| |
Did Joel remember the months when he made a very distinct fashion choice and rocked a goatee? Everyone in class agreed it looked terrible, though no one said anything to him; they adored his lessons.
If she wasn’t embarrassed by him then, she certainly wasn’t going to be embarrassed to share a meal. A lot to the opposite, in fact. He had done her a favor, based mostly on the fact that she had been his student. Helping him now felt like she could even out the scale a bit.
Coasting on the wings of a middle finger and an upturned nose, she’d flown from both New York and the companies in Minnesota, without taking anything that even smelled like a handout. Loans from the few friends she had, offers to stay rent-free with them—nope. However, lack of money and in-coming funds had given her a swift dose of reality, if not some humility.
Suppose Joel said she needed to have dinner every night with him for weeks? Done.
“Annalisa?”
“Huh?”
“You’re free to say no to any of this.”
“No. I mean, no way I’m saying no. I’ll wear new clothes and have dinner at a five-star restaurant.” She put her hands on his desk and leaned forward, laying sincerity on thick. “Every day if I have to.”
He smiled and it would have been hard not to smile with him. Tension along the shape of his mouth eased and his shoulders slumped. He hadn’t changed. Still a softie, underneath.
He’d been worried about this. She wondered why. If he stressed over the ripples this might make among the other dancers, they could shove it. She’d been disliked before.
Joel continued, saying she would know what was going on as soon as he did, and thanked her again for rolling with everything before he looked back at his laptop. She took the cue and left.
Rehearsals for learning the choreography of Angels started within the hour. She’d retape her toes in the locker room, sip water, and pound one of the knock-off brand granola bars from the dollar store that tasted like grape cardboard.
The ballet, Diversion of Angels, originally called Wilderness Stair, is a plotless ballet. Inspiration for it came from a painting by Wassily Kandinsky. Red used on a sea of blue struck Maratha Graham’s creativity, and she was determined to bring such an evocative image to life and motion.
With music composed by Norman Dello Joio, the ballet follows a mood, representing different types of love between a couple. Bodies are clothed in yellow, red, and white. Adolescent love, romantic love, and mature love. In the background, a corps de ballet is costumed in beige.
Poet Ben Belitt wrote of the ballet, “It is the place of the Rock and Ladder, the raven, the blessing, the tempter, the rose. It is the wish of the single-hearted, the undivided; play after the spirit’s labor; games, flights, fancies, configurations of the lover’s intention; the believed Possibility, at once strenuous and tender; humors of innocence, garlands, evangels, Joy on the wilderness stair; diversion of angels.”
The piece was joyful in nature. Ballet La Faire’s production would take liberties with the outward look of the piece but stay stalwart to the original choreography. Instead of couples representing the three loves, six dancers would take on these sections. With the muted palette of costuming, all bodies would resemble moving clouds in a journey of romance.
Emerging from the locker room with freshly taped toes, she was met by Melinda who told her the costume department needed her measurements. In a room the size of a large office, larger than Joel’s, she was thrilled to see yards of silk, chiffon, and satin.
Kristy was one of the bodies being fitted and smiled when she walked in, a moment before a young woman who looked like the human embodiment of a mood board scurried over to her.
A pencil between her teeth and a tape measure an extension of her hand, the woman turned from Kristy, abruptly gesturing for Annalisa to approach. Half a second long glances, scribbled numbers on a pad and not even five minutes had passed before she measured all of Annalisa.
She kept the sensation of happiness inside, not wanting to smile at, outwardly, nothing. But it was wonderful. To be back in a clothing department, to see a dedicated body bent to the task of creating costumes with all the meticulous care of olden days. Outside of the theater world, seamstresses did not exist to work their wonders. No longer were their talents recognized, outside of altering the hem of a prom dress or the inseam on a pair tuxedo pants.
If Joel needed someone to jump through hoops, she was his gal. Never again would she be taken from this world.
Thanked and promptly shooed away, both women left together and fell in step. They started talking about past studios, specific training, favorite and least favorite ballets to dance. Kristy owned to being a “basic ballerina bitch,” loving Sleeping Beauty beyond a rationale explanation. Annalisa said she had a forever soft spot for Prokofiev’s Romeo and Juliet.
“I’d run curtains just to listen to that score.”
With understanding, Kristy nodded. “I understudied both soloists dancing White Cat and Puss in Boots once and I sat backstage every show. Nothing sounds like Tchaikovsky.”
It was true, even though Tchaikovsky had a score for Romeo and Juliet and Annalisa had always thought it sounded like watered down violins. Not about to voice that opinion, however, she asked Kristy how Len’s rehearsals typically went.
“I made some snap judgements about him,” she added, with a smirk. “I’m curious to know how far off I am.”
“He got mad at a company member last season for not listening with their eyes.”
“I’ve still got the touch!”
Kristy chuckled. “I’m afraid of him but I really do love dancing for him. He brings beautiful things out of his dancers.”
“Honestly, I can’t wait. I’ve been between companies, and I thought I was going to rot without dance.”
Understanding was in the young woman’s eyes, round and deep-set. “I broke my leg two years ago. Physical therapy sessions and medications brought me so low. I couldn’t stand,” she shook her head at the unintended double entendre, “to not dance.”
“We’re probably not well people.”
“Oh, I blazed by that stop sign a long time ago!”
Nearing the space where they had taken class, both women left their commiseration at the doorway. Inside, everyone who had taken class was seated in a circle.
This must be one of Len’s quirks. Not unlike football players taking a knee while their coach speaks. Over the years, she’d heard about choreographers who required everyone in the production to hold hands on the first day of practice. Ones lucky enough to rehearse on the stage they’d perform on might sit in the audience while the choreographer explained his vision.
Along with everyone else, Annalisa sat down and waited for the maestro to begin conducting. Though he did not appear to look at anyone while he spoke, Annalisa made sure she blinked away at distracted thoughts. With him, she already had one nasty, red strike. Probably everyone had naughty tick marks next to their names in his mind, but Annalisa did not want to get another just yet.
He was brief. Much more than she expected. When he finished talking, he stepped out of the circle and this was, apparently, the signal for everyone to go to their spots. Yet, from how and where bodies were standing, she couldn’t tell if this was the beginning of the ballet or the middle. Were they learning it out of order?
Pretending to linger and stretch her neck, she watched how the bodies dispersed and made an educated guess, moving to stand with the biggest collection of bodies.
“Molasses in winter moves faster than you, Miss Jean.”
Len.
The world of professional dance was not a democracy. At best, it was a benevolent dictatorship. This, among dozens of other factors, was often one of the reasons dancers never make it to the professional level.
In high school, your ballet teacher might have been someone who would let you observe when your period cramps were bad. There were no excuses now. Can you walk? Dance. Can you keep your vomit behind your teeth? Dance. Big girls and boys don’t cry here. Get slapped and say, “thank you.”
The progress of this first rehearsal was slow. Len was meticulous. Anal retentive was another way to say it. The lines of fingers and wrists, exacting attention to how a head tilted.
Obsessive choreographers make the world of dance go ‘round. Their manias produce memorable pieces of work that make critics talk and crowds flock. Also true of every choreographer ever was the understanding that he or she was right to the exclusion of all others prior.
But holy wow was Len a piece of work! She lost count of the number of times he corrected her eyeline, her knee’s angle. His revising touches were like sophisticated jabs from a karate master, deft and a tad painful.
Risked glances she took at the other faces in the room betrayed no surprise or frustration. Soon, she’d be among them, accustomed to the thorough tornado that was Len of Ballet La Faire.
The pianist that had been present during class was no longer. Live accompaniment had been replaced by a recording of the score, gloriously blared from the sound system in place. There were a few moments when Annalisa lost focus, succumbing to the envelopment of the symphony. From all sides, it moved around her, like a strong friend of old, welcoming her back to the place she belonged.
Three hours slipped by.
Profuse amounts of sweat had sucked resiliency from her muscles, and it felt like she could melt into a puddle and ooze her way back to the locker room. She’d have to wait, then, until her body solidified enough to stand and take a shower.
Kristy moved to walk next to her and asked if Annalisa wanted to get a light lunch. This was the weird break in the workday of La Faire dancers. It was time to make that doctor’s appointment or stand in line at the DMV. A lot of grocery and gas runs happened now. At four, there would be a cool-down class, leaning towards yoga, and notes given for the next day.
Annalisa was ready to forgo twelve items at the dollar store for a crispy, big salad with creamy dressing and croutons so crunchy it registered as a step on her smartwatch. Opposite them, however, Joel walked and motioned to Annalisa.
Kristy politely moved away.
“I’m sorry,” he began. “I know it’s your break.”
She shrugged, as if to dismiss his concern. “What’s up?”
“A photographer from Moves is here.”
“I thought you said—”
“I did and I said the same thing to them. But I guess women like Dee,” his tone twisted dry, “don’t get where they are by playing by the rules.” He cleared his throat. “They want a candid shoot. Something about being raw, the guy said.”
She wiped her hand across her forehead. “One sweaty ballerina, right here.”
“You don’t have to. I can tell the guy to—”
She smeared her hand down the front of his shirt. “Too late.”
She’d meant it to be playful, but the tense frown pulling his eyebrows down did not lessen. Instead, he moved behind her, saying the employee of the brand was outside. She wanted to try one more joke about how well the natural light would bring out the blotches of red across her cheeks and neck. However, it felt like he had stoned into a sort of shield.
Or, at the very least, he made it clear he was not in the mood for attempted humor.
In the parking lot, under a high sun that had run off nearly every cloud, the Moves photographer stood, waving them over. He was on a time crunch. Annalisa felt some exotic blend of cynicism and resentment evaporate off Joel.
The man was oblivious, introduced himself quickly, and instructed Annalisa to sit down on the pavement. She was to crisscross her legs and place her hands behind her, lifting her chin upwards, like fresh air was welcome relief from the ardors of rehearsal.
Posed such, the photographer moved around her like a bee making a pattern for other bees, taking a few steps to the side, coming closer, stepping back, moving sideways in the other direction, and then standing behind her.
“You have a beautiful back,” he mumbled. “Lean forward over your legs and let’s get those muscles and bones in the light.”
“What exactly is the audience for Moves?” Joel asked, darkly.
The photographer did not look at him. “Moves understands the sacrifices athletes make for their passion.”
Annalisa risked a glance at her boss to see if she was the only one who sensed an unspoken “unlike you” in the man’s answer. Judging from how his arms were folded across his chest, she guessed he’d heard it, too.
The next series of poses kept her on the pavement. Knees bent with her arms draped over, head down, barefooted. Laying on her back, head turned and eyes open, with arms and legs lifted straight in the air, feet flexed.
By the end of thirty minutes, bits of gravel and leaf shreds clung to her. The photographer placed his camera within a carrying case. Joel grabbed Annalisa by the arm and practically lifted her to her feet.
“Dee wants a full shoot in the large space on Saturday. Will that work for you, Miss Jean?”
“What Dee wants was supposed to go through me,” Joel stated, tight-lipped.
The man looked innocently at him. “Oh, of course. I just thought it was easier, seeing as how she’s right here.”
“My director,” Annalisa began, “handles my schedule, if you’d go through the motions, but I can do Saturday.”
“Wonderful.” The man shook her hand. “Dee will be thrilled.” He looked at Joel. “We appreciate your time, too, Mr. Dvorak.”
Not waiting to hear Joel not reply, Annalisa gushed that she was thrilled to be a face for the brand. When the man was out of earshot, she turned towards him.
“If I’m getting a little bit objectified, that’s fine. Honestly.”
“It’s not okay with me.”
“My body. My choice.”
He chuffed. “Doesn’t change how I feel.”
She understood. He was supposed to be the man in charge and some rando with a big social media following was throwing their weight around. It wasn’t that some of the pictures might have been taken at indulgent angles; he was being usurped and he knew it.
She remembered the time a group of parents tried to sit in on a testing class for progressing to the next level. The group of moms, and one dad for muscle, walked into the studio like they owned the place. In their minds, since they paid for the classes, in a sense, they did, and it was their argument. He’d spoken calmly, but she and all her classmates had seen how his hands balled up and his shoulders squared off.
“I understand,” she offered. “I really do. But I owe you.”
“You don’t—”
“Doesn’t change how I feel.”
“Stubborn.”
“You should talk.”
He surrendered a smile, and she reached up to shove, playfully, at him. Instead, though, her hand fell in reassurance on his chest, resting just long enough to notice the sculpture of the body beneath his shirt and how chiseled it was.