The lights coming up from downstage left pick up a group of six women edging their way onto the stage from the diagonally opposite corner, their spines collapsed forward from their pelvises, backs jutting out to emphasize the broken line of the spine, knees flexed low, feet weighted to the ground, arms lying stiff and lifeless at their sides, but their heads still reaching searchingly forward. With their broken backs, they move painstakingly, slowly: the heel of one foot rises almost imperceptibly and drags the foot forward, the sole ever unable to dissociate itself fully from the ground. The weight shifts forward with this arduous endeavor as the body resigns itself onto the forward foot. Now the heel of the other foot rises in a barely visible movement and drags the foot, yet unable to lift itself from the ground, forward. The weight shifts one more time and another step is inched on. And again, the heel of one foot rises almost imperceptibly and drags the foot forward and another step is inched on. Each step speaks of weariness and pain, and a quest in spite of that. One by one, the feet pull themselves forward and haul the body across the stage in this terrifying, weighted effort. Halfway across the stage, the women are halted in this journey as if by some unseen attacker looming large in front of them. Acknowledging their arrested pathway, they begin to retrace their steps.

Martha Graham wrote this passage about the opening of Night Journey (1947) in her autobiography Blood Memory (1991). Night Journey tells the story of Jocasta who at the end of her life is reluctantly forced by the blind prophet Tiresias to relive the most significant and thus painful moments of her life. Graham too, at the end of her own life, seems almost to have been forced, perhaps by time or perhaps by the obligation to fulfil a publisher's contract, to write her autobiography (1). There is a nice symmetry here.

The study of audiences is rarely at the forefront of dance scholarship. When the social composition of an audience is studied, it is usually market research—material to be used by the development staff of a dance company for audience-building.

Such studies are indeed indispensable for audience-building, but quantitative and qualitative studies of audiences are also indispensable for dance scholars. It is not necessary to argue here that the dance and the audience shape each other.

A superb example of a qualitative audience study, though not of dance audiences, is Joseph Horowitz's Wagner Nights: An American History. In his postlude he writes: