Satiety: Swan Lake

Christmas and the sprinkles of the first virgin snow never cease to peak the public’s crave for a festive show.

Eight weeks straight. Eight performances a week. Sixty-four shows. Washington was Giselle, California was the Nutcracker, Los Angeles was La Bayadère, and finally, the epic climax of Swan lake. Christmas party? Holiday get together? Family dinner? No, the show must go on. I was a swan; another angelic bird part of the corps de ballet. 

A long-spanning reputation for having performed in fifty countries, hundred thirty-six cities; American Ballet Theatre was in the midst of their annual tour, pliéing and port de braising across international and state theatres. Ballet was what we had injected into our bloodstreams and what we had spent years shaping our muscles into coping with, to chase the thrilling flash of the spotlight and the electrifying feeling of an audience's attention. Nevertheless, all-day training, sleeping only in commute, time differences, and the pit aching of feeling homesick was only making the sunset slower. Performances quickly had to adapt and become clockwork, everyone needed to move with purpose; each second lost accounted for a minute that would push us back. My team and I knew what the holidays were: a minefield of bleeding calluses, muscle inflaming and warm water soaking. Those who did not bind their feet properly would lose toenails mid performances, but the show continued onward no matter how painstaking. Everyone's loyalty would be tested and the steady march to reach the end of December slowed with every post-dance heel massage.

Was I playing The Swan Princess? The Black Swan? The Queen? No. 

Why was I here? Why was I crouching over my tattered toes desperately trying to soothe the aching bunion, when my family lay down a table runner for a festive feast nearly four thousand kilometers away? I did not need to be reminded, tedious questions like this didn’t matter and neither will they ever to me, right now I needed to warm up. To undergo the rigor of performing in this Tchaikovsky masterpiece, the basics were to look like a floating swan; however untainted and docile you could make yourself look. Perfectly ceremonial. Perfectly poised. I would not let however tender standing on my tiptoes were to dictate or distract from my role. I am a swan and swans were not supposed to feel pain when floating. 

Tonight was show night and it was a full house, the endgame was encroaching and outside the theatre, it was snowing in true Christmas magic fashion; how suffocatingly cheesy.

Act 1, opens to a grand square in front of a castle. Act 2, a moonlit night on the clearing of a bank. Act 3, an ostentatious hall inside the palace. Act 4, by the lakeside...

The fabric barrier drew back once again for the last time, commencing the final act. 

The hollowed cave-like theatre drowned with black and extinguished all warmth; the only light that remained was the audience’s eyes that glistened a reflective silver. The towering ceiling above seemed to now open up to a night sky; a breathable but compressed black hugged the stage.

Soaring above the crowd, gliding through the darkness, the delicate tune of strings accompanied by a heavenly run of the harp strengthened the stillness of a rapt audience. 

Then -like the shock of lightning- a beacon of white danced on the walls and rushed to the stage; the onlookers held their breath in unison. The theatre diffused the prickly vibration and tingling scent of adrenaline.

In disciplined fashion, a bevy of slender white swans tiptoed on their peach-toned pointe slippers. Each one of their faces strained towards the ground behind their shoulder.

In flawless single file, the stark colored swans’ tutus faced the crowd fully as they pointed their vamp outward. Their faces had been painted around the eye sockets and cheekbones with an ash grey and black, mimicking the inky feathers at the face of a swan or snow owl. Then the instruments advanced, at the exact first note the swans began their number. Springing up from their crouched position they stabbed the stage with their platforms in a frenzy of blurred white figures.

The cellos joined the fleeting melodies of the violin; solemn, sweet and short notes now enthralled the watchers with its buoyancy. 

Each white pair of legs like a knife slashed through the air in such grotesque harmony with one another. 

Audience members cocked their heads higher, bewitched by the outstretched, tall and narrow flow of the swans’ arms and fingertips. An instant leap in the rhythm of the notes triggered the swans to vault from one point to the next, the precision of their bodies like javelins piercing through the sky and impaling the floor below. 

The orchestra’s echo grew tenfold,-the climax was approaching- the swans bolted past one another, terror and fright beaming out of their flexed cheekbones and chins; hinting at a vicissitude in the act. Their nimble calves hit the floor on each rising note, they appeared to float like clouds lingering in the sky but their lower halves depicted a shrewd contrast.

A woodwind melody shoved past the other instruments. Every joint in their arms oozed and trickled out towards the crowd almost close enough to touch their icy skin. Finally, as delicate as a blooming lotus sprouting its petals and as elegantly as it had begun, the swans wafted away on their glass legs entangled with the fragile symphony; the theatre again was engulfed with black.

Goosebumps pebbled through the skin down my thighs and my spine was shivering through the exposed back of the bodice. 

Someone was calling out from the entrance "You gon' tag along?" 

I flashed a toothy smile at the swans who had unassembled themselves the quickest from their feathers and sparkles and were now looking twinkly-eyed at me, keen on savoring what was left of Christmas eve. 

"No, no-go 'head without me." I hollered back. The stage was naked, with no sets nor props. I sat on the chilled floor with my aftercare kit open just like some other half dozen girls around me. Meticulously following my routine, I rolled out my tender muscles and heated the balls of my feet. I've done it. In retrospect, it was a masochistic way to phrase it but I had survived. 

When finished, I cocked my chin high and impulsively gushed a smile towards the ceiling as I pushed through the steel norman doors; striding into the darkness of Christmas eve. As I threw my sight to each end of the street, not a joyous or festive soul was to be heard; only the gaudy decor that illuminated the baren sidewalks yellow. Everyone had retreated from the winter freeze. Most likely having decided to retire to their embellished homes and carry out a comically cozy night by some sort of wood fire. I haphazardly slung myself onto a densely snow-coated bench and didn't yield to put my chin down, allowing the delicate snows to cling to my hair and clothes. My red cheeks melted and harden under the rich glow of the warm-hued lights.

Memories of restless nights, the bleeding calluses, muscle inflaming, and warm water soaking had all delicately untangled from me and slipped through my fingers, bundling together to present the best gift I could have given myself. As I awkwardly shift in the bench I hear the crackle of my jacket and nothing else; I rested easy with no particular place to be and relived the roar of the applause.