The Ballet

I spent all summer participating in a program that was housed on west 65th street, a short two minute walk from Lincoln Center, although I had never gone in. Lincoln Center has always been in my mind this otherworldly, magical place that contained fabulous people and things. Going to the ballet the other night gave me a little glimpse of that. Just attending any sort of show at night in Lincoln Center was fantastic–all the lights and people and fancy dresses.

The show itself was lovely. I loved the progression it took from classical and traditional to contemporary and then to downright theatrical and funny. And through it all, it was beautiful. After the first performance ended, I must admit I was a bit dubious of this whole ballet “thing.” The entire time I kept thinking about how restrained it looked, how formal it was. I felt like they were performing for me; I wanted to feel like I had just stepped into someone else’s world, into the world of a dancer without her knowing I was there. I was supposed to be an onlooker. But instead I felt like they were putting on a show specifically for the audience. And maybe it should be like that, but I didn’t want that. The other two certainly made up for it. They held the same grace and composure as they had in the first one, but they were also looser and more relaxed and, most of all, they told a story, which is what I wanted so desperately to see. The second one really pulled at my heartstrings; I felt sad, heartbroken for the mismatched lovers. And the last one exhibited a different emotion in me: humor and lightness, but still legitimately felt.

Dance has always been something I love (and something I wish I could do). I love observing the elegant motions of the body and the incredible way in which it moves across the stage. Dance is simply awe-inspiring. Clearly I’m jealous of all those who can dance. But as long as I can be engrossed in it by being a mere onlooker, I think I’ll be alright.