“You.” The single word from Yuri yanks me out of my reverie. “Indigo, is it?” I nod numbly. “Come here, please.” Yuri points at the center of the floor then folds his arms and waits. I take my position there standing still.
“We begin like this,” he says, posing as I remember from the video of Irina. He shows me the first counts of eight for my solo and I mark the steps as I watch. I’ve memorized them after the second time he walks them through; thankfully I’ve always been quick to pick up choreography.
“You have it?” he demands gruffly. I nod. “Show me.” he steps back and leans on the barre at the front of the room, watching me intently, like a cat tracking a careless bird.
I spread my feet wide and bend forward at the waist, imagining the pose as I remember Irina did it. Aside from Yuri’s counting, the room is silent and still; I feel the others watching. But I can’t think about that. I must only think about the counts and where my body is going, one second ahead so I am there when I am supposed to be–
“No!” he claps loudly. “Let me see position again.” I recreate the pose I was in before he interrupted. “No.” he shakes his head vigorously. “It is like this.”
He strikes the pose. “You see?”
I don’t understand the difference but I don’t dare say anything. I nod.
“More energy in fingertips,” he suggests. I try again, this time I imagine sparks shooting out of my fingertips. This seems to work, since he lets me continue. I rise en pointe, bringing one leg into passé retiré, the toes touching the side of my standing leg near the knee.
“Stop.” More clapping. He marches over to me again. “Make me passé,” he says. I rise back into the position, more forcefully this time, but still he shakes his head. “It is impossible,” he states. “This is not passé. It must be in front of knee, like this,” he says, demonstrating.
Miss Roberta would frown on this placement, I think. Another example of how different ballet technique is from one company to the next, from one country to the next.
Still, I comply. Maybe it’s not such a bad thing to learn slight variations, to have more translations in my pocket. You never know when they might come in handy in the future. Another passé, then close in fifth position, and pirouette from fifth–
“No again.” He clenches his hands into fists this time and stomps over to Skinny Snow White. I catch the first word, “Olgachkova” and then get lost inthe flurry of words that follow, none of which I understand. When he falls silent,
Skinny Snow White nods in assent and replies, “Da.”
Skinny Snow White removes the plastic warmup pants she was wearing and makes her way over to me. Yuri flaps a hand at me impatiently, indicating I should step aside. “Olga will show,” he says, turning to her with an enormous smile of beatitude.
I edge out of her way, trying not to feel crushed. I know that having Olga dance in my place is meant to be a teaching tool, something to help me ultimately, but it still stings.
That feeling intensifies as she moves gracefully through the choreography, flowing smoothly through the passés and turns as effortlessly as a fish swirls through water. I try to focus on what she’s doing so I can learn. I’d like to figure out exactly what it is that Yuri’s looking for, that I haven’t got. Yet. But it’s almost impossible to ignore that this woman is one of the most exquisite dancers
I’ve ever watched.
I’ve told myself oodles of time I must never ever, under any circumstances, make comparisons–because comparison is always a losing game. But how not to when the glaring differences are practically smacking me in the face?
Yuri claps again. “Enough. Khorosho, blagodaryu vas, Olga. We will break. Return in twenty minutes.”
I stand paralyzed, mute with a flurry of thoughts pirouetting in my mind.
After watching Olga dance I don’t know how I will ever measure up. I want to, but it seems like an impossible task. Where to even begin? Who can help? Can anyone? What do I need to do to reach that same level of precision and perfection?
All I can think is that even if I were to sneak from my bed and dance all night long, wearing out pair after pair of pointe shoes every night up until our performances, like the Twelve Dancing Princesses fairytale, I’m not sure even that would be enough.
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