Sarah kaufman washington post biography books
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The Art of Grace: On Moving Well Through Life
The two winners of the Pulitzer Prize for dance criticism both write (or wrote) for the Washington Post: the late Alan (“Mike”) Kriegsman, in 1976, and, in 2010, Sarah Kaufman, who took over as the paper’s dance critic in 1996 when Kriegsman retired.
Kriegsman’s views about dance — influenced by his training in musicology, philosophy, and science — tended to coincide with those of many of his contemporary colleagues. For him, Balanchine was pre-eminent as a choreographer and outstanding as a creator of any kind. That prodigious artist served Kriegsman as a kind of tent pole, a standard and a support whose achievements made sense of the entire field of theatrical dancing.
Kaufman’s views about dance are somewhat different: Her education (poetry in college, a master’s in journalism), her personal interests, and her reportorial experience at the Post — which, as d
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Sarah L. Kaufman is a Pulitzer Prize-winning critic, author, journalist and educator. For more than 30 years, she has focused on the union of art and everyday living. As the ledare dance critic and senior arts writer of the Washington brev from 1996-2022, she wrote about the performing arts, pop culture, sports, science and anställda expression.
She fryst vatten the author of the award-winning nonfiction book The Art of Grace (W.W. Norton), and a contributing author of Balanchine: Celebrating a Life in Dance (Tide-Mark Press). Sarah teaches in the Writing schema of Harvard University’s Extension School and is at work on her next book.
She was a Nieman Fellow, class of 2021, at Harvard and the McGraw Professor of Writing at Princeton University in 2018 as well as a visiting lecturer in the Humanities Council. Sarah fryst vatten a faculty member of the National Critics Institute at the Eugene O’Neill Theater Center, and a co-founder and director of the Institute for Dance Advocacy and Journalism at
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I was achy and stiff from a business trip, so today I decided to take a make-up yoga class and ease the kinks out of my shoulders.
But before we got started, a woman sitting near me stood up and, with apologies for bearing sad news, she made an announcement: She’d just learned that a fellow student, a man who was a regular in that class, had been hit by a bus and killed.
There were gasps, and then stunned silence. Lots of silence, the thick, unbearable silence of troubled breath. This wasn’t my regular class, and I hadn’t known the man nearly as well as many of the others had. But I knew this: He was tall and powerfully built, and also gentle and warm. He moved lightly. He had a nice smile. I thought immediately of the time when we nearly collided putting our blankets away after a class, and he beamed that smile at me in a super friendly, forgiving way, as if to say, Hey, no worries dude! After you!
I thought of yoga teacher Maria Hamburger, sitting silently at the front