A belly dance class at Free Spirit Dance in Calgary on April 11.Leah Hennel/The Globe and Mail
Bored and alone in her Calgary home in the first summer of the pandemic, Nicole Chapman went looking online to find a hobby to pass the time.
The 31-year-old tried knitting and art projects and “did all kinds of cooking,” she says. But one piece of advice stuck with her: Do what you loved to do when you were younger.
“I was like, if I could do anything right now I’d be in a club,” she says.
Last December, with clubs closed, she found what she was looking for at Free Spirit Dance Studio, where she now takes in-person classes in anything from belly dancing to Bollywood four nights a week.
“You don’t think about anything else except rocking out to the music,” she says.
With class sizes of anywhere from three people to 25 – far fewer than a crowded club – and plenty of space between them, Ms. Chapman has never felt the classes are a health risk. And she’s hardly alone in wanting to dance.
“I’ve never been this busy, ever,” says Theresa Tucci, owner of Free Spirit Dance. “I can’t even keep up.”
Nicole Chapman, far right, laughs during a class at Free Spirit Dance.Leah Hennel/The Globe and Mail
Of the many deprivations of pandemic life, dancing has been one most consistently denied to people, with dance floors often closed even when other restrictions were lifted. Now, amidst a sixth wave of the pandemic, many people may be reluctant to step on to a crowded dancefloor. But across the country, dance studios, where the number of people can be more easily limited and distanced, are reporting a boom in business. Studio owners and students say it is the perfect antidote to the solitary, sedentary life of the past two years: social, physical, screen-free and, at least for a short while, refreshingly carefree.
“People have the sense that they’re going to live it up because tomorrow is promised to no one. They just kind of got that message,” says Maria Neri, founder and artistic director of Universal Dance Studio in Montreal.
That desire to live it up and do something extra special has led to a steep rise in engaged couples taking specialized classes for their first dance at their weddings to wow their guests, Ms. Neri says.
Sally Lao, a lawyer in Montreal, and her partner, who are getting married next month, have been rehearsing a choreographed dance at the studio one hour each week since February.
“We wanted to do something special for our first dance,” she says. “It’s cool for us, and it’s also entertaining for our guests.”
The dance, to the song “Electrified” by their favourite DJ, Lost Frequencies, has Ms. Lao and her fiancé doing “quite a few cool tricks,” including a cartwheel, she says.
Aphrodit Espanioli teaches belly dancing.Leah Hennel/The Globe and Mail
Others have sought out dancing as a way to connect to a community and enjoy physical contact after so much isolation.
“You know the whole concept of touch starvation?” says Purevsuren Norjinbat, a 24-year-old systems analyst who lives in Vancouver. “Part of me was very motivated by how close you get to people when you do social dancing. I really like that you touch and dance with people who you grow to like over time. It’s a really great remedy for touch starvation.”
Since her first reggaeton class at Baza Dance Studio in the midst of the pandemic, she has since tried several classes and has become hooked on salsa.
“As a teenager and an adult, the way that I was dancing was by going to clubs, and when that was taken away because we had to isolate at home I felt that hole,” she says.
Kristal Barbaza, co-owner of Baza Dance Studios, says the isolation of the pandemic and the desire to connect with others is behind the “huge influx” of new students she is seeing the past few months.
“We get a lot of people who are new to the city. They’re working from home and they’re not meeting anybody,” she says.
For Laura Whittingham, the dancehall, Bollywood and hip-hop classes she has been taking at Free Spirit have been a corrective to another near constant feature of pandemic life for the 33-year-old insurance claim adjustor: sitting slump-shouldered in front of Zoom calls for hours at a time.
“I just found my posture was getting so bad,” she says. “You can’t do these classes and not notice a change in your body. I’m addicted.”
Ms. Whittingham, like Ms. Chapman, has yet to venture out to a club to dance because of concerns about the pandemic.
Ms. Norjinbat tried dancing at a club almost as soon as dance floors were allowed to reopen in British Columbia in February.
“I wouldn’t call it totally stress-free,” she says. “I still have that fear of the virus.”
Many people may still be reluctant to step on to a crowded dancefloor, but business is booming at dance studios, where the number of people can be more easily limited and distanced.Leah Hennel/The Globe and Mail
Moving through the crowd made her feel too close to too many people she says, and so she is sticking to classes at the dance studio for the time being.
“I don’t really need to be in a club to feel that letting-go aspect of it,” she says.
Tyler Johnston, who was running approximately 15 dance nights at bars and other venues in Toronto prior to the pandemic, says there is a mix of caution and excitement about dancing once again.
Shake A Tail, a monthly dance party staple in Toronto since 2005 that Mr. Johnston co-owns, resumed this past Sunday after a two-year hiatus.
The announcement of its return prompted many inquiries regarding the “stipulations” for the party, whether it be masking or capacity restrictions, Mr. Johnston says.
“But for the most part it’s lots of flame emojis and heart emojis,” he says.
Ms. Chapman is perfectly fine being in dance classes and not a club. She’s happy just to be able to dance with other people.
“For the past two years it’s like we’ve been living in Footloose, so it’s nice to be back in the real world.”
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