Nicole Cutler

Having had a little time to take in the magnificence of the 100th anniversary of the Blackpool Dance Festival, I feel deeply honoured to have been invited to adjudicate.

The Blackpool Dance Festival is not simply another competition. It is one of the great stages of our art form, where history, discipline, ambition and tradition have met for a century.

My own connection with it began in 1990, when I travelled from South Africa for my very first Blackpool experience. For a young dancer from so far away, simply being there felt extraordinary. Blackpool was the dream, as it was for so many dancers then, and remains for so many now.

Over the years, that same ballroom carried me through many stages of my competitive life, from Youth finalist to Amateur Champion, and later as a Professional finalist. What stays with me most is not only the results, but the friendships formed, the memories made, and that unmistakable feeling of walking onto the Blackpool floor and stepping into a history that had meaning long before I first experienced it myself.

To return in this anniversary year, with the memory of dancing there and the responsibility of judging, is something I will always cherish and deeply value.

Across an event that now spans an extraordinary two weeks, it was moving to see every competitor, official, musician, volunteer, spectator and supporter playing their part in giving the Blackpool Dance Festival its life.

Congratulations to Mrs Natalie Hayes, Festival Organiser, along with Nicky Miles and the entire team, for carrying such a historic Festival through its anniversary year.

With gratitude for the past, and with respect for all who continue to carry it forward.

I had the pleasure of adjudicating recently at The Open Worlds Dance Championship, where the music reminded me, once again, why it matters so deeply.

Dance is often described as music made visible, and when the music is played with such care, depth and understanding, it gives the dancers something real to respond to.

The LP Swing Orchestra, under the superb guidance of Joe Pettitt, provided the most beautiful music throughout the event. For the dancers, it offered rhythm, atmosphere and inspiration. For me, standing on stage so close to the orchestra, it was a real privilege to hear and feel that sound from what may have been the best seat in the house.

Music is never just accompaniment. It shapes the room, supports the dancing, and gives the whole event its life.

With appreciation to Paul Killick, Andy Batara, the LP Swing Orchestra, and all the dancers who brought the music into movement.

We tend to spend a great deal of time on movement, technique, and timing.
The music itself is often given less attention.

Not simply whether it suits the dance,
but whether it suits the dancer at that point in their development.

Music has its own structure, its own tone, its own intention.
Whether a dancer understands it or not, the body still responds.

Over time, those responses become habits.

This is not about limiting choice,
or suggesting that there is a single way music should be selected.

But it is worth considering whether the music being used
is helping a dancer understand what they are doing,
or asking them to produce something they haven’t yet learned to recognise.

It is a small consideration, but not an insignificant one.

“Dance is music made visible.” - George Balanchine

Most of what you see is not the full picture.

In dance, what appears online is often an outcome. A moment that has come together, taken from the end of a longer process.

When that becomes the reference point, it can quietly shift how dancers measure themselves.
What feels like progress. What feels like enough.

Social media can still inspire.
But it does not replace the slower work.

Understanding your dancing comes from time, repetition, and staying with something long enough for it to make sense in your own body.

That part is not always visible.

But it is where the work actually happens.

In every field of work, sport, and creativity, including our own dance community, there are natural phases. There are competitions, performances, and announcements. Those moments that naturally find their way onto the competition floor, into demonstrations, or onto our screens. Yet there are also quieter periods that exist behind the scenes.

Over the past weeks I have been spending time in that quieter space. Life can be busy, and personal circumstances can sometimes force a reset while also allowing time to slow down. Reading, writing, and listening to music again without the immediate thought of choreography, technique, coaching, or teaching have allowed ideas that have been forming over the past year to settle and take clearer shape. Across many fields today there is a quiet pressure toward constant visibility, where progress can begin to feel as though it only counts when it is seen. Yet much of the real work in dance has always taken place away from the spotlight. In studios when no one is watching, in notebooks filled slowly over time, in deeper thought, and in conversations that return to the same questions from different angles.

A period of quiet does not mean that nothing is happening. Very often it means that something is still forming. Over the coming months I will begin sharing some of the thoughts and ideas that have been developing during this time. Many of these will connect with themes I have previously posted on social media or written about in my blog, while others may approach our dance world from a slightly different perspective. For now, this simply marks a gentle beginning again.

Physical ability is easy to see in dance. Strength, flexibility, speed, stamina. These qualities register quickly, and they are often rewarded.

But bodies are not identical, and they are not interchangeable. What is asked of them carries a cost, and not all bodies respond in the same way.

When physical output becomes the focus, intention can slip out of view. Movement may still look impressive, but something is missing. Musical awareness becomes harder to sustain, and with it, a sense of individual identity.

Purposeful movement comes from a different place. It is shaped by what the movement requires, not by how much the body can do. It works with the body’s capacity rather than against it, using effort where it matters instead of everywhere at once.

This isn’t about doing less. It’s about understanding what the dance needs, and what simply exhausts the body. Over time, that understanding is what allows movement to remain clear, individual, and present.

These posts are part of an ongoing series of observations. For those who’d like to explore the thinking behind them in more depth, related writing can be found on my blog. No obligation, just there if it’s useful. Link in Bio.

January was a very busy month.

There have been moments of recognition, and I sincerely thank Michael and Lorna Stylianos for their generosity in awarding Matthew and me the Universal Hall of Fame Award, something I am deeply honoured to receive.

There have also been moments of responsibility. The responsibility to the next generation of dancers, to adjudicate with resonance and integrity. I am grateful to have been given that opportunity at the UK Open Dance Championships and Festival.

And there have been moments of decision. Some visible, some entirely private. All significant in their own way.

As a new month begins, I feel grateful, and I look ahead to whatever 2026 brings.

Many things are noticed in a dance performance. Some register immediately.

But being noticed is not the same as being remembered.

What stays with us is rarely the detail.

It’s the feeling we’re left with when we think back to the performance. The sense that something felt true.

Each of us will have our own preferences.
Different dancers or couples will resonate with us in different ways, often long after the results themselves are forgotten.

Being noticed belongs to the moment.
Being remembered belongs to time.

Hearing is the presence of sound. The music is audible, the beat is clear.

Listening requires attention.

It means opening your ears to more than the obvious, to notes, pauses, and changes in intensity that give the music its shape and breath.

Listening is not about adding more movement.
It changes how movement is shaped, not just when it happens.

When dancers are only hearing the music, movement is often organised around counts and choreography. Steps arrive according to their timing, but the music remains something external.

When dancers truly listen, their attention shifts. Movement begins to respond rather than be placed on the music. It settles into the music instead of sitting on top of it.

In that attention, dance becomes more personal, not because it is designed to be different, but because listening itself is individual.

This is where interpretation begins, and where movement becomes truly their own.

Timing is taught, counted, and agreed upon.
But time is experienced.

It’s shaped by how a dancer listens to the music, how they feel its phrasing, and how they choose to inhabit each moment.

When time isn’t used, dancing can feel rushed even when it’s accurate.
Movement arrives correctly, but without depth or presence.
Musicality looks active, yet feels strangely absent.

Using time allows movement to align more deeply with the music. It creates space for movement to open, stretch, and settle. It shifts focus from placing steps correctly
to shaping what happens between them.

As dancers move beyond simply following counts and begin shaping time, movement starts to listen.

And that is when timing stops being technical and becomes expressive, personal, and unmistakably their own.