Twyla Tharp in a weight belt. I remembered this photo the day a gentleman (who did not understand reverse-grip) tried to mansplain how to do bench presses to me in a room full of men with questionable form.
I had to think back upon just how long I’ve been training, and why the action was so offensive. And I was so rankled I realized he took some of the power I’ve worked so hard to manifest for the grand majority of my life- physical and otherwise.
I remembered being an aspiring dancer, a teenager, taking Twyla’s autobiography out of the Brockton Public Library the week of its release, and how much her words changed me. There was nothing frilly about dance, and it was going to take work. You would have to lift men off the floor. You would have to wear a weight belt. You will have to strain and break and war and come to terms with your body, and through that would come greatness.
Things changed, of course, but this grand relationship with lifting, movement, self-design, has not. This picture *changed my life*, and I had to buy the book again this week (out of print now) just so I could see it.