Perfection

Americans are obsessed with perfection. We want perfect hair, perfect teeth, and a perfect body. Students want perfect grades and perfect SAT scores. Adults want the perfect spouse, the perfect family, the perfect home, and the perfect job. Magazines bombard us with images of celebrities who have perfect spouses, perfect children, and perfectly decorated mansions. This makes us ordinary, imperfect people feel even more imperfect.

Ballet is an art obsessed with perfection: perfect positions, perfect placement, and perfect bodies. A thin body with long legs and arms more easily creates beautiful ballet lines than a muscular body with short limbs. In a quest for ballet perfection, many young ballet dancers develop eating disorders.  I know several young dancers who needed hospitalization for anorexia and bulimia for that very reason. Neither girl is dancing today.

Ballet schools under the Soviet system only accepted students with perfect bodies. Hundreds of children auditioned for a handful of openings, but only those with correct proportions, beautiful feet, good turnout, and ample flexibility were admitted. Victor Gsovsky, the choreographer of Grand Pas Classique, was rejected by the Mariinsky School because he was too tall. I too, would have been rejected for the same reason. At 5’8” tall, I am too tall for the corps de ballet and too tall to be partnered by most male dancers. So, my choice was clear:  go to college rather spend a year auditioning in vain. 

Fortunately, Gsovsky found an excellent teacher in St. Petersburg. He became a renowned teacher and choreographer who worked in Germany and France during the 1930’s and 1940’s. He is best known for Grand Pas Classique, a fiendishly difficult pas de deux, which he choreographed in 1949 for the Paris Opera Ballet. It is still performed today and is in the repertoires of many ballet companies.

It is ironic that a man rejected for having an imperfect body, created a dance about perfection: perfect poses, perfect lines, perfect transitions, perfect men’s technique, and perfect women’s technique. While this pas demands exceptional classical technique, strength, and endurance, the dancers must also maintain the fluidity and effortlessness which is the goal of every ballet performance.

Grand Pas Classique Pas Deux

This clip shows Sylvie Guillem and Manuel Legris of the Paris Opera Ballet (The clip incorrectly credits Petipa with the choreography). It follows the Petipa format of entrance, adagio, variations, and coda. Unlike a typical Petipa pas de deux, the dancers in Grand Pas Classique do not interact:  there is virtually no eye contact between them; they are exquisitely, but coldly perfect. The dancers remind me of celebrity couples on the red carpet, elegantly coiffed and dressed; carefully maintaining the illusion of perfection created by couturiers, make-up artists, and hair stylists. In the adagio, this feeling is particularly evident in the diagonal that begins at 1:45. The man lifts the woman and drops her into a fish dive. Then keeping her in the fish position, he makes a 360 degree turn, as if to show everyone the perfect woman he has snagged. A series of supported turns follow, ending with the girl balanced in passe while the man executes a double tour. Both dancers gaze off into the distance, completely oblivious of the other dancer. They are here to be seen; not to interact with one another.  The diagonal ends with both dancers croise on one knee, arm outstretched, as if acknowledging their fans.

The ballerina uses her arms in the adagio to emphasize the perfection of the poses (0:41, 1:01, 2:26, 2:37, 3:08, 3:19, 3:52, 4:20). Her arm motions remind me of how models on game shows use their hands to highlight the qualities of the featured product.

The variations show the athleticism of the man and the femininity of the woman. The man’s variation (4:25–5:20) has virtually every jump and turn that comprises men’s technique. Gsovsky’s perfect male dancer must be able to jump, turn, and beat. He only gets a two minute break before he returns for the coda which opens with brise voles (7:25-8:22) and ends with turns a la seconde. Not only does the dancer need to be athletic, he must also execute these extremely difficult steps with the grace and effortlessness of Fred Astaire.

The woman’s variation (5:25–7:25) is every bit as difficult, but quite different: no big jumps, no beats, and no displays of athleticism. Gsovsky’s perfect female dancer is refined and polished. She is a steel magnolia:  appearing very feminine and demure, while executing steps that require extraordinary strength and control (6:30–7:03).  After completing several killer diagonals, she has a very, very delicate, feminine passage (7:04–7:11) with graceful changements and emboites en pointe, showing off perfect feet and perfect pointe work. The variation ends with a manege of pique-chaine turns.

Many have criticized this pas as being sterile, but these critics are missing the point. Perfection is sterile. Factories churn out perfect items, but without the charm of handcrafted goods. Perfectly shaped fruit fills our supermarkets, but lacks the flavor of misshapen heirloom varieties sold in the farmer’s market. Hothouse roses look perfect, but lack the heady perfume of the garden rose.

I think this pas was Gsovsky’s tribute to the academic tradition of classical ballet. Each ballet student aspires for perfection in every class, even though that perfection is rarely achieved. It is the idiosyncrasies and imperfections of each individual dancer that give life to ballet and make each performance of the same choreography unique.

Take a look at this video of David Hallberg in Grand Pas Classique. This is the best interpretation of the male variation and coda that I have ever seen. Not only is Hallberg technically excellent, but he also has the Fred Astaire quality of effortlessness and floating that is rarely seen in ballet dancers. Sylvie Guillem shares that quality. Hallberg and Guillem are my dream couple for this piece.

Hallberg’s variation: (0-0:56) coda: (3:52-4:44).   Michelle Wiles, his partner, has good technique, but lacks the femininity and the Astaire quality of Guillem.

David Hallberg's Variation

The Graduator

In my last performance with my ballet studio, I portrayed the Queen in Sleeping Beauty, which has a great deal of pantomime, but very little dancing.  In ballet, the King and Queen dance very little, leaving the dancing to the Prince, the Princess, the fairies, and the guests. My role consisted of majestic walks around the stage, gracious sweeps of my arms, and regal nods of my head. I wore a beautiful gold brocade gown elaborately trimmed with lace and pearls. A sparkling rhinestone tiara rested on my head, and a large faux ruby ring decorated my finger. Most of my time was spent sitting on my throne, observing the dancing, and occasionally interacting with the King.

This was my friend Isabel’s graduation performance, and she was dancing Aurora. Every inch of her looked like a fairy-tale princess, from her sparkling crystal tiara to her pink satin pointe shoes. Tiny rhinestones and pearls edged the bodice of her pale pink tutu, and delicate iridescent flowers were scattered over the skirt. Despite her beautiful appearance and bright smile, I could see the pain in Isabel’s eyes. She had injured her ankle, but was determined to perform. She did not want to disappoint our teacher, Ms. Svetlana, who followed the Russian ballet school tradition of a graduation concert to demonstrate what the graduates have accomplished.

While watching Isabel dance, I thought of my graduation concert the year before. Like Isabel, I was dancing with an injury, and I did not want to disappoint Ms. Svetlana.  I concealed a knee brace under my pink tights, and had a cooler filled with flexible ice packs waiting backstage.

Instead of a full-length ballet, my graduation show opened with “Class-Concert,”  a demonstration of a traditional ballet class progressing from barre to center work, all performed en pointe.  Next, individual students presented an assortment of Petipa variations. Because I was graduating, I danced two variations:  Gulnare’s Pas d’Esclave variation from Le Corsaire and Gamzatti’s variation from La Bayadere.  

Gulnare is a slave girl dancing one last time before she is purchased for a sheik’s harem. This is my favorite Petipa variation. I love the opening diagonal: cabriole devant, chasse, jete, renverse, emboite, pique develope front. It combines my favorite steps: big jumps and quick foot work. The music is lilting and while the steps themselves are quite challenging, the sequencing of the steps makes this variation very danceable.

Fortunately, my knee brace was concealed because Gulnare’s variation is often performed in harem pants. However, Gamzatti is a tutu variation. I hoped my elaborate headpiece and the glitter from  my rhinestone-studded tutu would keep the audience from noticing my brace.

As the daughter of the Rajah, Gamzatti is a very different girl from Gulnare.  Gulnare is a slave girl; Gamzatti is a slave owner. Petipa’s choreography shows that Gamzatti is confident, proud and imperious. Before the music even starts, Gamzatti takes a huge preparation upstage left as if to let the audience know that her variation is something very, very special. Petipa fills this variation with cabrioles, grand battements, grand jetes, and turns of various kinds. As soon as one diagonal is completed, another one begins. The final manege features soaring grand jetes and pique arabesques, ending with a triumphant final pose. 

I did not feel particularly triumphant or imperious or proud as I entered and began the huge preparation. For the first time, I didn’t worry about the diagonal with the attitude turns; I worried about my knee remaining stable during the jete take-offs and landings. This would be my last performance as a L’Etoile student; I wanted Ms. Svetlana and Mr. Vadim to be proud of me. The theater filled with applause as I assumed the final pose. My prayers were answered; my knee did not buckle, and I ended on my feet.

At the end of the show, I was presented with a diploma and two-dozen red roses. Afterwards, I looked at the program and saw “Graduator 2009” after my name.  I couldn’t help smiling. My Russian teachers have created many interesting variations of English words. Sadly, they stop using these charming variations when someone corrects them. However, I am very happy that they no longer use graduator because now it is mine alone. It has become my nickname at L’Etoile.

Here is one of my favorite ballerinas, Anastasia Matvienko, performing Gamzatti’s variation. I am grateful that there is no video of me dancing Gamzatti. 

Anastasia Matvienko performing Gamzatti

Fouettes, or expressed more precisely, fouette rond de jambe en tournant!

Fouettes, or expressed more precisely, fouette rond de jambe en tournant! 

There is no middle ground on this step – you either love ‘em or hate ‘em.  Fouette means whipped, and not all fouettes are turns; however, the turning fouettes are for many dancers among the most dreaded turns asked for in class or in choreography. It is a display of virtuosity for a ballerina, and Petipa’s choreography requires 32 fouettes in the coda for many of his pas de deux.

I happen to love fouettes, so when Runqiao called for them, I eagerly stepped forward. The key to executing fouettes is finding a rhythm and sticking with it. Once the rhythm is established, you can execute 8, 16, 32, 48, or until you get dizzy, your supporting leg gives out, or the teacher says, “Stop. That’s enough!” It is always important to keep your back straight, your shoulders down, and your arms strong because they control the speed of the turn. Your working leg must be straight and strong – it is the whip that propels the turn.  I concentrate on staying in one spot and not traveling, particularly when doing fouettes in a group. One traveling dancer can create havoc in class if she strays into space where another dancer is working. It is best to stop and regroup if you find that you are traveling out of your area.

The Russian pianist played the coda from Don Quixote pas de deux, music that is almost always used in class for fouettes, no matter what city or country you happen to be taking class in. Sometimes the pianist mixes it up with Corsaire or Black Swan, but Don Q is the usual accompaniment. This regularity and tradition is something I love about ballet. No matter where you go, no matter who is teaching, class will follow a pattern set down over a hundred years ago. Even if the teacher doesn’t speak your language, you can still take class and learn because the language of ballet is universal and transcends all verbal languages.

I sometimes stop and think that the steps that I am doing today, are also being executed by thousands of other dancers across the United States, and in many countries throughout the world. For the last hundred years, ballet dancers have been doing the same steps we are doing at TU, most likely to the same music that our pianist played for us today. Legendary ballerinas like Plisetskaya and Maximova did these very same fouettes, probably to the Don Q coda. My friends dancing in ballet companies or studying in other schools are also doing fouettes to Don Q. It is a link that binds all ballet dancers past and present.

A day in the life of a TU commuter dance major.

Deep in sleep, I hear a bell ringing. It is 4:30 AM, and my first alarm is sounding. I hope I am dreaming and the bell will soon stop, but this is not a dream. With eyes still closed, I stumble across the room, arm outstretched, and fingers clawing to find this persistent alarm clock. Finally my fingers grasp it, and I fumble to find the off switch. Silence at last. I dive back under the covers to get a little more sleep.

Soon, a second alarm sounds. This is not a bell or another mechanical sound, but a sound that is a cross between an angry Donald Duck and a bark. It seems to be saying “Let me out!  Bwah! Bwah! Bwah! Bwah! It is our Pomeranian dogs, Roxie Hart and Betty Boop, announcing that morning has come, and they need to go outside.  I hear my parents getting up to take them outside while I hunker down for another 15 minutes of sleep.

The third alarm sounds at 6 AM. Now my day really begins. Reluctantly, I get out of bed and turn on my computer to check for any new announcements concerning my classes. I get dressed and hurry downstairs to be greeted by Roxie and Betty, tails wagging, begging to be picked up. They shadow me as I prepare my breakfast and lunch, waiting for the stray crumb to drop to the floor.

At 7 AM, I head out to my car for the twenty mile commute to TU. Fortunately, I travel on the inner loop of the Baltimore Beltway. The outer loop is so congested, in places it looks like a parking lot.  Finally, I arrive and pull into a fairly empty parking garage.  I take a few minutes to stretch my arms and legs which are stiff after driving. Birds are chirping as sunshine streams into the garage. I feel its warmth caress my face when I step outside for the short walk to the Center for the Arts. The building is quiet and still; it is early, and only a few people are inside. I love this quiet time. I unwind, eat my breakfast, and mentally prepare for class.

My only class today is one of my favorites: Ballet III taught by Runqiao Du. I especially love his grand allegros which are filled with big jumps and expansive movements. The TU studios are spacious, bright, and airy – the perfect place for grand jetes, saut de basques, sissones, glissades, chasses, and assembles across the floor. Because I don’t need to worry about running into a wall, I can cover more ground and make my movement bigger.

Today I particularly enjoyed dancing the petite allegro combination. It was simple, but very effective: four chasse sissone arabesques traveling in a diagonal and ending with two sissone glissade jetes. I went with the two guys in our class and pushed myself to match their strides and their elevation. I love jumps because they give me a sense a freedom and exhilaration. It is the closest man can come to flying without assistance from another source.

Class ends and I am free until Dance Company rehearsal, which today is for Swan Lake.  I relax on one of the Dance Department’s couches, enjoying the fruit cup I have brought for lunch. The sound of musicians practicing echoes through the hall as I read my psychology book. Occasionally, a voice interrupts my reading. I look up only to see someone talking on a Bluetooth headset.  I return to my reading.

Finally it is time for Swan Lake. I can’t believe I am Odette. A Russian teacher I had when I was twelve called me her “ugly duckling” because I did not have a good ballet body: short arms, short legs, long torso. Now, this ugly duckling must become a swan.

Ballerina Erin Mahoney is teaching us this role. I watch her beautiful arms undulate as if they had no bones in them. I try and try, but I cannot achieve her effortless motion.  Maybe, if I work every day, I can master it.

Rehearsal ends. I take off my pointe shoes and notice a blister on my bunion. I didn’t even feel it because I was concentrating so hard on the arms. This blister will take a long time to heal because my bunion always rubs against the pointe shoe, and I can’t protect it.

I walk to the garage with other dancers. We are all tired and can’t wait to get home.

I feel as though I am on automatic pilot driving home. Rush hour is over and traffic has lightened. Before I know it, I am home.

 Again, I am vocally greeted by Roxie and Betty who become spinning balls of fur when they see me come through the door. It’s been a long day and it’s good to be home.