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There's a moment every contemporary dancer knows. You're in the studio, muscles burning, trying to nail that liquid extension you've watched a hundred times on loop. And then — somewhere around the fifteenth attempt — your body just gets it. The fall that felt impossible suddenly has weight. The flow that looked like floating starts to feel like breathing.
That's where you're at right now. You've got the basics down. You've done your time at the barre, logged those tedious floor stretches, survived the awkward phase where you kinda know what you're doing but definitely don't look like you do. Now you're ready for the stuff that actually matters — the routines that will make you look like a dancer, not someone who just discovered contemporary dance exists.
What Nobody Tells You About Building a Practice
Forget everything you've heard about "mastering fundamentals" first. Here's the truth: you build fundamentals through working the harder stuff. You don't learn to fall by practicing falling in a safe little bubble. You learn by throwing yourself into movement that's slightly past your comfort zone and letting your body figure out the catch.
That said, you can't just leap into full-on repertory work either. When I was where you are now, I made the mistake of YouTubing Pina Bausch pieces and trying to learn "Café Müller" directly. What I got was bruised knees, zero artistry, and a very confused look from my teacher.
Here's what actually worked: isolating specific qualities rather than learning full pieces. Contemporary — at its best — steals joyfully from everywhere. Martha Graham's contraction. Cunningham's randomness. Limón's breath. Taylor's speed. William Forsythe's complete disregard for the floor being a safe place to land.
The Routine That Changed Everything: Liquid Extensions
This is the one that made contemporary click for me. Not because it's elegant or impressive, but because it teaches your body to think while moving. Most beginners stop thinking the moment their feet leave the floor. This routine forces you to stay present from standing all the way to the floor and back up.
Start in parallel position, arms relaxed at your sides. Take a breath in, and as you exhale, let your chest drop forward while bending your knees into a deep plié — we're talking thighs parallel to the floor here. Now the tricky part: as you rise, don't just push up. Extend through your spine backward while one leg reaches behind you in a sweeping arco. Your arms follow the line of that back leg like you're wiping fog off a mirror.
Then — and this is where people always lose it — let that momentum carry you into a controlled fall. Not collapsing, not flailing. Control. Your free leg folds under you, you roll through your thigh to your hip to your shoulder, and by the time your back hits the floor, you're in a shape that's vaguely like a C-curve with your arms overhead.
Repeat on the other side. The goal isn't perfection — it's continuity. Try to make the transition from standing to floor feel like water poured from one glass to another. No gaps, no stops.
Real talk: it took me three weeks to stop thinking about every element. The moment I stopped counting in my head and just moved, that's when it finally felt like dance.
The Emotional Meat: Building a Phrase That Says Something
Here's where intermediate work gets dangerous — and interesting. You're no longer just moving your body through space. You're starting to make choices about why.
In her piece "Kontakthof," Pina Bausch made dancers treat each other with such deliberate cruelty that audiences would physically flinch. That's the extreme end of the emotional spectrum. But you don't need to traumatize anyone to make a phrase that hits.
Build a simple phrase — eight counts, maybe twelve — that has a clear emotional arc. Not "happy" or "sad." That's too simple. Think more along the lines of "resistance followed by surrender" or "building tension released through release."
Try this structure: four counts of slow, deliberate weight-shifting with your breath matching every step. Then four counts of the same movement but faster, sharper — your breath stays slower, though. This mismatch creates tension. Then four counts where you literally fight your own momentum (a sudden turn or stop), and finish with four counts of total release — fall into the floor, let your arms go heavy, breathe out audibly.
The first time I watched someone do this in class, I swear the entire room felt different afterward. There's something about watching someone genuinely let go that hits you in the chest.
Partner Work: The Thing Nobody Practices Alone
I'll be honest — I avoided partner work for way too long. It felt awkward. I didn't have a consistent partner. I told myself I was "more of a solo dancer."
That was a mistake.
Two-body work teaches you things your body cannot learn alone. You learn to trust. You learn to listen — not just to music, but to another person's weight, their breath, their hesitation. You learn to make decisions in real time.
Start simple. Stand facing your partner, close enough that your extended fingers would touch their shoulders. Have them lean toward you slowly — their full weight, trusting you to hold them. You don't catch them. You just be there so they don't fall. Then reverse. Feel what it's like to lean into someone and have them absolutely refuse to let you drop.
From there, work into simple lifts where the bottom partner takes the full weight through their feet while the top partner extends upward. Low, controlled, close to the ground. The goal is stability first. Height comes later when you've built the trust.
I won't sugarcoat it: partner work is where most people's contemporary practice stalls out. It's vulnerable in a way solo dancing isn't. Find a regular partner. Practice the same exercises weekly. The rewards are worth the uncomfortable moments.
What Actually Matters
Watch Crystal Pite's work. Watch Ohad Naharin's "Minus 16" where he makes a room full of people move in perfect unison without anyone counting. Watch Trisha Brown — her "Roadrunnr in Motorsport" is just a woman walking back and forth, and it's absolutely transcendent.
This is where you learn. Not from tutorials. Not from blog posts. From watching artists who have something to say.
Your intermediate practice right now should be messy and exploratory. You're not trying to be perfect. You're trying to build a vocabulary. Try things. Fall. Look stupid. Ask your teacher to watch you and tell you the truth. Get feedback, even when it's hard to hear.
The contemporary dancers I admire most — the ones who get hired, the ones who are interesting to watch — aren't the ones who execute everything perfectly. They're the ones who take risks, who have opinions about movement, who look like they're genuinely figuring something out in real time.
Figure it out. Take the risk. Let your practice be a little uncomfortable right now — that's exactly where growth happens.
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Now go find a studio and burn through some floor space.
