Ranting Details

Latin Fire Devours the Dressing Room

One of my favorite parts about Met season was always the dressing room.  Only, I had a habit of spending a lot of time in Marcelo and David's dressing room rather than my own.  The accommodations for the corps are pleasant, but the Principal dressing rooms take the cake.  During breaks I would wander down to their cushioned, private corner of the Opera House and spend time with two guys who not only inspire me, but make me laugh unlike anyone else.   

It's rare that two Principal men are on for the same performance, so when I stopped by to catch David's debut in "Don Q" I couldn't help snapping a few photos documenting their preparation for the show!

For Your Viewing Pleasure

Tonight I sat in a cage and rested my chin on a pole extending in front of my face.  The pole connected to a post, which led the floor of the Metropolitan Opera House's downstage left wing.  For three acts of a ballet, I hovered above the people who I used to see a daily basis as they performed “Don Q.” 

It was one of the first ballets I performed with ABT, and as I observed from the photographer's position known as “the cage,” I felt a torment awake inside of me that clashed with the jovial nature of the dancing below.  Old friends paraded on stage -- swishing their skirts, beating their tambourines -- and I felt the stillness of my body in comparison.  As I inched closer to the edge of my railing-less perch, dancers took notice and began to flash smiles my way; a game of sorts - 'how many glances can we sneak in without notifying the audience of an offstage presence?'

With each consecutive glance I felt a screen solidify in front of my eyes.  It was as if I was watching a movie of my old life, full of characters staring out from the celluloid into the abyss.  The Latin fire pervaded the barrier as corps members clapped rhythmically to the beat.  My heart replied, sending blood down my arms and through my hands, urging them to clap along as they used to; I reached for a camera to steady my confusion. 

Acts progressed and my posture defied my dancer nobility as the weight of jealously, sickness, nostalgia, and comfort pressed down on my shoulders.  I clapped, not as the dancers did, but as an audience member, and lifted myself to stand; I had to get out of the cage. 

Hopping Backstage

A GENERAL NOTE: I AM CURRENTLY ENROLLED IN TWO COLLEGE COURSES THAT REQUIRE INTENSE AMOUNTS OF WRITING (A TEN-PAGE PAPER, A TWO-PAGE PAPER, AND A BOOK TO READ BY SUNDAY).  THEREFORE, IT IS LIKELY THAT THE BLOG WILL BE PICTURE-HEAVY OVER THE NEXT FEW WEEKS!  I APOLOGIZE IN ADVANCE!  I HOPE EVERYONE WILL STILL ENJOY IT WITHOUT MY RANTING!!!

Caught ABT's new Twyla Tharp ballet over the weekend with my friends Leyton and Abby Ras.  Headed backstage and took this totally spontaneous picture in the dressing room.  Abby is doing her best impression of a former prima ballerina who watched the entire show with sunglasses on.  My lips are sealed! 

Pas for Jenny

Last Saturday night marked ABT's memorial tribute to Jennifer Alexander.  Most of you will remember that Jennifer, a dearly beloved corps member of ABT for 13 years, passed away last December.  Included in the celebration of Jennifer's life was a piece that Marcelo Gomes choreographed for two of Jennifer and her husband Julio's closest friends, Isaac Stappas and Kristi Boone.  It was a simple and elegant pas de deux that celebrated the love shared between Julio and Jennifer; a perfect way to honor Jenny.

I had the chance to photograph the pas a few months ago. 

   

 

Gala 2.0

Walking up to Lincoln Center for ABT’s gala a few nights ago, I was filled with thoughts of my eighteen-year-old self on my first day of work.  There was a fountain then.  Now there is scaffolding devouring the majority of the plaza.   Construction workers danced their machines around the disarray on Monday night, drilling new foundation as patrons scattered and searched for a place to wait for their dates.  Fortunately I had the lovely Sterling Hyltin as mine. 

After wrestling with myself over whether or not to attend the annual opening of the season celebration, I found myself staring in the mirror, meticulously tying my new silver tie at 5:40 on the afternoon of the show; apparently I was going.  First the tie was too long, then it was too short, then finally, exasperated, I managed to get it just right and journeyed uptown for what I knew would be a bittersweet evening; in many ways this gala signals the beginning of the end of my time in the company.

One of the most difficult aspects of leaving ABT has been losing the day-to-day life I’d grown accustomed to.  As a young dancer right out of high school I found comfort not only in doing what I love with one of the best companies in the world, but also in the family that company created. 

Years passed and I developed relationships spanning the ranks.  Some continue to be fraught with tension, while others started as surface friendships that later revealed themselves to be trusted companions.  In many ways my work life was my social life.  Even though I always knew the difficulties of mixing work and play, I also felt lucky to find so much in one place.  Those comforts began to fade away when I was diagnosed with EBV.

(I almost wore that (you know, to avoid any tie drama), but then I heard she was and that would have been a DISASTER.  I would have looked so much better...obviously.)

Dealing with this illness has prompted a reorganization of my life on every level.  It simply isn’t possible for me to populate my life with only dancers when it acts as a constant reminder of what I’m unable to do right now.   But stripping away my work life meant taking away much of my New York family.  Therefore the gala ended up being a family reunion of sorts. 

After an overly long program (as is the case with galas) full of season highlights (and a few random selections, including the “Onegin” pas de deux danced by Marcelo Gomes and the incomparable Julie Kent), Sterling and I swirled down the stairs from the top tier of the Met where we’d been seated.  We pushed our way through the meandering patrons and finally reached fresh air, and a bundle of dancers, outside.  I took a deep breath and gave Sterling a hug as we parted ways; I would brave the party on my own.

(Sterling and I pose for the paparazzi after the show.)

Each year the festivities are held in a large tent resting in the shadow of the Met Opera House.  What looks like a haz-mat tent on the outside, all white tarp and rope, makes way to a cavernous space filled with round tables, two dance floors and a band.  A majority of the dancers are seated in the rear half of the room, and all I hoped for was to be at a table with a group of people I knew.

I scanned the seating chart, a piece of paper that resembled a disheveled game of tic-tac-toe, and found my name by table 25.  It was practically falling off the paper, as it was situated in the furthest corner from the entryway.  Another deep breath and I made my way through the crowd. 

It wasn’t long before I arrived at my table and felt a wave of relief as familiar faces welcomed me.  Sean Stewart, Daniel Keene, Kenny Easter, Eric Tamm; it was going to be okay.  Before I knew it we were catching up about the goings on in the company while I did my best to avoid talking about being sick.  In short, it’s draining to catch up with 80 of your family members about health struggles.  Yet somehow I thought a shirt detailing the most recent updates wouldn’t look flattering with my suit. 

Being on the periphery of the tables gave me an opportunity to sit back and relax as dancers made their rounds once dinner was over.  The two dance floors filled up with couture-clad patrons and the occasional celebrity (Kelly Ripa, Donald Trump and Sigourney Weaver were in attendance) while I savored my dessert.   All the while I couldn’t help but reminisce about my first Met party when I danced the night away.  New company members flitted through the room with the same abandon that we all possessed at one point. 

The night wore on and I began to feel tired from just watching the dancers eat up the dance floor.  Coats were hooked around seatbacks, and ties began to come undone while the cover band continued their assault of elevator remixes of today’s pop hits.  I wove my way through the crowd and said my goodbyes before slipping out as quietly as possible. 

Once I made my way out of the tent I was confronted with the sight of a fountain-less plaza, once again. It occured to me that I had stopped to sit at the fountain after every one of the previous Met galas.  The hope is that the new fountain will be better than the old, but it’s hard not to miss it while it’s gone.

(Goddess Anne Milewski and I look sibling-y.)

 

(Marcelo and Anne cozy up with...Grant.)

(Eric steals some dessert.)
 

IN THE STUDIO: "Tacaca" 2

Here's the second batch of photos from Marcelo Gomes' world premiere ballet, "Tacaca," debuting tomorrow night at the Youth America Grand Prix Gala!  A huge merde to Marcelo, Sarwannee Tanatanit, and Blaine Hoven for tomorrow night! 

IN THE STUDIO: Meeting "Tacaca"

THANK YOU TO EVERYONE FOR THE WONDERFUL SUPPORT ON MY LAST POST!!! IT MEANS THE WORLD TO ME!

Wednesday was one of the busiest days I've had in the past year.  I managed to make time for all three of my passions: writing, dancing, and dolphin training photography. Even though my backpack made me feel like I was carrying a full-grown person on my shoulders, I was limber enough to sneak around the studio and capture some pictures from Marcelo Gomes' new piece, "Tacaca." 

The piece marks Marcelo's New York choreographic debut and will be performed on Monday night at the Youth America Grand Prix Gala.  Be sure to grab a ticket if you can get your hands on one! 

With such gorgeous subjects as Sarwanee Tanatanit (her hair!) and Blaine Hoven, it's hard to go wrong.  Many more pictures to come!!! 

All photos © Matthew Murphy 2008.

Announcement

I've known about this for two months now, but I feel as if it's the right time to discuss a major life change. 

38-4-34.    Even a year away couldn’t make me forget that combination.  For four years I
used it two or three times a day to open my locker at ABT.  In that time I had five or six other locks that I lost and forgot, but this one touched my hands so many times that the numbers were as ingrained as my own birthday. 

Each time I opened it I would be surprised at the remnants of days passed that I’d left to collect at the bottom: energy bars, old water-bottles, a pair of tights I’d been looking for for weeks.  All things that built up to create a mountainous grab-bag of dancer memorabilia.  They are all things that are now covered in dust. 

When I opened the metal door five days ago, I felt like I’d time traveled back to my old life.  Only this time I hadn’t come to collect my things at the end of a workday, I’d come to collect my things for the last time.  At the end of July, I will be removed from the roster of ABT.

It was this week a year ago that I found out I had Epstein Barr Virus (EBV).  Never in my wildest nightmare would I have imagined it progressing to this stage.  As I looked into the pile at the bottom of the locker I noticed a pair of red booties, once vibrant, now covered in a thick coating of dust.  On the top shelf: a pair of half-sewn pointe shoes from my last day of rehearsal when I was learning the role of Bottom in The Dream.

For a moment I questioned if these items were indeed mine.  I don’t feel like the same person I was a year ago; I’m not the same person I was a year ago.  When asked what I do for a living, my once solid stock answer of “dancer,” now catches in my chest, unsure of its ability to make an appearance to the world.   

The backpack I was carrying was proof of that professional change.  What was once a dance bag now housed a set of dance clothes to take barre, a camera to photograph my friend’s rehearsal, and a computer to work on magazine articles afterward.  I feel more like a writer and a photographer at the moment than I do a dancer, and I ask myself how I can own that title if I’m not actively engaged in the profession. 

Yet looking in the bag as it sat beside my locker, I realized how I am not defined by what my profession is, but by how I handle myself through everyday life.  The three letters “ABT” may have been replaced by “EBV,” but I know that neither define who I am.  At the moment I’m not dancing, but I am still a dancer in my soul and I can’t wait to be back performing again. 

With the absence of ABT, in many ways, I will be the most lost I’ve ever been.  But as is typical with the universe, it has mysterious ways of teaching us lessons.  EBV has informed my spirit in a way that I never would have thought possible a year ago; it has grounded me and taught me about what I want in life.  Every change it has initiated has been more drastic than I ever could have anticipated, but I’m still soldiering on and defining myself by my strength of character and not by my profession for the first time in my life.  No choice but to brush off the dust and start anew...I'm sure it won't be the last time.   

Here’s a toast to the future and whatever it holds in store. 

Birthday Bash

(Warning: Intense brain fog today...please forgive any issues with this post!)

I can't believe that it's already been a year.  This past Wednesday I celebrated my 22nd birthday and it was a bittersweet occasion.  The unfortunate fact of the matter is that my birthday now acts as a reminder of the last time I felt healthy.  Things went downhill rather quickly after I turned 21 in Minneapolis last year, and it wasn't even a month before I succumbed to the trials of Epstein Barr Virus.  I knew that this celebration was going to be emotional, but it also ended up being a wonderful in unexpected ways 

The day started out a bit boring; some apartment cleaning, a minor breakdown, and lounging around saving up energy for the night's festivities.  However, it wasn't long until Carson and our friend Melissa showed up to put a smile on my face and treat me to my first pedicure ever.  There's nothing like letting a random woman cut your toenails and gasp at your calluses; confidence booster indeed.  As pleasant as that experience was, it was all in preparation for the required footwear of the evening: bowling shoes. 

The guest list for the night was an eclectic assortment of my friends, many who had never hung out before.  I always get a bit nervous when mixing groups, but from the moment we arrived at Bowlmor, it was clear that everyone was in the mood to mingle. 

(All pictures by Timur Civan.) 

(My one and only girlfriend Ashley catches up with Carson as I loom in the background.  I make a good hat.)

(Carson looks grumpy that I chose to enter the picture.  Tough.  Just enjoying a crazy night out with my special celebratory birthday drink: Coca-Cola!  Craziness, indeed.)

(Not sure what I made Marcelo laugh about.  Obviously I'm hilarious.)

(The fabulous Erin picks out a ball that is bigger than her entire body.)

(Alec knows that the black light is the perfect opportunity to show off his pearly whites.)

(Julio gives bowling lessons to the onlookers.)

(Thinking about getting back together?  No, just talking about how fierce we looked in our prom photo.)

(Be careful...Melissa will eat your face.)

(Feeling my generous heart?  Or smearing beer on my chest?)

(Melissa celebrates the fact that she is wearing grey and white stripes...just like Carson and me!)

(Marcelo and Julio celebrating a strike?  Or the fact that Britney Spears has a new anime music video out? )

(Carson gets the coolest shot of the night and proves that she MIGHT be a speed skater.  Look at that form!)

(It's possible that my leg is asleep in this picture.  Or made of wood.  That being said, I did beat everyone .  That's right...blogger AND bowling champion.)

(Hence the Evita pose.)

The History of BAM (Blaine and Matt)

(This is how we look in the morning before we shower.)

I often don’t remember my first encounters with many friends, but I remember meeting Blaine Hoven. 

It was a Spring afternoon in North Carolina and I was making my way back to the dance building after grabbing a snack.  Ninth grade was winding down, and there had only been a few other boys in my class.  As I walked along the second floor of the courtyard, I passed a faded blue “Dance” painted on the wall when I ran into one of my teachers, Christine Spizzo. 

“Matt, I want you to meet Blaine,” she said to me as I gazed at a boy and his mother whose Southern roots became apparent the moment they said hello.  “Blaine’s thinking about joining us next year at NCSA.  Wait until you see this boy turn.”

Immediately I felt threatened.  Turning was one of the things that had given me insecurities my entire dancing life.  Suddenly there was a boy in front of me who not only had the endorsement of one of my teachers, but he also excelled at my weakness; I’d worked all year on those things. 

Before I knew it, the fleet footed turner had stepped into my territory at NCSA.  Armed with a yellow “Murphy High School” Track Jacket, and a suitcase full of extra Southern syllables, I wasn’t sure what to make of him at first.  He fit nicely into my group of friends, but I remember people began to pit us against each other. 

Girls in class would debate our butts, or whose extension was nicer (he usually won both of those contests).  Of course, key above those debates was that of our dancing.  It was the type of competitive friendship that I had lacked my entire first year.

My friendship with Blaine escalated to a type of brotherly camaraderie.  We would bicker (as we still do at times) but there was always a sense that we were looking out for each other.

It quickly became apparent to me that Blaine and I were like night and day when it came to our dancing.  One of the hardest things about our initial friendship was learning to rise above the judgment from other people.  If there was one dancer I knew I could learn from at NCSA, it was Blaine; falling into the pattern of pitting ourselves against each other would be useless in the long run. 

As we grew, it became clear that as different as we were, somehow the same career path had chosen both of us.  Two years together at NCSA led to Studio Company contracts, and we moved up to the city in August 2003. 

Once we got there, sharing bunk beds in an apartment that had ten mice for each of the six people, we became closer than ever.  There were still catty fights to be had, and drunken explorations of the city that are some of the most vibrant memories of my life, but whatever the event, it was just another piece of the puzzle of our friendship. 

Somehow we came out of an apartment with six teenage boys alive, and in the spring of 2004 entered the main company.  It was then that I began to rely on Blaine more than ever.  Blaine is always there to clarify a step, or make a blunt comment to lighten the tension in the room.  Blaine is always there to be my friend and push me to be a better dancer.

It’s been difficult over the past year because as much as I’ve gone through with Blaine, this illness was something I could only endure alone in many ways.  To say it has cut into my friendships (and obviously my professional life) is an understatement. 

When Blaine told me that he wanted to come to Montana, I didn’t believe him.  It’s expensive.  And far away.  And freezing this time of year.  All in all, not the most enticing travel package.  Regardless, Blaine made the trip and we had a wonderful time exploring several facets of Montana’s gay culture, and catching up on all that both of us have missed from each other’s lives.  Just a few more memories to add to the already crowded library.