Poplar and Willow: A Dance Reflection

Like a poplar tree in Ballet

As a person shaped by mixed cultures and an amateur adult dance enthusiast, I have been fortunate to encounter two dance traditions on this planet that are distinct in style yet equally rich in cultural lineage: Western ballet and Chinese classical dance.

On some days, I search for qi and inner resonance within the rounded, spiraling, twisting movements of Chinese classical dance; on other days, I seek balance through the turnout, extension, and upright alignment of adult ballet training.

Interestingly, in the Chinese dance studio, people often assume I come from a ballet background, while in the ballet studio, they say I must be trained in Chinese dance. Amused by this contradiction, I sometimes wonder whether the unique qualities of these two forms have quietly and naturally found their way into my body and being.

On ballet days, I slip into tights and a leotard, pull my hair into a neat bun, and make myself precise from head to toe—as if by doing so, I am also organizing my muscles and preparing them to receive the discipline of ballet’s foundational training.

Ballet embodies the Western aesthetic of symmetry—elegant, light, and noble. The body is required to be upright and fully extended, like a swan poised in solitary grace. Yet beneath that serene “lake surface” lies an extraordinary demand for muscular strength and refined control. The swan appears to glide effortlessly, while beneath the water its feet never cease their work.

Many people say ballet is an art built upon pain. Even though adult classes rarely require pointe shoes, all training ultimately points toward that moment. Only then does one truly understand that the seemingly monotonous exercises—tendus, pliés, rond de jambe—are carefully designed to align with the structure of the human skeleton and musculature, constructing the scientific beauty of ballet.

Among all dance forms, ballet may be the clearest embodiment of defying gravity. One must be as light as a cloud, yet as grounded as a tree. When my legs tremble, my balance falters, or my jumps feel weak and uncertain, I can only smile at myself—like a traveler gazing up at a distant summit, gently accepting my own clumsiness. Even as an amateur, there is no denying ballet’s power to transform posture, strength, and spirit.

Entering a Chinese classical dance studio, however, feels like returning home. Steeped in the essence of traditional opera, this dance form revives my childhood fascination with theatrical movement. Structurally, Chinese dance has absorbed many elements from Western ballet, yet in every gesture and shift of weight, the form radiates a distinct, ancient, and profoundly deep Chinese cultural spirit.

Dance like a willow in Chinese classical style

If ballet pursues straight lines and symmetry, Chinese dance delights in curves, rotations, and circularity—expressing principles of lift and sink, opening and closing, advance and return. What may appear tangled or restrained on the surface is, in fact, charged with inner tension: an Eastern quality that is subtle, inward, sometimes restrained, yet endlessly alive beneath the surface.

The expressive range of Chinese dance is further enriched by cultural elements such as long sleeves that ripple like water or mist, swords that flash like lightning yet rest like still water, and an array of round fans, folding fans, and long fans. These props diversify its vocabulary, yet at its core, Chinese classical dance consistently carries a philosophy shaped by yin and yang, cyclical progression, fluid continuity, and the Daoist ideals of harmony with nature and effortless action.

At times I wonder: if a Westerner could truly understand Chinese dance, perhaps they would also begin to understand the many winding paths hidden deep within Chinese culture itself.

I recall once imagining a scene with my first dance teacher: a handkerchief lies on the ground, and the dancer approaches to pick it up. A ballet dancer would most likely turn out the feet, walk straight toward it, glide, bend, and pick it up directly—perhaps admiring their own reflection along the way, but never concealing intention. In Chinese dance, however, the dancer might approach in small, quick steps, twist away just before reaching it, hesitate, glance back shyly, then turn head first, then body, and finally pick it up. In this small scene, perhaps, we glimpse a subtle difference between Eastern and Western cultures.

If ballet is like a poplar reaching into the sky, every movement sculptural and defined, then Chinese dance is like a willow brushing the water—each glance and smile dissolving into ink and wash.

These two embodied arts of movement not only coexist, but illuminate one another. What their study has given me are countless beautiful moments in the present—moments that require no attachment to the self, only a settling of body and mind within the dance.