Ranting Details

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. 

Kicking the (Temporary) Transition's Ass

(Classmates Stephen Hanna and Jill Johnson enjoy the view during a break.)

In addition to writing for various magazines and doing freelance photography over the past few months, I have been taking college courses in hopes of one day getting a degree.  Collecting credits during the span of a professional career helps relieve the weight of two words that provoke more fear in dancers than falling into the orchestra pit: “career transition.” The funereal tone with which these words are uttered may as well send a chainsaw through the room removing dancers’ legs and packing them in a coffin.

Programs like LEAP (an unfortunate acronym for such a good program) aim to keep those legs on the ground while preparing dancers for the future.  Of the 15 credits I’ve accumulated so far, only three have been through LEAP, but as I stepped back into the classroom last Sunday I initiated the beginning of a more serious immersion in my academic life. 

Huddled in the back corner of an overly-air-conditioned Hyatt Hotel was a conference room that looked as if it had hosted its fair share of “Hairstylists of America” conventions.  When I opened the double doors (ten minutes late), I found a collection of artists huddled around tables strewn with generic Tic-Tacs and sweaty pitchers of water.  As I added myself to the contradictory scene, I watched as an older woman strolled into the center of the square of tables. 

For a moment she looked like the quintessential teacher -- large pearls teasing the neckline of a knee-length green dress leading down to tan sneakers.  Then she started speaking.  Her hands violently shook through the air.  Then they stretched out in a diagonal as she admitted her desire to be a musical comedienne.  Finally, they grabbed a blue marker and documented the highs and lows of her life along a timeline on the whiteboard.  In short: she threw herself onto the paper-thin carpet of that conference room.  It was an unusual introduction for an unusual course, and one that made me anxious to flex my academic muscles. 

As she paraded around the center of the square of tables, she punctuated sentences with scold-worthy stares into students' eyes that sent a shiver of anticipation through the classroom.  Each word she uttered made it clear that the course was going to be a different experience than what was described on paper.  It is the crown jewel in the LEAP curriculum: Professional and Personal Assessment, a chance for students to collect credits for knowledge they have acquired over the course of their professional careers by writing essays detailing their knowledge(up to 30 credits in total).  But our teacher Kathleen’s passionate introduction revealed that the course will hold more weight than that description; it will become a chance to explore the depth of our existing knowledge, and analyze the process in which we learn. 

For dancers, the ambiguity of a course like this is almost as much of a death sentence as the dreaded “career transition” itself.  Whether in New York City Ballet, ABT, a Broadway show, or freelancing, all of the students in my LEAP class have one thing in common: the burden of craving rigid guidelines for almost every niche of our lives.  Most of us have spent our existence adhering to an art form that counts out our steps, and tells us what square of the stage to stand in while executing them.  So when Kathleen explained the first assignment with the simple sentence, “Reflect about the way you learned something this week,” I could feel a ripple of anxiety make its way through the room. 

“The way we learned what?” we all wanted to know.  To make it through eight performances?  To squeeze an extra free ticket out of a Broadway producer?  We begged her to tell us what, how, and why.  And with a wry smile (revealing a more restrained side than her outlandish introduction), it was clear she wasn’t going to give us the satisfaction. 

As we sauntered out of the door, looking out at Lower Manhattan’s skyline on our way back to the PATH train, my friend Jill and I talked over each other with excitement.  The act of analyzing and reformatting one’s knowledge may at first seem like kicking a brick wall. But there’s something exciting about seeing if you can get the wall to move…even just a little bit.  There’s always the possibility that something great is waiting on the other side.   

In many ways the walls I spent my entire life building crumbled down over the past year.  Peering through the cloud of dust, and stepping out from the perimeter of the debris has been difficult.  This course seems like the perfect beginning to seeing if I can exist on the other side. 

Battle of the Matthew Mur's

A few weeks ago I was scanning through my email account when I saw a message from Robert Viagas of Playbill.com.  Amidst the various letters from Nigerian princes asking for money, and lottery notifications, I figured a message from the reputable Playbill was a fluke offering a discount code to a play no one was seeing.  Fortunately I took the time to read it, as it contained an exciting proposition:  Robert wanted me to come into the Playbill Radio studio to record a Podcast predicting who would receive Tony nominations when they were announced in the middle of May.  I scanned the email a few more times to make sure that I wasn’t dreaming what I’d just read, and sent a response that attempted to sound as collected as possible in my heightened state of excitement.  Then I waited.  And waited.  And never got a response. 

Every morning I woke up and opened Yahoo with my fingers crossed for a reply highlighting the details of the taping.  After a week passed, I sent a few emails to Robert (downplaying any hint of desperation) asking if the recording was still on.  Then I waited.  And waited. 

Then one afternoon (during my first of several distracted web searches) I decided to clean out my inbox.  I scrolled through the messages and looked to the left of the window where there was a folder titled “Spam.”  The number 127 rested next to the word, which until then I’d managed to have a happy existence with: my email accounts would notify me of wanted correspondence, while discarding the Viagra ads to the abyss of Spamland.  Occasionally an ad or two would slip into my inbox, but I’d never had the reverse happen.  Unfortunately this time, Yahoo! earned its exclamation point not out of excitement, but out of anger. 

Sitting comfortably in the untouched spam folder was a bundle of messages from Robert.   First there was information about the taping.  Then several others padded the middle, leading up a final message, which informed me that he and the other guest had waited fifteen minutes for me, but had gone ahead with the taping.   

I felt the pit of my stomach turn over.  Without sounding too ridiculous, the past year has been full of disappointments, and I was looking forward to being included in something that I have a passion for.   When I stumbled into my spam folder and realized that the taping had occurred only the day before, it made the blow even more powerful. 

I shot off a profusely apologetic email, underlining my interest in being included in any future tapings.  And with a simple click of a button labled “Not Spam,” I ensured Robert’s messages would reach me the next time around; if there was a next time. 

Fortunately, last Wednesday I got my chance to sit in the Playbill Radio booth and record my first ever Podcast.  The several days leading up to the taping found me cramming in performances of as many of the remaining musicals on my list as possible.  When the night before rolled around, I’d seen everything (except for “Grease,” which, let’s be honest, has no chance of winning) and had revisited my reviews to remind myself of what I had liked and disliked about all of the shows in the running.  Yet as I walked to midtown for the taping, all of those thoughts seemed to dissolve. 

The moment I entered the offices (a collection of grey cubicles where the only display of color comes from various posters and Playbill’s that adorn the walls and tables) I realized how nervous I was to speak.  When it comes to dancing, I have all the confidence in the world to present myself and rely on what I’ve rehearsed.  I even have more confidence writing than I do speaking.  There is a huge difference between sitting at a computer formulating your opinion with the comfort of the delete button only a pinkie-reach away, and having an articulate conversation that will be preserved for all the web to hear.

As I sat by the front desk, a boy poked his head around the corner of a cubicle and came creeping toward me.  “Are you Matt Murphy?” he asked.  “I read your blog!”  It was just the right boost of confidence I needed before Robert came to lead me to the booth after a quick introduction to Matthew Murray, a professional critic who joined us.

Odd as that coincidence of having a Matthew Murphy and a Matthew Murray as guests was, I quickly found that we had more in common than our names -- our opinions of the theatrical season synched up in most every category.  Of course, we didn’t do too much talking before the taping began (we wanted to keep the conversation fresh), but it was a comfort to know that I wouldn’t have to get in an argument with someone about why I disliked Patti LuPone so much.

(Robert  from my vantage point.)

After running through a bit of advice about the art of recording a Podcast (don’t eat the microphone, try not to pop “P’s,” and scream like a chimpanzee at every moment possible have fun) Robert turned on his best radio voice and pressed record.  For the next 50-minutes he led us through a conversation about who will win, who should win, and what surprises we can expect come Tony night. 

When we had finally exhausted the categories (with only a few retakes along the way) Robert thanked us for joining him and sent us on our way.  The elevator ride down the lobby found me questioning every word that I had uttered throughout the previous hour.  Had I insulted anyone?  Forgotten to mention any key points?  Probably.  But I’ll have to wait until June 11th to find out.

(The Matthew Mur's.)

 

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.)
 

Barney Tattoo Rubble

When faced with the question of if I would ever get a tattoo, or what it would be, I invoked my friends as examples of things to avoid: Chinese symbols, cartoon characters, family portraits, any animal or creature, and most lettering, no matter how foreign or ornate.  Yet for all of the items on my list of “don’ts,” I had none on the list of “do’s.”  Then a week ago I got a tattoo.   What changed? 

It all started one night while I was walking down St. Marks Place.  As I shuffled along behind tourists photographing the racks of orange zebra hats, and pierced men with space the size of a baby between their skinny-jeaned thighs, I passed a lone tattoo parlor-- a beacon of depravity on a slowly gentrifying street.  The fluorescent light outside flickered above a Barney stuffed animal chained to a railing.  Flies struggled to decide their destination of choice (between nesting on the glow of the light or the filthy relic of 90’s child brainwashing), but I couldn’t take my eyes away from the giant purple dinosaur.  One of his eyes hung by a thread, while the other shiny black button stared straight at me.   I shook my head and broke my fixated gaze only to catch a glimpse of various dusty “Looney Toons” characters asking to adorn my body from the tattoo window above.  Even though my adamant disapproval of such atrocities hadn’t changed, something inside me had shifted.  I let myself get swept up in the traffic flow and continued on my way to the East Village as thoughts of tattoos floated through my brain. 

The idea of inking my body gestated for a few weeks following my encounter with Barney.  My focus when reading The New Yorker would suddenly be interrupted with ideas of running out of the apartment and finding the nearest tattoo parlor.  If I was planning on attaching anything to my body while reading the magazine, it seemed like it should be a monocle and a cigar, not a tattoo.

During my couch brainstorming sessions, I realized part of the allure was being in control of something.  For much of the last year, I’ve struggled to get a grasp on my life, which at times seems like nothing but a series of events just beyond my control.

Then a few weeks ago I was writing with my friend online, when I asked the question, “Would I rather be healthy and stupid?  Or sick and wise?”  It didn’t have the eloquence that begged for me to imprint it on my skin forever, but the idea stuck with me.  More than anything, I wanted something to remind me of the struggle that I continue to go through, and the things that I’ve learned in the process.

Mid-conversation I decided to grab something in the kitchen, when I  noticed my reflection in the mirror.  Plastered across my t-shirt was my mantra for the past year: BIP/BON (Breathe in the positive/ breathe out the negative).  How had the idea not presented itself to me before?  My repetition of the phrase bordered on E.T.-like “phone-homing.”  If there was an obvious choice, it was this. 

Over the following weeks, I solicited opinions from my most trusted cohorts.  Person after person showed not only their excitement for the idea, but their interest in joining me for the event of (as my friend Jessica repeatedly pointed out) permanently altering my body.  Before I knew it, I had gathered a small village to journey with me. 

I knew to avoid the Barney Parlor (a flea-ridden stuffed animal sitting outside didn’t scream “reputable”), but finding the correct place to do the altering was yet another example of knowing what I didn’t want, but not what I did.  Within a day of announcing my intention, David had found a location in Williamsburg (Brooklyn, not colonial) that our friend Erin had gotten her tattoo at.   All it took was a two-minute phone call to make the appointment; the countdown began. 

My brain didn’t show any sign of nerves until the night before the appointment.  Hours passed as I tossed in my bed, anxious and unable to sleep.  When I awoke the next morning, with a makeshift rendering smeared in ballpoint pen across my wrist, I questioned if I was really going ahead with the plan. 

A subway ride led to a tattoo parlor that was more deserted than the shops on St. Marks place, a barren studio space with a couple of tables and a large man getting what is known in tattoo circles as a “sleeve.”  Before I knew it, my tattoo artist Michelle had loaded the gun and an ingratiating buzz filled the air.  Like the dentist, the sound was much more painful than the procedure.

(Stoic as the needle enters my skin.)

I had waited over a month between deciding to get one, and actually getting it, so as I waltzed out of the parlor with my friends and looked down at my saran-wrapped arm, I couldn’t believe it was over; ten minutes and I was changed for life. 

No matter how many times I told myself that I was doing this for me, and approval was something I could take or leave, I awoke the next morning with a pang of doubt.  As I unraveled my makeshift covering (a tangled mess of loosely applied band-aids that resembled a rope climbing wall), I felt beads of sweat on my forehead.  My roommate had vacated the premises, so I figured there was no better way to reassure myself than to do an inspection from every angle.

“Does it look cool if I pump my forearm really quickly like they make you do before you draw blood?” “Does it look cool if I sling my arm up to my forehead like a damsel in distress?”   The answers were a resounding yes and no, respectively. 

For a moment I couldn’t believe that I had felt the need to get a tattoo when I had a t-shirt that I could take on and off at my liking.  But as the week wore on I began to wear my tattoo as a badge of honor; a mark that I made it through the toughest year of my life and am wiser because of it. 

A few nights ago I wandered over the St. Marks Place and elbowed my way through the crowd.  There he was, chained to his post like always: Barney.  He may have collected a bit more dirt in the interim between our meetings, but ultimately he was the same beat up stuffed animal that he always was.   As I lifted up my camera to snap a picture of him, I caught a glance of my adorned wrist.  A small plus and minus sign reminded me to take a deep breath as the chaos continued around me.  I was  thankful that I wasn’t staring back at something garish.   Who knows?  If I had let Barney brainwash me the night of our first encounter, I might have ended up with a tattoo of a dinosaur on my wrist reminding me of Jurassic Park.  I shook my head and continued on my way, as I lifted my arm up and thought how thankful I am to have a reminder of the changes I’ve encountered.  A reminder that, just like the changes, can’t be taken off or washed away.
   

Not Too Feisty

(Sisters.)

You know something is wrong when one of the most exciting moments at a concert is the revelation that you look like Ira Glass.  So describes the evening I spent watching indie songstress Feist at New York City’s Hammerstein Ballroom. 

Ever since I stumbled upon Feist’s CD “Let It Die” three years ago, I can’t seem to get enough of the Canadian chanteuse.  Not even a fraught over article for an upcoming issue of Movmnt profiling the director of her videos, Patrick Daughters, or his overplayed Apple-endorsed clip for “1,2,3,4” could put a dent in my love.  So when I snatched up a trio of tickets and headed to the concert with Abby Ras and David, I expected to be wowed. 

In many ways, I was.  Feist’s voice has a way of escaping from her body directly to your ears; so clear that it cuts through the crowd like an indie angel descended from the heavens with the sole purpose of singing.  There’s barely a hint of vibrato, and more power than would be estimated from her frail body. 

Her powerful instrument was on full display from the moment she appeared behind a screen, straight hair tossing as gently as the white fringe that covered her dress.  A powerful, amped-up rendition of one of my favorite songs, “When I Was a Young Girl,” got things going and for a while it was smooth sailing.  Backed by a small (but loud) band of trumpeters, guitarists, a pianist and a drummer (I’ll get to the overhead projectionists later), she plowed through a collection of her up-tempo numbers in an effort to get the packed ballroom going; it was a feat she never fully accomplished.

(Shadow Feist.)

Sure, there was the occasional romping womanager (woman who behaves like a drunk teenager) who bounced across the front of the balcony.  But she seemed like a lone cheerleader hyped up on Red Bull in a sea full of people who had been slipped ruffies.  Mid-way through the hour-and-a-half set, Feist descended into song after song chronicling heartbreak of the most wrist-cutting degree.  In a venue a quarter of the size (or on my headphones) these songs would have been revealing and poetic meditations delivered by a skilled vocalist; in the cavernous Hammerstein Ballroom they were swallowed whole. 

Perhaps most at blame for the uneven, and ultimately forgettable, evening was the venue of choice.  Feist is an artist who has passed from indie to mainstream and is therefore capable of filling larger venues, but it doesn’t mean she should.  The production of the show was so desperate to maintain its low-budget quirkiness that the enormous crowd of people seemed like a contradiction to the material being presented.

(David was jealous that I found my look alike, so he posed with Matt McConaughey.)

(Abby was even more jealous, so she posed with Mary-Louise Parker.  This picture is 100% real.  Not a bit of Photoshopping.  Abby is just...)

Guitars rotated in and out of Feist’s skilled hands, but one thing remained constant: the only occasionally charming use of an overhead projector as the main design element.  Taken straight from a third grade classroom, the projector screamed hipster-chic, and often required three or four people to operate it.  Fireworks, toe-tapping legs, or feces colored waves filled a small square of light projected on the back wall but only added to the list of things that seemed out of place in the space. 

A few high-octane songs crept into the last half of the set (a rollicking cover of Nina Simone’s “Sea Lion Woman” woke the crowd up) but as she closed the show with a trio of ballads I couldn’t help but feel a tad disappointed. 

Making our way out of the theater, Abby, David and I bemoaned the late start and recounted our disappointment at the unmemorable show.  Standing on the subway platform, I turned around to see my twin Ira Glass staring back at me from an ad for “This American Life.”  Perhaps I shall begin a career posing in subway stations next to the ads.  If I put on Feist’s album, I might be twice as lively as the concert.

(Check out a video of the proceedings above!)

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. 

Picture This...

I woke up two hours before my alarm was supposed to go off; I was anxious.  The day was to be full of unknowns, but one thing I knew, as the early morning light wrapped its fingers around the corners my shades, was that I hadn’t slept enough.  The last time I remember looking at my clock was at 2:47 am, and I’d rolled over, letting out a hybrid sigh of frustration and exhaustion. 

Now it was time for me to get dressed.  I felt as if it was the first day of school.  I brushed my teeth, got in the shower and then proceeded to fuss with my hair until the jury behind my eyes approved it.

First day memories from someone else’s childhood flooded through me; grabbing the brown bag lunch, rushing out the door, rubbing my mother’s kiss off my cheek as she called my name while I dashed across the lawn.  I’d stop just long enough to turn around, wearing a ready-made smile as the sound of the camera’s shutter mated with the chirping birds.  Only I don’t remember my mother ever taking extensive documentation of my first day of school.

Today would certainly be no different, there was to be a camera involved but I wasn’t going to be documented, I was to be the documenter.  I charged down the stairs, two at a time, and walked out to the under-cast sky.  No green lawn, brown bag lunch, or mother; just pavement, a banana stuffed in my coat pocket, and Timur, waiting in the car to wisk me away to my first paying photography job.

It took us forever to find a parking space by the Lower East Side park we were trying to get to.  I began to feel as if I’d slept for fewer hours than it took us to circle the streets of Chinatown.  Our collective frustration waned as we pulled up outside the iron gates protecting the gleaming playground with plenty of time to spare. 

Camera crews were setting up a mini film village underneath a white canopy populated with school children.  I took a deep breath, slung a tripod over my shoulder and waddled around the block to the entrance of the park.  A text message the night before had given me my assignment (should I choose to accept it) of photographing a tree planting ceremony.  Of all the places I thought I’d be when I first got sick, the last place I would have told you was a tree planting ceremony with a professional camera in hand.  Yet there I was, and I was excited.

(Kids get their environmental hats on.)

Intimidation started to get the best of me while I watched the other photographers, all ten at least ten years older than me.  Their cameras were bigger, their eyes had seen more, and they knew the rules of the game.  I felt as if I had a giant red stamp on my forehead: “novice.” 

“Just follow the other photographers’ lead, and take pictures of everything,” Timur said to me.  “Everything,” he reiterated. 

After a few nervous glances at the other photographers, I started circling the area.  Children called out to me, requesting their moment in front of the lens.  I turned and snapped; each shot like a brick, building a wall of confidence.  Before I knew it, the ceremony had begun and the first speaker took the podium. 

All of the photographers rushed to the front and we went to work.  Shutters went off at such a rapid pace that we sounded like a pack of snipers with muted gunfire.  I crawled over benches and snuck behind trees, utilizing the remnants of my dancer flexibility to acquire more agile angles than the older photographers surrounding me.

(Timur zooms in on the proceedings.)

The events moved us from the podium to a nearby tree (the first of a million that will planted in NYC during the “Million Tree Month,” that was the reason for our attendance) and the true test began.  Photographers around me started barking out orders (“Can we all move back!” “Over here!”) as we jostled for a position in the cramped space.  Some stood on park benches, others knelt in the dirt, and we created a warped cheerleading pyramid that I worried was only moments from toppling over. 

The only woman photographer, whose wide-angle lens had been blocking my shots all morning, started to crawl over a bench and I offered her a helping hand (which, also, may as well have had “novice” stamped on it; manners were not one of the reining attributes).  She gave me a skeptical glance and proceeded to grab my hand.  Just as her leg passed over the wooden back of the bench, it caught between a crevice and she began to fall.  Most people would go for the sturdiest looking thing in sight; apparently it was my crotch.  Her hand, which had only moments before been blocking a shot of mine, was now grabbing my crotch like it was a piece of fruit she was checking for bruises. 

Her apologetic eyes met mine for a brief moment and I realized it was the first human moment I’d seen from her all day.  Before I had time to digest it, a photo op presented itself and I flung my camera up to my face and began snapping. 

After the children shoveled dirt with the environmental representatives for the ravenous press, the event was over.  Crews came into the park to dismantle banners and tents that stood erect and polished moments before.  As I stood beneath one of the trees that hovered over the seedlings that had just been planted, I felt a hand tap me on the shoulder.  I spun around to see the face of the woman who had played doctor with me only moments before.

“I just wanted to apologize for that moment a few minutes ago,” she said, camera dangling from her arm as she stuttered over her words.  “Not to worry,” I exclaimed. “I’m a dancer, so I’m used to all types of accidental inappropriate touching,” as visions of getting kneed in the crotch, or going for a girls arm but accidentally landing on her boob ran through my mind. 

The humor resonated on her face for a moment, and she let her guard down.   But her seasoned photographer ears heard a photo-op in the distance and she spun and ran towards the unknown.

I turned around and surveyed the remains of what had just happened.  Less than a year ago I was dancing for a living and I’d just finished my first paying photography gig.  Two questions passed through my head: Who knew I’d be groped doing what I thought was a "hands off" profession?  But more importantly: Who knows what adventure is in store next?

Triggers

I wrote this last night (kind of "stream of consciousness") and decided to share it.  It's here unedited from how it came out of my fingertips.  And a sidenote, that my mother pointed out, I do wash my face.  Have just been using something different since I got back to the city.  Leave it to the mothers of the world to point things like that out.   

Tonight I ran out of face wash.  To be honest, I sometimes forget to wash my face now that I’m on medication for my skin.  Whereas it used to be part of my routine, it’s now become something like flossing- a habit I should keep up but sometimes neglect. 

I don’t know why I decided I needed to wash my face tonight.  Perhaps it was the filth I saw at the theater that made me want to rinse myself to a purer form.  Whatever it was, I didn’t mean to ask for all of this when I reached for the bottle. 

I didn’t have any of my normal face-wash left after traveling.  Tucked in the corner of an otherwise barren shelf in my bathroom was an old bottle of a cleanser called “Purity.”  It was one of the few decent items in our Met gift bag a few years back, and something that all the dancers started to use as makeup remover.

As I rubbed the cream colored wash between my even paler fingers, I looked into the mirror and saw a face covered with stubble.  I never kept this much stubble on my face when I was dancing.  I haven’t shaved in almost a year.  I just trim. 

I brought the face-wash up to my cheeks and started to rub it in circles.  I was suddenly transported back into the Met dressing room, to my old life.  The smell reminded me of performing.  The feeling as it touched my skin (unlike any other face wash I’ve used) removed me from my body and pushed me further in.  The more I rubbed it in circles, the thinner it became.  And I couldn’t stop smelling it.  I reached for the bottle and pushed out a second (and completely unnecessary) serving onto the ridges of my fingers.  I repeated. 

I bent over and began to rinse my face with water.  Usually, when I was performing, the water would start to flood back into the bowl mixed with my make-up.  Bruises would rinse off, or whatever bizarre makeup the evening’s ballet had called for would just swirl into the bowl.  Tonight there was no makeup, just milky water.  I felt paralyzed.

Movement Division

Elementary school children are miniature.  Despite their size they also have enough creative energy to power a small city.  These are both things I forgot until today. 

It’s been years since I journeyed into the narrow halls of an elementary school, and when I passed through the doors of Arlee Elementary this afternoon I was met by tables that hit my knee and memories of my days with braces when my imagination was almost as wild as my teeth.  My purpose for being there was simple: to observe Anya and Jes teach the kids to learn math through explorations with movement.  But the thoughts that it prompted in me were all over the map. 

All I could think of as I was watching the students bounce around the hybrid cafeteria/gymnasium was how lucky I would have been to have such a program when I was a student.  Math was always my weakest subject in school, and when paired with the uncreative nature of American education, I felt more stifled than in other classes.

I anxiously awaited the “creative” days in school.  Oddly enough gym was one of the more creative times I had.  We would do line dancing (speaking of when you KNOW you’re in Montana), which was fantastic, as I desperately avoided any sports.  I would try to convince my teachers that running the mile meant my knees would explode.  Or that Murphy’s were scientifically proven to spontaneously combust if they did more than two pull-ups.  Excuses were some of the few moments where I was allowed to be creative. Otherwise I had to conform to an education system that became increasingly rigid and uncreative as I grew older. 

To watch these students today not only choosing, but PROMPTED, to be creative reminded me of the days before puberty where self-consciousness was but a whisper in the back of my bowl-cut.  As they learned the rules of division by separating themselves into groups while improvising movement, I began to feel the desperate need for creativity in the classroom.  Perhaps nurturing creative impulses promotes too much individuality when the school system really wants conformity they can measure with grades.  It also takes much more energy on the teachers’ part, which perhaps they don’t see as “worth it.”   I can’t help but think that if this type of creativity was stimulated throughout every class, and encouraged more fervently as students matured, that the benefits (both to society and personally) would be vast.

During the hour I watched difficult ideas of division and multiplication start to become clear in the students’ minds.  Even the boy who proceeded to sing "skinamarinky dinky dink” throughout the entire lesson found the answers through the movement as he sang his song.  Putting students in a social situation that encourages creativity while they learn is something I don’t remember; I hope these students realize how lucky they are. 

After the class ended I wandered over to one of the many bulletin boards lining the walls.  Chunky cut out letters spelling “Poetry” gave me a hint of what would be found pasted on the construction paper below.  As I approached, I found the first in a series titled “My Soul.”  What I saw astonished me.  I’d forgotten about the type of freedom that young minds have.  Standing and reading how these students described what their souls look, feel, and smell like, I began to wonder if stifled creativity is simply a by-product of growing up, or if it is somehow bled out by the education system in America.  Perhaps what I saw today was a signal of a slow but important change.