What I love about dance is that it’s just you and your body in space. My body is my instrument—I have to keep it in a condition where it can do the dancing. My feet are particularly important. They are as articulate as my hands. I know them intimately. 

During my training at Rambert School in London and my first contract at Theater Koblenz in Germany, I did a lot of ballet and pointe work as well as contemporary dance, so my feet got used to going in and out of pointe shoes. I’ve always found pointe shoes problematic—they’re designed to create an illusion of lightness and femininity. That doesn’t sit well with me. 

Later, in New York as a dancer with the Merce Cunningham Company, I danced almost exclusively barefoot. My feet spread out and toughened up. Taping them was a company ritual, especially on tour. We’d burn pieces of tape to make it more pliable and stick them to our feet for protection and to create better surfaces for turning.

Merce’s technique is extremely demanding on the feet. You’re almost always on relevé—the balls of your feet—or jumping. It builds incredible strength but also leads to injury. I once tore the ligaments in my foot during a performance. Adrenaline kept me dancing; I didn’t realize the extent of what had happened until I came offstage.