Dark Spots

Dark Spots

By Heather Ann Martinez

All I could do was stand in the darkness. It was intimidating and cold. I had not invited its presence but only knew it had to come in order for the light to come after. The darkness prevented me from seeing anyone or anything clearly. If I moved to the right or to the left, I would not be welcomed back to this stage. I felt the cold tingling along my hamstring. I wanted to walk off the stage, but I didn’t feel as though I had permission to leave. After all, I worked very hard to get here, to perform this piece. This was the dream that I dreamt when I was a little girl watching the older girls in ballet classes in their pointe shoes. I would plant my face on the glass window of the classroom and smile. I couldn’t wait to be older, to be graceful. I felt like such a klutz and my best never seemed to be good enough. Of course, that changed with practice and great teachers over time. Over the years, my teachers recognized my potential. They would say to each other there was something about me and they would squabble about how I should get to a destination I wasn’t certain would benefit me the way they thought it would. I appreciated the craft and the discipline. I just didn’t want to stick to one method. I would often tell my teachers there were other ways to accomplish my goals. Ballet was a part of the puzzle but it didn’t solve every occasion. Tap dancing offered more rhythm, but I still felt limited.

Standing here in the dark, in this unrelenting quiet, made me happy I wasn’t wearing tap shoes. They would be clinking continuously if I were wearing them. No, I am wearing ballet shoes which are much softer so the audience might hear my heart beating out of my chest but they weren’t listening to clinking shoes and me running into walls or props or falling off stage. Could I remain calm? Would I remain calm? Not for one second. I kept thinking about everything I was going to do during this performance and all the people I was going to thank for making all of this possible. I was distracted by the occasional sneeze and my deep desire to remind everyone that they needed to be quiet for the whole performance. There was to be no flash photography, no shouting, no one claiming to be responsible for who I became as a dancer, and a choreographer. This is the piece that I composed based on experience and practice. Some of the people in the audience could take credit in giving me the tools, but ultimately I built this. I took what they gave me and made it my own. I poured out my blood, my sweat and tears. I tore ligaments. I sprained ankles. I wrapped sore feet and even broke a toe. Still I pressed on. When the doctors said I should sit out for a few weeks, I pushed myself even harder. I worked even longer.

Some would say I was driven. I would say that I was ready for the race from an early age face planting on the glass. I practiced in my sleep. I heard music everywhere and I danced whether or not anyone else heard it. Most of the time they would ignore. Other times, they would interrupt. I never ingested whatever they said about what I was creating or why I was creating in the line at the grocery store or the subway. I would try something new everyday. I was writing it all down without a pen and page. The movements made sense to me. They hadn’t been choreographed like this before. It was different. It was intuitive without being routine.

It is romantic and magical. It will take your breath away as you are swept away by the emotion of it all. It speaks of my sacrifices and all of my hard work. It is meant to be a solo performance. It is about one dance and the audience. I gave up on the idea of having close friends a long time ago. I saw everyone as a threat, as competition. I didn’t engage with other dancers well. I knew I was marching to my own drum, and I didn’t need to critique what anyone else was doing. I didn’t want to cry on anyone else’s shoulder. If I failed, I didn’t want anyone to pity me. I wouldn’t let anyone cry with me or see my pain. As much as I craved solitude, I despised the loneliness but I could never reconcile the two. This was a great sacrifice I was making, but I didn’t know how to do it any differently if I wanted to succeed. This was the road less traveled. There weren’t any tire tracks to follow in. There weren’t mile markers along the road. I knew I was breaking the mold. I didn’t just break the rules. I rewrote them.

I knew there would be some people in the audience who would say I stole this move from so and so or I borrowed this pattern from that person. I didn’t study what anyone else did for the purpose of creating my own. If there are similarities, it is by coincidence. We all play with the same sand in the sandbox. There are some wheels that can’t be reinvented. We are all only working with these clumsy human bodies that break, that get tired and are ever so fragile. Yet we still use them every single day that we live. This is my impression of that in this dance I am about to perform for the first time in public. In a few short moments the lights are going to illuminate the stage and all of these people are going to see my most vulnerable and raw piece of work yet. This is what I have aspired to. All I can do is hope they ignore any dark spots, any points where the performance is flawed. It is happening now. The curtains are moving. The music begins. The lights have been illuminated.  They can now see me and I can see them.