I went to the ballet last night. I've been a few times this year, for the first time in a decade. In 2007 I went a few times, with two friends—then my roommates—who knew more about ballet than I did. One of them had danced through her teens; the other—did I mention he's her brother?—worked in classical music. They'd grown up going to the ballet with their family. I had not.
I danced when I was little, too, but only when I was little. Tap and jazz. I stopped when I was eight or nine. I'm not sure why—I loved it. Maybe money. Maybe I was too chubby, so that it seemed implausible as a thing to continue. (Two memories: One, when my tap and/or jazz teacher was out, they combined us with the ballet class, and I was told to imagine I was landing on a cloud, so that I'd thud less. Two, looking at my sweet, cheesy dance recital photos when I was probably a young teenager, seeing that six-year-old me had a poorly-fitting costume, so the sparkly leotard didn't come up to cover her nipples, and feeling so embarrassed. Three, a bonus: at eight or nine, leaping over something in a parking lot and my dad saying, Like a gazelle.) I danced in high school and college, too, just classes at school—miraculously, we could take modern dance for gym, and in eleventh grade I did, and discovered I wasn't terrible at this, after all.
Watching ballet now, I feel like I know very little—I can name the five positions and a few simple moves, but I don't understand the music, the history, the way choreography works. I get a sympathetic twinge watching a dancer extend her leg, like mirror neurons firing (even if they're a myth). I've never worn toe shoes, and have trouble imagining what it feels like to dance in those, though I try.
That first year going to the ballet with my friends, I learned just enough to know what I liked: new choreography; Stravinsky and Balanchine working together. Nothing old-fashioned or narrative—costumes with pastoral ruffles and puffy sleeves are a red flag. Simple costumes—the men in white tops and black leggings—are a good sign. This is as much as I know about ballet.
This year, I've gone to I think four ballets. Two with James, the friend and roommate from before, and two by myself. Last night, by myself, I saw four pieces that Balanchine choreographed to Stravinsky's music. I know so little about these men and their work beyond that, but together they made some of my favorite works of art. Together and, across the decades, with the maybe two dozen dancers I saw dancing last night. I sat in a seat on the front row of the second balcony, with just enough of its view obstructed by a railing to cost only $30.
Once, maybe in college, I saw a ballet with James—were we in Massachusetts? it was probably summer—and I remarked on a flexed foot in the dance. It broke the rules of ballet that I thought I knew. The ballet last night was scandalous by those measures—weird and twisty and funny and dark. But toe shoes, still, and leotards. And the longest legs and sharpest swan arms. I think it's good to see and love art that you barely understand. Maybe this is me spinning my own ignorance—I would love to understand more about ballet, so that I could understand it better, feel closer to it, be able to speak and write smartly about a thing that I love. But this version of things is okay, too. Going to Lincoln Center alone, speaking to no one, loving something I know I love but only barely understand.
Last week, Zan wrote about Tinyletters and writing for free. It's lovely: The Joy and Intimacy of the Personal Writing Outlet. Coincidence that I'm back here now? Not entirely. Every time I've been to the ballet this year, I've wanted to write about it. (Freelancing has turned my hungry writer brain back on, which is mostly a wonderful thing.) After reading Zan's piece, though, I knew that this time, I would.
Speaking of freelancing, here are a few things I've written lately:
An essay on leggings for The Cut, which turned out to be the most personal thing I've written in a long time/ever.
I read for twelve hours a day for two days of a weekend, and it was nothing like I expected; I wrote about it for Electric Literature.
Honoring Ursula K. Le Guin by writing about another book I loved that reminded me of her.
A big beast of a piece about the politics of romance novels, for BuzzFeed Books. This was the first big piece I wrote as a full-time freelancer. It took a while to make its way to the world, and I am very proud of it.
Oh and if you're in New York, there are a few more performances of the Stravinsky/Balanchine program that I saw last night. I don't know if it'll be your jam. But if it is, or if you don't know, now's your chance. (Don't be alarmed by the corsets-and-floofy-sleeves costumes of the first piece—I think they're ironic. But I don't actually know.)