It has been quite a while since I was last at ballet. I have not danced for several months, partly due to my work schedule but mostly because of my cataract surgery. The thing with ballet is that if you miss even one practice, you will feel the difference the next time you dance. It is a very exacting art form that requires regular and vigorous practice. The tolerances are very low in ballet. You can either execute a move or not, very Boolean solution set-ish.
This past Friday night, I attended a performance of Sleeping Beauty by the Alberta Ballet at the invitation of a friend from work who had an extra ticket. This was a first for me as I did not need a pair of binoculars to see the stage. For the first time in decades, I was able to soak in the beauty of a live performance with just my own eyes. Words cannot even begin to express the joy I felt that I could do this. I am very aware that a Sword of Damocles hangs over my vision and that I could lose my sight at any time. In the past I would have obsessed about it and although I still do fret these days, I no longer forget to enjoy the present and take it to build new memories that I can cherish for when I do go into the darkness alone.
Seeing the dancers on stage made me realise that I had lost track of my dream to be able to dance ballet well. Of course, the fact that I was seated in the midst of staff from that ballet company probably factored into my feelings of sudden inadequacy. The staff are given complimentary tickets to performances sometimes; the unfortunate fact is that if you were a dancer, you probably would not be able to afford the tickets to see a performance, not without some sacrifice on your part for later. Ballet is expensive. It's not expensive because it has history, tradition and prestige although those probably are factors for high ticket prices. It is expensive because the performers have to be very highly trained to be able to dance so precisely. I should know for it is not without some regret and bitterness that I will never be able to dance as well in this lifetime. Age catches up quickly to ballerinas; the fact that there is a foundation in Ottawa to assist ballet dancers to retrain for other positions when they wash out in their early 20s struck me as bizarre at first and sadness later. Nonetheless, I intend to persevere and attempt to pass the first level Cecchetti examination at some point in my lifetime. I am painfully aware that the longer it takes for me to get to that level, the less likely it will be that I am physically capable of passing the test even though the first level exam is meant for young children. Remember how kids can do amazing bendy things with their bodies when they're young? That's why it's hard for us older folks to pass that test. It's not a matter of just proper technique - all the technique in the world won't matter if you're just not able to make your old, decrepit body do a particular move.
After the performance, I received an invite to join a few of the other dancers for a bite to eat at a local pizzeria. As I was starving by then, I gratefully accepted and we all went to a family-owned restaurant nearby. It was not without some trepidation that I went along with them. You see, one of the group was my balletmistress, a very experienced and sweet elderly lady who is one of Canada's foremost ballet teachers. She's served her art for longer than I've been alive and has danced as the prima ballerina for one of the nation's premier ballet troupes. She's a sweet lady - outside of the dance studio. Simply put, I'm terrified of her when I'm in her studio. Drill sergeants have nothing on her when it comes to command presence. She doesn't have to yell to get her point across. She merely has to look at you squarely in the face to make you obey. I have only met less than a handful of people in my life who have that effect on me. It's an authority that draws its strength from formidable experience and competence. When she tells us to do something, it's because she
knows we can do it. There isn't much we can hide from her because she's seen it all. Fortunately, she was in a happy mood after attending the good performance earlier. So, I had a surprisingly good time at the pizza joint and had an opportunity for a rare glimpse into the lives of professional dancers.
I admire their dedication and tenacity in pursuing their art; I would as well but only if the pay was better. Much much better. I don't mean to sound as if money were all that mattered to me in this life. Money matters, it matters a lot. While I may take a lower paying job for a variety of reasons, I recognise that at least I have those choices for now anyway. For them, dance is their livelihood and that does not pay well despite it being a very tough discipline to be in.
They were a friendly lot and a very tight-knit group. Nonetheless, they made me feel welcome even though I was a virtual unknown to them. I was a friend to a friend of theirs and that was good enough. I walked away with two things: an invitation to join them at their casual practice class on Sundays and the realisation that my balletmistress now knows my name. She singles out people she knows in class to provide more personal instruction. Among my classmates, this is seen as a rather dubious privilege at best. A part of me was quite happy with the prospect of receiving closer instruction but I know it will be a case of tough love as she is not shy about calmly speaking her mind in excruciating detail about what she thinks of your deficiencies as she sees it. The thing is, she's surprisingly accurate most of the time. I can generally see a poleaxed look on the faces of those she's focused on. So, Monday night should be an interesting time for me. I'm beginning to wonder if it's worthwhile for me to start practicing my poleaxed expression as I expect to be wearing it for most of Monday night. Oh, and the fact that I'm taking both the beginners' and 1st level classes back to back for a total of nearly 3 hours is mostly going to reduce me to a pile of quivering jelly even without added attention.
May the gods have mercy upon my soul and my poor, poor sore feet.
