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Looking for stability and balance at the barre: A couple of times a
week I go to ballet class. I am determined to be
physically (and emotionally) balanced and flexible. I am learning how
muscles that I wasn't aware of feel, what they can do, how
they hurt in different ways, and how to isolate their movements.
I
have three teachers who couldn’t be more different from each other. I
start the week with a young woman who moves like a flower. She’s
beautiful, energetic, enthusiastic, and impossibly radiant. Her voice is
a perfect song. She elates me with her optimism, and I
(unsuccessfully) do my best to impress her –sometimes I am the only student
in class. She is my heroine, and I want to be just like her:
graceful, lithe, and ethereal -she's 19 years old.
My
other teacher is a much older woman -detached and distant. She’s there,
but she’s not present. I daydream that she is remembering her ballerina
days and wondering why she’s there with us ungraceful dolts. She doesn’t
seem to enjoy the process at all, and I find her the most intimidating, but I go to challenge mysef and to get over
my fear. She directs us, but I have the impression that she is speaking
to ghosts from another life.
The third one is my age.
She is the most hands on: correcting you, following you in the mirror,
changing your positions, reminding you to always look like a dancer,
even while stretching, and trying to convince us to participate in The
Nutcracker.
We start with la leçon à
la barre: chin up, chest up, look ahead. Chin up, chest up, look ahead.
Chin up, chest up, look ahead. Demi, straight. Demi, straight. Demi,
straight, plié… Thumbs in, strong arms -it’s the Russian Method. What
are my other ballet traumas? Keeping my standing leg straight and my
shoulders down, engaging my abs, tucking my behind -at the same time
AND do the ballet moves: Première position, à la seconde, cinquième
position, degagé, the dreaded adagios, balancé, port de bras,
arabesques, fondu, attitude, grand battement, grand battement en cloche,
relevé, piqué, développé, changement de pied, sous sous, plié, grand
plié, tombé, coupé, frappé, tendu, échappé, passé, rond de jambe (my
favorite), turnout, pas de
valse (ugh) … but nothing is more difficult than the mirror; I
can’t stand looking into it. And so I put my head down only to hear:
Chin up, chest up. Chin up, chest up. Chin up, chest up…
Aside
from feeling old and ungraceful, the most distressingly interesting
aspect of all this is the daughter-father relationships I witness as I
wait outside before my classes begin. I sit indifferently in front of
the school in a small iron bench while young girls inside finish their
lessons and their eager fathers wait for them.
Fathers
who bring cozy sweaters, ice cream cones, bikes, golden
retrievers, cocker spaniels, little brothers, strollers, lollypops,
and smiles. Fathers who greet them as if they hadn’t seen them in ages:
they hug them, tell them how well they did, ask them what they want to
eat for dinner (pizza and French toast come up at least once a week).
Fathers who inquire about their day, hold their hands as they walk home,
put their hair back in place, fit them with their bicycle helmets, and
the love and tenderness is overwhelming and palpable. Young girls
looking adoringly at their dads, the sidewalk fills with cries: Daddy,
daddy, daddy. I sit still and wait until they disappear into the
darkness with their giggles, secrets, and laughter.
The
easiest way to disconnect and cope is to focus on my physical
shortcomings: Stand up straight, lock out the knees, shoulders down,
chin up, chest up, strengthen the core, breathe, tuck, turn out the
feet, relevé, breathe, let go of the barre, breathe, find your balance,
find your balance, let go of the barre.
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