Dancer's Judgment

The International Museum of Fine Arts is not an exhibit to be taken lightly. This beautiful museum made of smooth, ivory marble might be a gem to the outside eye, but the true treasures are hidden deep inside. This renowned museum attracts hundreds of visitors each year.

They all come from around the globe to look at gorgeous works by world famous artists alike. But this museum has always had an even deeper treasure hidden within. It comes out only in the night, when the loud visitors are nestled away in their beds, our artworks come out to play. Of course, not all artworks come out at the same time. For it would cause noise and mayhem. Instead, one artwork begins to live life within the wooden frame.

And for just one night, it is unbeknownst to this piece that it is simply brush strokes on a canvas. There are many tales that are told within these paintings, but the true meaning comes out, once a year, when our paintings come alive, one at a time, night by night. And on this night, an illustrated music box explores the vast surroundings of a true stage, where a skilled ballerina comes out to dance, and she is getting ready backstage.

To set the scene: hidden deep along the walls of the museum’s west wing, hangs a painting. Encased inside the frame, is a shiny, glimmering music box that holds a spinning ballerina up. 

But for being such a graceful, beautiful person, she is bent, crooked and cracked. The eyes lining the inside of her box stare at her, quietly judging her skill. The pressure to have undivided perfection grew to be too much, and now she’s too exhausted to move. 

“Let’s go, ladies! Hurry up! At the barre, first position!” Leslie scrambles to finish tying her pointe shoes, cracking them just slightly as she tests them since they’re fairly new. She isn’t the last at the barre which is a relief. She opens her left arm out to the side and turns her legs out, positioning herself into the first position. Her back is straightened perfectly and her feet are turned out at the right angle.

Perfect.

Her form, her technique, it’s all perfect. 

Today are the auditions for the lead role in the Swan Lake performance that happens every year. She’s always been a role below the one she truly wishes for. But she hopes this year might be the one where she gets the role of Odette, and be the one leading the studio to a fabulous performance. The instructor comes around and barks out instructions of different positions to transition into. Leslie does it all with ease. Perfect. Her feet were pointed on her tendus, and her legs were straight on her dégagés. It was all going perfectly. During her pique turns, her form was impeccable: her arms were perfectly rounded and her saut de chat leaps were perfectly coordinated.

She had no competition, for she was better than she was last year but she could still feel the judgment seeping from her instructor’s eyes, assessing her every move. She felt the need to be perfect, it drove her passion for dance. It had been a long day but as the results came in not too long after, Leslie felt herself want to leap with joy. She’d finally, finally, made the role of Odette, and she was ecstatic. 

That was until her instructor called her into her office and laid the pressure that Leslie had to carry on her shoulders. It all begun to sink in. She was leading the performance, she was the one everyone would count on and she would be the one the audience would focus on. 

She needed to be flawless, perfect. There couldn’t be room for mistakes. The next few months of rehearsal and practice were making Leslie realize the hidden truth of being the lead. She was criticized on everything. Her foot needed to be pointed a little more. Her back knee wasn’t fully straightened, and her turns weren’t perfectly balanced. Leslie begun to feel the weight on her shoulders get heavier as it was loaded with the critique of each pair of eyes that watched her performances. 

At this point, she should have switched her shoe laces for a measuring tape, since it would symbolize and remind her that everything needed to be calculated, measured, and perfect. 

It was the only way. But little by little, bit by bit, she could feel parts of herself crumble away, and she could feel herself get weathered and eroded from the pressure that she had to be immaculate. It went on for another few excruciating weeks until opening night, and backstage, Leslie could feel the nerves creep up on her.

Everyone was counting on her. She could not mess up. 

The curtains opened with a swish and the clapping outside matched her pounding heart inside her ribcage. She came out from the sidelines and just danced.

But she could still feel the weight of all those eyes, each and every pair assessing her, willing her to be great. 

In the end, it was too much for Leslie. Her passion, her little world inside her music box was distorted by the true definition of perfect. Of what it meant to be amazing. She kept dancing, but slowly she withered away, letting those stares rule her dance, her grace and her passion. 

And even though it hurt, Leslie still wanted to dance. She still wanted to keep going, all the way until the pressure finally caught up to her. 

And the moon outside slowly started to give way into a new dawn as Leslie froze inside her music box, mid-turn, eyes closed as the eyes kept staring. 

She was trapped again, inside the frame, frozen in the judgmental stares of her peers, willing her to dance. Inside the painted, wooden, music box with thousands of eyes looking at her, as she wore shoes laced with measuring tape, all symbolizing the eternal pressure she strived to live up to.

The sun outside began to illuminate her solemn features. The doors would open soon. And once again, she would be visited by millions, until she awoke again next year.