examine the body of female dancers standing with their legs and arms spread. A fast energetic style of partner work follows: He breathes down her neck, she runs away, he catches her, she bites back, he grabs her breasts, she pulls away and so on. When I was a teenager — before I had ever heard of anything like gender critical thinking or rape culture — I loved these kinds of duets. I guess because of my uninformed approval of the female role in this heterosexual script, namely the role of the horny-girl-plays-hard-to-get as opposed to just being horny and then being called a slut.

“Did anyone think that talking about sexism and sexual violence would lead to some kind of consensus of how to behave in a world still deeply enmeshed in patriarchy? That we would dance happily ever after?”

A more anaemic and desperate variation of this script is the duet ‘Love’ in the film Pina (2011) by Wim Wenders. A female dancer in a long red dress tries to obstruct a male dancer from walking away. She sinks, desperately, to his feet, tries to entangle herself to keep him from leaving, but she falls and fails, again and again. With Pina Bausch, it is actually the female dancer who runs after the male dancer. But the run-after-motif is very different from the pursued women in the previously mentioned duets. The man actually does not run or show confusion, neither does he end up by giving in to the woman. Elegantly dressed in his suit, he simply walks off, safe in his anger.

Image 2: ‘Women on the ground, dragged or in the way’

What does this mental catalogue serve? What kind of proof are we collecting? Are these examples still relevant today? After going through the above-mentioned examples, I would describe the heterosexual duet as a dance between a male and female dancer in which specific gender and sexual roles are an inherent part of the choreographic narrative while also being displayed as clearly binary. Taking into consideration that the duet is rooted in a gendered dance history and recurs as a form in many styles and traditions (think of ballroom, competitive or commercial dance), it is strange that so little has been written about it in the context of contemporary dance.

Perhaps the most interesting observation from watching the above-mentioned heterosexual duets is how much they have in common in terms of movement and choreography, regardless of whether they attempt to express love or (supposedly) criticise sexual violence. This strange overlap or double exposure is probably why they feel so uncomfortable, upsetting even, to watch. In the romantic duet we see sexual violence; in the duets where the sexual violence is shown ‘critically’, we see romance seeping through.

When I started writing this article, I reached out to Sikorski and asked if she would like to reflect on the heterosexual duet and on her post. I also wanted to know why the blog was no longer online. She said the main reason was upkeep but added that her critique had maybe become ‘outdated’. She originally posted it in 2018, just a couple of months after #MeToo had begun raging through the world. Like many women, Sikorski had felt deeply angry about sexism in the dance world. Six years down the road, she said she felt somewhat ambiguous about the whole #MeToo movement, including her post. #MeToo has been a messy debate, conflating a culture of women speaking up about sexual harassment with questions concerning punishment. Terms like toxic masculinity, cancel culture and sex negativity, all of which have gained traction since, are not exactly uplifting. But what did we expect? Did anyone think that talking about sexism and sexual violence would lead to some kind of consensus of how to behave in a world still deeply enmeshed in patriarchy? That we would dance happily ever after?

Image 3: ‘Take her’

Heterosexual defaults

While going through Sikorski’s catalogue of heterosexual duets with the #MeToo conversation in mind, I was catapulted back to one of my first dance jobs. It was a choreography about youth and love and involved partner work and qualities similar to the duets described above. The context was an unambiguously danced version of vanilla sex; ‘the wet dream’ of the female heterosexual choreographer, as we dancers jokingly called it. The work travelled for several years (straight romance sold well at the time) with a shifting cast, and I ended up dancing the same duet nearly a hundred times with at least four different partners. This in itself was a quite unique performative experience, as if I was stuck in an endless simulation of heterosexual desire, each time renegotiating weight, contact and intimacy, all while reenacting and staying loyal to the same scenario. I actually really enjoy this type of traditional partner work. Especially how the physicality and physics of each movement is codependent on the movement of the other, not to mention the thrill of being lifted up in the air. That split second of being freed from gravity — I can still feel it in my body when I think of it.

But I am also reminded of a partner with whom things went totally wrong. One evening, sharing a taxi from the venue after the show, he suddenly said he wanted to ‘have fun with me on tour.’ Clearly, we didn’t share the same idea of fun, so I just laughed it off. But he insisted and started touching me. At first I didn’t know how to respond. Because of the professional intimacy we had established in the duet, his sudden affection felt familiar and I was confused. After all, he was not a stranger. But when his hand reached my pants, I knew I didn’t want it. He stopped, but he was angry and berated me, using nasty words. He felt rejected. I was just relieved we were in a taxi and that he had stopped. I was 21 years old and had no idea how to deal with a situation like that.

“He never apologised or mentioned anything about what happened during that taxi ride. Instead, he dealt with it by showing off his dominance during rehearsals.”

The next time we were on stage together, the fictional romance no longer did its job. What bothered me most was actually not what had happened, but the absence of any regret or shame on his part after the fact. He never apologised or mentioned anything about it. Instead, he dealt with it by showing off his dominance during rehearsals. And so, when his pelvis leaned into mine or he would stroke my face with his hands or breathe down my neck, I would feel, running through my whole body, a violence, one which grew more and more intense each time. I began to notice that when he pulled me in as we did the duet, I would slam against his chest harder than I used to. I would jump up just a little too early, so that lifting me up would become heavier and harder. I would give weight where there should be tension, taking gravity on as my new ally. What I could not say, my body did for me.

Eventually, the situation exploded. The story came out and he was fired. The romantic duet, however, resumed, stuck in its endless simulation of heterosexual desire as if nothing had happened. With me, as dancer and a body, something had happened, for better and for worse.

Image 4: ‘From behind’

Today, I can only laugh. As I watch, and even think about these heterosexual duets today, I notice how they make me roll my eyes, frown and laugh. They make me want to shout about how bad they are, how cringey! Maybe that’s why you don’t see so many heterosexual duets on the progressive contemporary dance stages of Europe anymore (or at least not on the ones I visit). What you see instead is an array of gender expressive constellations and sexual relations, breaking the binary bind (not to say that queer narratives are therefore by default always free of sexual violence). Let’s face it: the heterosexual duet is in decline, if it hasn’t already gone. The heterosexual duet R.I.P.

After our conversation, Sikorski sent me a link to the latest video essay by ContraPoints/ Natalie Wynn, an American left-wing YouTuber known for her exploration of politics, gender, ethics, race and philosophy. In this one she talks about the Twilight franchise and introduces a concept she calls DHSM, or Default Heterosexual Sado-Masochism. DHSM points towards the division of sexuality into binary roles (masculine/feminine, active/passive, dominant/submissive, predator/prey, etc) and the false presumption that whatever falls under ‘masculine’ is seen as belonging to the sexuality of men. What prevails in the heterosexual duets is precisely this default binary assumption about the ways in which men and women are expected to love, desire and have sex. A significant part of the #MeToo conversation concerns all the ways in which this default assumption melts into our day-to-day life, allowing certain people to wield power over others without their consent. These duets can be upsetting to watch because the violence they emanate is not only about the potential threat of sexual violence, but also about the inevitable harm that comes with reproducing these definitive and binary scenarios — a scenario harmful for both doer and viewer.

One way of dealing with the heterosexual romantic duet is to try to avoid it, or to throw it out of the contemporary dance canon altogether. Another is to play with these gendered roles by applying reversals, making up new stories of love and desire and introducing gender identities that break the binary completely. But if I truly allow myself to dream about another kind of duet, I want it to go beyond identity, beyond bodies. To a place where there is only sensation, a feeling of being lost. A place of moving where dual roles are in constant flux and where agency and desire arise at unexpected moments before disappearing again. A world of dance so fluid, it starts to leak.

Listen to this text in audio format here.

Visual montage: Ilse Ghekiere

Image 1: “Falling backwards”: Faun by Sidi Larbi Cherkaoui (2019); Mockumentary of a Contemporary Saviour by Ultima Vez (2017) © Danny Willems; Duet by Justine Berthillot & Frederi Vernier (2017); Unsteady by Amanda Cathey (2017); Rossini Cards by Mauro Bigonzetti (2023); Wicked Game by Travis Wall (2013).

Image 2: “Women on the ground, dragged or in the way”: Love by Pina Bausch in the film Pina by Wim Wenders (2011); La Ronde by Boris Charmatz (2021); SUBJECT TO CHANGE by Sol León & by Paul Lightfoot created for Nederlands Dans Theater (2003); Duet by Justine Berthillot & Frederi Vernier (2017); Greed by Josh Killacky & Jade Chynoweth (2016); Wicked Game by Travis Wall (2013).

Image 3: “Take her”: Greed by Josh Killacky & Jade Chynoweth (2016); Mount Olympus by Jan Fabre/Troubleyn (2016) © Wonge Bergmann; Inside Billy’s Violence (Invisible Time #1) by Needcompany (2020).

Image 4: “From behind”: What the Body Does not Remember (Roseland) by Ultima Vez / Wim Vandekeybus (1987); Infra by Wayne McGregor / Royal Opera House (2018); SLIP by Philip Chbeeb & Renee Kester (2015); Wicked Game by Travis Wall (2013); Unsteady by Amanda Cathey (2017); A Breakup Story by Talia Favia (2015); LoveSick: Varla by James Cousins & Denna Cartamkahoob (2018); What the Body Does not Remember (Roseland) by Ultima Vez / Wim Vandekeybus (1987); SUBJECT TO CHANGE by Sol León & by Paul Lightfoot created for Nederlands Dans Theater (2003).