Looking down from the stage

Once when I was a little child, I asked my grandpa if he ever prayed. He replied: “Only when my feet hurt.”

I don´t know if you appreciate or enjoy classical ballet, but if you do; I invite you to delve into the rarefied world of the ballerina. I will be your guide. Follow me and astutely notice the symbols and rage underlying the romantic image of the ballerina. There´s a baldness because, it´s a must, but also a barbarism. The next time you watch a ballet performance, try to be akin to an anthropologist and you´ll never look at a ballet dancer the same way, I assure you!

Explore the hidden sculptures revealed in the coded language and shared ethos of the cliques and sects of dancers; the way their secrets are not merely secrets but a means of expressing eroticism, dreams, and above all rage.

When I see my ballerina days before my mind's eye, it resembles a Film Noir. The femme fatale is endlessly fascinating to me. She is allowed to be dangerous and alluring. And almost always gets punished for it, though she´s nothing more really than, a projection of male anxiety.

Once upon a rainy afternoon, I took myself for a walk down memory lane and I came to remember how I prepared my pointe shoes. It was a very private affair, (as private as pleasuring yourself) a ritual. Though in my case, it was more out of shame over the state of my poor feet. You didn´t really think I was going to continue on that path, did you?

I tortured them for the sake of the art of ballet and I came to hate my feet. I used to love to walk barefoot, but people never ceased to point out that this was something shameful. I ended up giving up walking barefoot, still, my feet remained a cause for name-calling, ridicule, and mockery. People decided they were too big, and thus it became written gospel that I had ugly feet. I can not recall my feet ever being referred to in a positive way.

I wish I had a glamorous ballet teacher. Mine was plain and incredibly unforgiving. It was rumored she used to be a nun, and she still was a fervent Jesus fan, t the point of freakishness.

She was not beautiful in a classical ballet way. There were substitute teachers sometimes, mostly students who chose the safe road, by planning a career as a ballet teacher. And of course, choreographers but they were mostly male. Come to think of it; classical ballet is the only discipline I know where the attire of men is more revealing than the costumes of the women.

I was fascinated by the bodies of these substitute teachers; their rigor, their coolness, and elegance., the wordlessness of their exchanges. They contained mysteries!

I wondered what their lives were like outside the studio and the school. I imagined grand romances for them. I always yearned for that touch of glamour that just felt beyond. I longed for mystery, exotism, and self-containment. Ballet is full of dark fairy tales,( sometimes I feel like those stories come from my own weird insides) in which the prima ballerina has a lot in common with the femme fatale: there´s a touch of weird glamour, acting on their longings, primal emotions and of course there´s a moody atmosphere of sex and dread.

Yes, those substitute teachers looked like they held secrets. I never bothered to imagine those for them; after all, secrets should remain secret.

My ballet teacher gave me such a hard time. The more I dreamed of a career as a prima ballerina on the greatest stages of the world, the more she was hellbent to crush them. I vowed to rise above it and vanquish my enemy.

The world around me was not very encouraging. It was conservative in an even more conservative time, where my teenage rebellion was mostly internal.

Ballerinas are the epitome of grace and sophistication. The reality however is that they´re deprived and masochistic. Ballet will likely always be tied up in our culture with ideas about femininity, confirming ones such as the exacting and specific physical ideas of the Balanchine type (blond, petite, and blue eyes). And on the other end of the spectrum, the potentially liberating ones such as strength, discipline, and physical power. To me, it became a way to explore not just the demands placed on women, but the way women are judged, including by one another, but also what women demanded of themselves and what might happen when they start to free themselves of some of those demands.

Every year, there was an exam of which the outcome determined if a student could remain in the school, do a year over, or simply choose another path and leave.

A do-over was not an option for me. My grandmother couldn´t afford the school fees without the money from a scholarship. (If you had to do a year over, the scholarship wasn´t paid out). All the intensive training left no space for me to get an additional side job.

Failure was not on my mind!

Nearly everybody today, with even a smattering of classical music knowledge is familiar with Ravel´s Bolero - the piece I chose to prove that I was talented enough and worthy to attend the final year. The throbbing rhythm of the orchestral piece is an example of musical perseveration with qualities in abundance of intimacy and precision. That´s how I planned to prove my determination and endurance to the judges and above all my teacher. A singular premise based on the experimental orchestral crescendo lasting a quarter of an hour.

My costume for the performance didn´t have big colorful frills or ruffles. My grandmother was the one who made my costumes, and she assured me that I was able enough to make it look very dramatic on stage.

I immersed myself in decoding the sinuous and sexy composition. I read every book I could get my hands on, about Nureyev or Baryshnikov.

There are but two melodic ideas in this obsessive, musico sexual piece, each heard twice before alternating and given to a new group of instruments.

I worked hard and practiced until I would nearly pass out. I designed my own choreography to mimic the movements of a toreador in a bullfight, to honor the Spanish influence of the Bolero, flirting with dramatic tension combined with the discipline of athletic grace and balance. Simplicity was key, but I dared to be so bold to add Hindu and African gestures associated with those of striptease.

I was ready!

The repeated rhythm grew in both dynamic and texture, as I concentrated on the emotional acuity, punctuated by subtle stretches that lingered for about a few seconds more than tolerable. The mesmeric rhythm slowly building a final climax and sees the orchestra unify as the final proclamation of the melody and the foundation rhythm. The percussions are in full force at this point too, with tam tam, cymbals, bass drum all playing the foundation rhythm to thicken the texture out even more. As the whole orchestra comes together, except for the trombones who play a dramatic set of glissandos above the heavy texture underneath, the work ends with the orchestra holding a discernment Db cord… and falling down to a C major. As did I!

Yes, that´s right! I never walked off that stage. I was carried off, together with my prima ballerina aspirations.

A complete rupture of the patellar tendon and my knee never regained full function.

Looking down from that stage, I saw my ballet teacher smile. I´m sure my dropping out (for life) was a victory to her.

Maybe she saw a version of herself mirrored in me; the extremity of her desires, the intricate blend of rivalry… that must have been haunting.

Ever since I´ve always been scared of being warped and broken by life. Don´t get me wrong; struggle and battle scars are beautiful to me, far more than ethereal grace. They make beautiful survivors. It´s the things we hide or hope to hide, that have a singular beauty.

And what of my feet? I forgave them for the pain and humiliation. They were never to blame. The small-minded meanness of cruel people was. 

My feet never got to dance on the biggest stages of the world… but what stages they carried me through the jungles and the plains of Africa

, they walked me through the ghettos of Romania, Explored the UK, Spain, Italy, the United States of America, North Africa, the Middle East…

I definitely look differently at my feet now. I am proud of them and treat them with respect. I pamper them on a regular basis with balms and creams, I even die my toenails in extravagant colors. I think they deserve that. And yes, me too, I pray when they hurt.

I´m still full of superstitions like any dancer or athlete: so, Happy holidays and go break a leg!