by Meg Howrey
“This is it!” I wanted to shout. “This is what I’ve been dealing with for almost ten years! Now you see it! This is what it’s like!”
I realized how eagerly, ghoulishly, I had been waiting for this hand-off. For someone else to see what happens with Gwen, for someone else to deal with it. But I had that crumpled-paper feeling inside my stomach again.
“Why did you tell me she was fine?” I demanded, covering the side of my face with my free hand, a buffer against flying knives. “Why am I just hearing about this now?”
Mom is no dummy. She let enough silence in so I could hear what I just said.
“You haven’t been telling us everything either, have you?” she asked, very calmly.
“What do you mean?”
“What do I mean about what?”
“It sounded like you were accusing me of something.”
“Oh Kate, don’t be so sensitive,” Mom said, chirping. “I know you’ve always been very protective of your sister. That’s all I was saying. You always think I’m implying these … I don’t know whats.”
“I just want you to keep me in the loop, okay. I don’t know why you can’t call me.”
“I was waiting until we knew a little more. We don’t really know anything about this kind of thing. We have to let Gwen do this herself is what they keep saying. I know you want to help.”
“Is her knee okay, at least?”
“Yes. That they seem able to handle. These doctors, Kate. You should see some of the literature they hand you. They’ll make you crazy! Now how’s my Katie-bird? Let’s talk about you for a little bit.”
I told her about my neck.
“It’s not serious, though,” said my mom.
“I don’t know,” I said. “It may be. It’s hard. I’m in a lot of pain, actually.”
Jesus, my voice even wobbled when I said that. Luckily that jerked me back to my senses.
“But I’m taking care of it. No bigs.”
“You’ll be all right! Drink lots of water and wrap it up in one of your scarves.”
“I will.”
Conversation stalled. We talked a little more, in a desultory fashion. Like two people playing tennis, but on separate courts, so nobody could return a shot.
“How are you holding up?” I asked her, at the end of the conversation. “Is there anything I can do?” These are the things one says. Especially when there’s a high-percentage chance that the response will be “I’m fine” and “No, thank you.”
“You just take care of yourself,” Mom said. “You just be my rock.”
“I guess Gwen won’t be coming back anytime soon, huh?”
“Apparently the first thing is to get the right medication,” Mom said doubtfully. “But I don’t really know too much about all that.”
I wasn’t being insensitive, by the way, suggesting that Gwen might believe she was Queen of the Fairies. If Gwen were here she’d be rehearsing Titania, Queen of the Fairies, for A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
After we hung up I decided to stay in bed for a little while. That turned into skipping company class and staying in bed until ten. Just resting, you know. Like a rock. Obviously it was a very upsetting conversation. Actually I was pretty freaked out.
It’s not a big deal—skipping company class. It’s not officially mandatory for soloists and principals, although you don’t want to go too long without putting in an appearance. And of course you do have to take class somewhere. It’s part of our creed, daily class. And one still says “class” even when one is a professional and has ceased to actually be learning anything other than the precise amount of erosion occurring in one’s cartilage. Not that one is perfect and there is nothing more to learn. But class at this point is really more about maintenance and self-evaluation. It’s easy to get out of shape if you aren’t always pushing yourself. It’s easy to lose your edge if you don’t constantly hold yourself to the highest standards. Unrecoverable torpor might not be a matter of a few missed classes, but it feels like it.
Andrew came once to watch me take class. “It wasn’t like what I thought,” he said, and then: “It looks weird to see people dancing up close like that.” Later when we were having sex he told me that it really turned him on to watch me sweat. This is the kind of thing that happens when you date civilians. You tell your average non-dancing dude that you are a dancer and they all think the same thing, which is some version of “Wow, so I can fuck her while she’s in the splits.” Perhaps all these guys should be issued a dancer at some point in their sexual development so they can get over this debilitating notion and learn the truth: the splits are a terrible position to have sex in. Nobody gets any traction at all and it’s just goofy. You’re better off with the basics and someone who isn’t either hungry or exhausted.
This morning would have been a good moment for Andrew because I was very upset, somewhat theatrically so really, but I didn’t long for his comforting arms to be around me. Andrew was security, maybe, but not solace. Then he turned out to be neither, right, so the joke is on me. And I’m in the splits, getting no traction.
I took class with Gareth before going to rehearsal. Gareth teaches at a big studio on the Upper West Side.
So here’s the thing with ballet studios around town. For the most part, all the classes are technically “open.” Which means if you have a pair of ballet slippers, you could go take Gareth’s class too. Most classes are rated: Beginning, Intermediate, or Advanced, but teachers rarely throw anyone out. They need the money. So at a class like Gareth’s you might get major company members, some unemployed dancers, Broadway kids, serious students, and then a handful of freaks. The freaks never miss a class. Proof that one can maintain a residence in New York City, have enough surplus cash to pay for dance class, feed and clothe oneself, learn choreography, wear pointe shoes, and still be an absolute stranger to Reason. There’s one regular at Gareth’s who spends the entire class standing in the corner and arranging himself in elaborate Diaghilev-era postures while talking to his reflection in the mirror. It should be noted that these whackjobs are probably the happiest people in the room.
Gareth is always pleased to see me or any professional, really. Since he only teaches at noon he doesn’t get a lot of us. Wendell, who teaches at ten at the same studio, is the popular choice for most company dancers, since his class is by invitation only. It’s always packed. He’s quite the little guru. People get very nervous when they know Wendell is in the audience. His “Not bad at all, sweetie, there were some very nice moments here and there” means more to some dancers than an “Absolutely radiant and virtuosic” from the New York Times. I don’t like him, or his class, or the atmosphere in the room. He’s a big fan of Gwen, though.
Gareth is English and I find his accent and irony soothing. I’m happy when he comes to a performance, because I know he’ll have something funny to say to me when I see him next. Sure enough, he gave me a wink before class began and during pliés he sauntered over to my spot. (I like to be at the barre near the window. For the fresh air and in case I need something to throw myself out of.) “Darling,” he said. “I was there last night. I saw what you did.”
“What did I do?” I laughed. “I can’t remember a thing.”
“You made me want to be a Polish Princess,” Gareth drawled, doing a sketch of a mazurka with his hands. “You made me forget that I’ve seen the ruddy ballet five thousand times. Where did that come from?”
“Powerful analgesics,” I said.
“Oh?” Gareth raised an eyebrow. “Well, keep it up.”
Class.
First thirty to forty-five minutes are at the barre. There’s an order and a logic to it, but it’s not always the same exercises. Some teachers might start class with a little guided stretching: rolling the head, the shoulders, swinging out the hips, the lower back. Some teachers may have a set sequence for the first couple of combinations, and if you’re new to the class and don’t know it, you just follow the person standing at the barre in fr
ont of you. Always the left hand on the barre first, then turn around and repeat with the right hand on the barre. Hand on the barre lightly, please. It’s not a crutch. Along with basic warm-up of the muscles it’s also about finding your center, your balance. You’ll need that later on.
That’s the other thing Andrew said. “How do you guys know what to do? The teacher was like, just mumbling stuff and not even dancing and then you’d all spring into action and it looked nothing like what he was doing.”
Pliés, tendus, dégagés, fondus, rondes de jambe, rondes de jambe en l’air, frappés, développés, grande battements. You do all this from your first ballet class and it’s part of you. Gareth might say, “Okay, tendus.” And we’ll watch him for a moment as he half demonstrates in his big white sneakers. “IN, IN, IN, and IN, IN, IN, and IN, IN, IN, and OUT PLIÉ. Front, side, back. Yes? And then port de bras. SIDE, to the front. SIDE, to the back. Plié, sous-sous, soutenu, OTHER SIDE.” This makes sense to us. We know what to do.
And IN, IN, IN.
When you are a student, class is as serious as everything else, which is to say that it is very, very serious. Even the most basic, most beginner-level thing, first position, is loaded with rules. Heels OUT. Legs STRAIGHT. Knees pulled UP. Stomach IN and FLAT. Rib cage IN and UP. Shoulders DOWN. Arms OUT. Elbows LEVEL. Thumb curved slightly IN, first finger slightly EXTENDED, the next two following in a gentle descent, the pinkie finger RELAXED and slightly RAISED. Neck LONG. Chin LEVEL. The teacher circles the room, watching, correcting. Technique. There’s one right way to do everything. Every other way is wrong. But it can never be stiff, or robotic. The amount of technique you need to master before you can be decently said to be dancing classical ballet is enormous. But there does come a time when a great deal of this is automatic.
For most of us professionals, class is self-assessment, like I said. Namely, what hurts? And, how do I feel? Do I feel okay? Do I need to worry about that twinge or will it go away once I’m warmed up? There’s also a kind of zone. Some days you feel great right away. From the first couple of pliés you feel centered, you feel in control. It’s going to be a good class, a good day. All is right in the world. And IN, IN, IN.
Other days the zone eludes you. Nothing feels good. You look in the mirror and it does its funhouse thing and you feel sour and heavy. And there are days when it is possible to be fully engaged in what you are doing and be completely, mind-numbingly, tooth-achingly bored. But you still have to do it. And IN, IN, IN.
As a professional, class is a safe place presumably. No audience. If you look like hell, it’s okay because who cares, it’s just class. Theoretically. In practice, a terrible class can have you feeling almost as wretched as a terrible performance. If a ballerina falls in a forest and there’s no one around to see her, does she make a noise? Yes, she does. It is the sound of the ballerina saying, “Oh fuck me.”
After barre comes center. Depending on the number of students, groups are formed, usually two, so everyone has room. Maybe if you pick up combinations quickly (a mini-art in itself) you’ll step up for group one. Maybe if it looks like there is an abundance of eager beavers going in group one you’ll hang back for more floor space in group two.
In the center, we arrange ourselves in slightly staggered lines, facing the mirrors. There is etiquette for a mixed class like this one. A student should never stand in front of a professional. A man should never stand in front of a woman. If you sense that you’re crowding someone in the middle of a combination, you should gracefully step back or forward. Failure to do this will result in hostile stares or a drubbing from the teacher. Occasionally an etiquette-oblivious freak or whackjob will get tossed out of class. Gareth did it once to some poor dear who didn’t have her hair tied back properly.
“Either you leave or I will cut that goddamn mop off your head,” he said. She hesitated, and he pointed to the door.
Center is maybe forty-five minutes. Again, individual teachers and classes differ, but order and logic are maintained. There is an adagio combination—slow lifting of the legs in different positions, balance, control, extension. Some bright tendus, shifting the weight quickly and moving in different directions to get the blood moving. Maybe a little traveling step, a waltz. Pirouettes. More pirouettes. Small jumps, traveling jumps.
The teacher issues corrections, shouting above the music, or maybe seizing a moment in between groups to elaborate on some point, issue a general admonishment, or work with an individual. A correction given to one person is usually taken up by others. No one ever refutes or argues a correction, because it’s not a subjective thing. If someone tells you that you are doing something—raising a shoulder too high, cheating a preparation for a turn, rushing the music—then that means you are absolutely doing that. And you correct it. Sometimes a teacher might ask someone to demonstrate: “Julie, do it. Everyone, watch Julie. This is how it should be done.” And everyone will watch Julie and when she’s finished, we will applaud, and Julie will make the gesture for modesty.
Class always ends with big jumps on the diagonal. First from left to right, then right to left. Groups are smaller: three or four dancers at a time, the rest forming a snaky line at the back of the studio, men waiting at the end so they can go together. (The pianist will slow her tempo for the men, who jump higher. Intrepid women will sometimes tag on to a men’s group to push their elevation.) Many professionals opt out at this point, saving their knees, their ankles, their backs, for the day’s rehearsal or evening performance. To this too there is an etiquette. You don’t just walk out of someone’s class. You catch their eye, mime a thank you, blow a kiss, pantomime a bow.
If class is running late (over ninety minutes), a teacher might just clap or wave their hands after everyone has gone across the floor a couple of times, and say “Thank you!” or whatever. Or they might bring the entire class back to center for a formal révérence. (That’s curtsy and bowing to you civvies.) Conscientious teachers will instruct the students to include the pianist in the révérence. At the end of all this, you applaud. The teacher and the pianist, I mean. Not yourself. Then everyone heads for whatever corner they stashed their dance bag/discarded sweater/water/towel and shuffles out, chatting, sweating, checking cell phone, trying to catch the teacher’s eye for last-minute approval or correction, dodging the freak who after class likes to practice some macabre version of fouetté turns in the middle of the room, lost in some Swan Lake of her own invention, oblivious that the audience has left.
Today in class my neck was still in a pretty shitty state, but I pushed myself anyway, mostly because I knew I had Gareth’s attention, and also to punish myself for skipping class yesterday. Gareth asked me to demonstrate the adagio—“Everyone, watch Kate. Ideally, this is what it should look like”—and everyone watched me and I watched myself dance beautifully, acknowledge the applause, wave it off with the gesture for modesty. “You see?” Gareth addressed the class. “You see?” And various people nodded or murmured or looked at me admiringly.
I was fairly tanked out by the end of class and my neck was really throbbing, so after one pass at the big jump combination, I dropped Gareth a curtsy from the doorway and made the gesture of time on an invisible wristwatch. Gareth nodded, but then waved at the class to keep going and ran over.
“Great class, as always,” I said. “Sorry to bail. Rehearsal.”
“Seriously, Katie dear,” Gareth said, grabbing my hands. “Last night? Brilliant. Marius needs to promote you. It’s time.”
“Oh, I don’t think that’s going to happen,” I half laughed, shouldering my bag and trying not to wince. “There always seems to be some Russian or Argentinian diva to hire next.”
“You have to fight,” Gareth said, very intently. “Fight now while you still have something left to fight with.”
And then he turned back to the earnest students, the talented jobless, the ones who plow through eight shows a week on Broadway, and the ones who just don’t, and never will, have it. The freak with th
e enormous bun and rainbow-striped leg warmers on her arms launched herself from the diagonal into the grande allegro, scattering enraged dancers in her wake. Having the time of her life in a way that I don’t think I ever have.
Something to fight with? How about something to fight for?
IN, IN, IN, and OUT.
5.
I really wanted to get through today without drugs so I booked a half-hour session with Irina before rehearsal.
Irina, our massage therapist, is worth her weight in gold. More, since she can’t weigh more than a hundred pounds. We have physical therapists on staff as well, who patch and tape and ice and invariably give you some sort of gentle exercise to do that doesn’t feel effective. Iri pummels the shit out of you. She doesn’t bother with scented candles or CDs of falling-rain music or what have you. Nor do you slip discreetly under a sheet on the massage table. You go in, strip off whatever clothes are near the affected area, and get to it. Roger tells a great story of his first visit to Iri, where she shoved his cock and balls to one side in order to get to his psoas muscle.
“Just full-on moved my junk,” he said, “with her forearm.”
Iri has a tiny cubicle at our studios. She greeted me with a kiss and asked, “What did Gwen do to knee?”
Iri manages to roll her rs even in words with no rs. Although she must be at least fifty, she shops at those stores for trendy teens and is always in some complicated getup: painted jeans that lace up the back and shirts with plunging sequined necklines. Her skin is alabaster white and clear, which she will tell you can only happen if you rub real butter on your face every day. I love Russians.
“Tore her ACL but she’s okay,” I said. “She wants to be careful and not rush things.”