Ranting Details

Triptych: Makeup Mirror

Fall Frolic

Nothing welcomes fall, or brings out the kid in all of us, quite like Central Park.  I recently spent a Sunday afternoon there with my friends Daniel and Jackie, and let's just say we were operating at the level of a five-year-old...with expensive camera equipment.

      

      

Just Another Citizen

I didn’t expect to make my return to the stage so soon.  Or in quite the manner that I am about to.  Yet here I am, standing next to my old colleagues in the wings at New York’s City Center, preparing to walk on stage in jeans and a sweater.  Stage left at this particular theater has to be the most cramped backstage I’ve ever encountered—less than four feet of space before a wall of ropes—and as I wait, anxiously tapping my Converse on the ground while other dancers file in around the light booms, part of me wants to grab hold of one of the ropes, release its hook, and fly up into the rafters. 

All evening people have been asking me if I’m “going to do it.”  The piece going on right now, Citizen by Lauri Stallings, had its world premiere earlier in ABT’s season.  I was sitting in the audience during the dress rehearsal when various stagehands, dancers, and children wandered on stage behind the ballet’s performers (at the direction of the choreographer) and stared out at the audience.  I didn’t know what to make of it when I was sitting out in my seat, and now I am about to become one of those stragglers, whose population has been growing with each passing show.  It will be the first step I’ve taken on stage during a performance since April 2007. 

Everyone around me is making jokes.  One boy is stripping down to his boxers.  Another has a kilt on.  Someone even has a video camera to capture all of the action.  For them, it’s just another night to try a new and outlandish way to draw attention.  To me, it is a reentry into a world I left without choice.  I feel myself falling back into my perfectionist-micro-managing dancer mindset as I ask all the particulars about our entry: when do we go?  How long do we stay?  What do we do? It’s less than thirty seconds on stage, I tell myself.  One of the newer corps girls, a face that wasn’t on the roster when I departed from the company, is kind enough to answer a few of my questions and explains to me that we walk out and stare at the audience “when the dancers freeze, and the orchestra hits a loud, prolonged note.” 

The pace of the people around me is quickening, as they make last minute adjustments to their outfits.  I align the Velcro of the bag on my shoulder, which holds the camera that has become my true companion over the past year; it reassures me things are okay.  It’s coming. “It’s soon,” the young blonde says to me.  I see my friends on stage, dripping sweat down their costumes of shimmery fabrics and sequins as they execute the frenetic choreography, wrapping arms around each other and propelling their bodies into splayed positions before freezing in a tableau.   

“Now,” she says.  Strings swell—always my favorite sound out of the orchestra pit—as dancers, technicians, and bystanders emerge from the wings.  I feel my posture change; my neck extends, head cocks, and my breath escapes me.  The audience is barely visible, as the lights lining the front of each balcony in the auditorium shine in our faces, and I am suddenly a performer again.  Part of me wants to sit on the stage for the remainder of the ballet and feel the energy rise up from the floor and into my body.  Part of me wants to take a picture.  And part of me wants to scream. 

Instead, I back into the wings with everybody else, walk out the stage door, and take a breath of the autumn air.  Just another citizen.   

Close Up Shop

Last night marked the official end of my four-year career with American Ballet Theatre.  There were no balloons, no speeches, no tears, and ultimately no closure.  Standing in the wings, watching my childhood idols Julie Kent and Ethan Stiefel dancing Giselle, I was reminded of how lucky I am to have worked alongside so many inspiring artists.  But as the second act progressed, and the ghost-like wilis overtook the stage, I couldn’t help but feel like one myself. 

Over the past year I have had moments of hope where my return to the company seemed almost within reach.  Then, in March, the decision was made that I was going to step away from the company and devote my emotional and physical energy into healing; hoping was replaced with coping.  That was long ago, and over the course of the subsequent months I have faced the emotional devastation of dealing with a chronic illness that ultimately pulled me away from the goal I worked toward since I was thirteen. 

One of the words I have wrestled with most through this time is “closure.”  As performer and a writer, I enjoy experiencing the arc of my movement or words when creation is complete.  The art that I lose myself in, often wraps things up in a way that morphs my perception of the journeys we take. 

I put much of my hope for a neatly tied bow in the end of the year party that typically occurs on the Friday before the final day of Met season.  It is a time to celebrate the dancers’ hard work and acknowledge those who are leaving.   Because of the nature of ABT’s schedule this year (which continues after Met with four weeks of tour), the party was eliminated.  With its cancellation came a barrage of emotions. 

It is one of many rituals dancers experience when parting ways with the company, in which I could not partake.  I didn’t know my last show, a Romeo and Juliet in Chicago in April 2007, was going to be the final bow I took with the company.   While some of these rituals may indeed be superficial, they are moments I wish I had the chance to experience. 

In reality, my departure began shortly after that bow, when I was diagnosed with Epstein Barr Virus.  Since then, I have drifted away from the friends that became my family during my time with the company.  Yet my name still rested comfortably in the middle of the corps listing of the program.  Its removal cuts the final strings that tied me to my first New York family.

I took a walk through the Met yesterday evening (essentially this family’s home), gathering my memories of my time as a member.  As I wove through the maze, I wondered if it was the last time my ID would let me through the doors; if my dressing room spot would ever be mine again; if I would ever warm-up at the barres in the wings; if I would have another ‘first’ performance, entering the stage and feeling the orchestra sweep over me.   These are all questions I can’t answer. 

Walking around backstage, I began realizing that life, unlike the movement or words in whose arcs I trust, isn’t something that can be revised through rehearsals or drafts in order to come to a resolution.  It is a constantly evolving creation that isn’t over until it’s over.   It’s entirely possible that I will be back.  And it’s entirely possible that I won’t.  I guess that’s the beauty of not having closure; possibilities are endless. 

Whadda We Eat?

(The Fourth of July celebrates one of America's favorite pastimes: EATING.  So at the first barbecue I attended last week, the big question was, "Whadda we eat?!"  Here are a few menu options.)

(What better way to satiate the palate than with a beer or two?  Isaac looms over the aftermath.)

(Bella is so delicious that you may want to eat her up, but she's a bit furry...and a dog.  Why else would she be sitting at attention, waiting for food to drop to the ground?  I could never get away with that.)

(Sure, the cake that Nicole made was delicious, but there were so many more unique menu options!)

(We don't need typical (and delicious) American fare when we could...)

(Eat Kristi's foot.)

(Or David's head.)

(Speaking of heads...light Marcelo's on fire and you've got Brazilian flambe!)

(But who needs food when you can dance!  It's all the nourishment you need. (Cue "The More You Know" music and shooting star.)

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.)