Lifestyle
Jun 01, 2026
A first-time dancer chronicles their experience taking multiple dance classes at Melbourne's Rising…
The Dance Challenge: A Weekend Immersion
As I wait for my first Cuban salsa class to begin, I have the distinct feeling that I am poorly prepared. I'm wearing heavy jeans, a bulky woollen sweater and boots. I have never done a dance class in my life – or any kind of exercise class. I don't know anything about salsa, Cuban or otherwise. Standing alone, I notice that everyone has come with at least one friend, and begin to suspect that it takes two to Cuban salsa.
This year, Rising festival – Melbourne's winter arts offering – has consolidated its longstanding dance focus into a mini-festival: the inaugural Australian Dance Biennale, showcasing Australian and international work. There's also a series of dance classes, romantically titled The Land of 1000 Dances, held in the romantically decrepit Flinders Street Ballroom. Running daily until 7 June, with classes costing $29 a pop, the diverse schedule includes Afro-fusion, ballroom, voguing, waltz and K-pop for teens and tweens.
From Salsa to Shuffle: A Dancer's Journey
As an audience member, I am an avid appreciator of dance; as a participant, I can most kindly be described as "curious" but uncoordinated. What if I went to a bunch of dance classes and then wrote about it?
Precisely 24 hours before my first class, the misgivings begin – doing my first dance class while dressed for the show I'm seeing directly afterwards sounds like a bad idea. At the ballroom, I am briefly reassured: the crowd is a diverse mix of ages, genders and bodies, and hardly anyone is wearing dance-appropriate clothing.
But the class itself is a blur – sometimes literally – as I try to learn and enact the cucaracha, the guapo and other basic Cuban salsa moves; attempt to locate the beat, my hips, any sense of coordination at all. Every time I feel as though I'm starting to get the hang of something, the instructor adds a new step. Then he corrals us into pairs – and a series of new moves, yelling "change partners!" every three minutes.
Going solo, it turns out, is fine: everyone is friendly; many seem as unsure as I am. Some are nailing it but there's a sense of camaraderie: we're all in this together. That said, we're all a bit too sweaty to be holding each other.
The Social Dynamics of Dance Classes
I move from absolute befuddlement, through occasional moments of triumph, to a sense of quiet despair. A move that involves a 360-degree rotation to an eight-count almost breaks my spirit and I consider quitting. To my surprise, this awakens a latent fighting spirit: screw the rules, I'm doing it my way. I experience brief elation. Then we change partners and I find myself in a cursed duet involving four left feet. The elation shrivels.
The class ends and I run to the theatre feeling like a dank, demoralised biohazard. I spend the next hour watching a show by the Irish choreographer Oona Doherty featuring a mix of professional, student and untrained dancers – and I mentally salute them all, with a newfound appreciation for the dark art of dance.
Finding Joy in Movement
I approach my next class, Melbourne shuffle, with a sense of dread. Not only do I now know how bad I am but I have agreed to be photographed. And I made the choice without knowing anything about the Melbourne shuffle, mistakenly assuming it was somewhere in the ballpark of the city's other great cultural tradition.
This feeling I am experiencing, I discover, is known as "endorphins". The physical exertion, the mental focus required, the social connection – it all combines to create a chemical cocktail that makes the experience worthwhile despite the occasional humiliation.
By the end of my dance weekend, I haven't become a dancer, but I've gained a profound respect for those who are. The Australian Dance Biennale and The Land of 1000 Dances offer not just entertainment, but an invitation to participate, to challenge oneself, and to discover new dimensions of movement and expression.