That cliché from nun’s school was to keep girls (perhaps boys, too) out of trouble by having them play volleyball.

So in Vancouver summers young kids and teenagers are sent to camps (for the adventurous with parents with deep pockets there is Outward Bound), or to community centres, swimming classes, etc. The purpose is to get the kids off the streets and away from their bongs.

Many years ago I sent my older daughter when she was in her middle teens to Outward Bound. I spent a little fortune but my Ale was so happy she repeated the next year.

What to do now?

The answer is an easy one. There is Arts Umbrella on Granville Island and if your kid has some flexibility (or not) there is the Arts Umbrella Teen Summer Dance Intensive. This year it was from July 27 to July 30. Classes with four different teachers started at 9:30 and with short five minute breaks and a 30 minute lunch it ended at 4.

I went to watch my granddaughter Lauren, 13, on the last day, Thursday. On the first when she arrived home she crashed on the living room sofa (take that you nuns!).

So why am I writing about this if it indeed it got my Lauren off the streets?

I believe that with all the beauty of Vancouver (in spite of its architecture) a prevailing aspect of it is mediocrity. Or as we used to say in the past century “not world class”.

I must assert here that the dance program at Arts Umbrella headed by its Artistic Director Artemis Gordon, is not mediocre and indeed it is world class.

The Teen Summer Dance Intensive had four teachers, had Donna Krasnow who taught the José Limón method of dance, Desiree Dunbar showing her students why we revere Martha Graham, Sabra Perry the rigors of classical ballet and finally the classically trained Marinda Heshka who imparted some very active hip-hop.

These four teachers have bios that are unbelievably impressive. But impressive bios have to be matched by a presence that challenges (softly) inspires and as I saw throughout the whole day leads everybody, even bystanders as myself, to smile and laugh.

The morning began with Donna Krasnow and her Limón method. She was a short bundle of energy with an eternal smile. She could have made 100 tough US Marine Corps recruits double their push-ups with no groans. Her corrections were subtle and she never offended.

Part of the pleasure of the one and a half hour (besides seeing my otherwise almost always serious Lauren, smile and giggle) was listening to Yawen Wang’s piano. She played jazz (I recognized some Gerry Mulligan classics and Gershwin), Bach, ragtime and much more. She seemed to know where to begin, where to stop and when to play loudly or softly.

The second class was a stark contrast. It was classical ballet taught by a most elegant woman who danced with the National Ballet of Canada. Sabra Perry had the tough task of pointing out that in ballet only one way is the right way. She corrected softly and I could see that her students found her methods just right. I was most proud when she picked my Lauren to show the class how a move was to be executed. My guess is that with her methods, her students will learn exactly how to do what is necessary, with precision and aplomb. But since there is no punishing wagging of the fingers that something was done wrong, these dancers will be able to transfer these skills to modern dance and (yes!) hip-hop.

In the third class with Desirée Dunbar I saw little dancing. They did a lot of sitting on the floor, on chairs in circles. Emphasis was to be positioned in the mind and in the heart. Dunbar and the dancers talked about the five (Greek?) basic elements, earth, fire, water, air and spirit. They were cajoled into interpreting these elements through movement. I watched the chairs and how Dunbar made the dancers sit on the backside of the tables and threw ideas of expressing fire will sitting. In short order she asked five people to volunteer. I could not believe that my Lauren was quick to be first with her hand in the air. I could not recognize my usually serious and withdrawn granddaughter. They were given five minutes to come up with a routine in which a couple of the elements were chosen plus (why not?) a yoga pose. They went through the routine and after we all clapped they were again asked to repeat it with a few small corrections.

I must be blunt in that I cannot stand (most of it) tap dancing (thank you Arty for not including it this year in the Teen Dance Intensive) and that I am not too far away from saying the same thing about hip-hop.

But (a big but) is that the classically trained Marinda Heshka (who could easily be a boot camp sergeant at the US Marine Corps on Parris Island and she would be the scourge making the recruits do double the push-ups out of fear) explained that in hip-hop you do stuff that you cannot (as not allowed) do in ballet. I laughed when she instructed her class, "Do something funky for me."

I understood after the intense hour and a half in stifling heat, that her dancers had somehow to put all their modern dance and classical dance training in a back burner, sort of like champagne ice cream between big dishes to cleanse the palate. And going backward her brand of hip-hop would enable all those dancers to go through grueling rehearsals and performances of the other dance disciplines.

In short the four different teachers, their different methods all added to one coherent and complete whole.

That these dancers were not on the streets is a bonus.  

There is an Arts Umbrella International Summer Dance Intensive that began August 3 and finishes August 21. The list of guest instructors is impressive. As Rachel Maddow often says, "Watch this space."

Marinda Heshka and Lauren Stewart

Lauren Stewart & Desirée Dunbar

Yawen Wang, Lauren Stewart & Sabra Perry

Donna Krasnow & Lauren Stewart

He was the fifty years old, with the haunted handsomeness of Steve McQueen. He wasn’t interested in starlets and gorgeous lady chemists. He went after waifs. He would seduce them with lines from Emily Dickinson about a wounded deer and voyages into eternity. And then he would pounce. There was nothing flamboyant about his moves: a single flower, dinner at a quiet bistro, and then a slight flutter in one eye as Dr. Jekyll turned into Mr. Hyde. It would have been comical, the tryst in the hotel room, the flower dug into the waif’s hair, until he started slapping her around. But Marla’s Indians had always been there for damage control. Hector and Paul would wash the girl’s face, give her ten thousand in cash, send her home in a cab, wake Marcellus out of his torpor, and drive the billionaire to his Westchester estate.

And she told him about La Fontaine, a writer of fables who lived hundreds of years ago, before there ever was the Bronx and the wild dogs of Crotona Park. La Fontaine’s favourite hero was Sir Fox, a local robber baron who preyed upon as many barnyards as he could.

She drank more and more merlot. I’d swear she was flirting with me under her veil. I offered to drive her back to the Bronx.