A few says before my eighth birthday, I took the entrance exam for the Conservatoire de Paris.
I remember standing there, barefoot, in my green leotard, waiting for my turn. Then I was callled into the judging room. I bowed to the examiners and waited for orders. They asked for a few steps, to judge the quality of my previous training. Then, one of them stepped forward and began to stretch out and arrange my limbs in various positions, testing the extent of my flexibility and ease of movement.
Deuxième année? Première. Elle a du talent, mais pas assez souple.
I hear comments going back and forth above my head. From what I hear, I'm accepted, but it looks like I won't be skipping a year. It doesn't matter: I'm in.
That's one step towards my dream of someday being a danseuse étoile.
The first years all wear pastel pink uniforms. We stand at the bar, upright, with hair in a tight bun and no jewelry. The piano starts to play, and we move through the familiar motions.
Première, deuxième, troisième, quatrième, cinquième. Rond de jambe, rond de jambe, coupé, coupé... Plus droit! Your skull is attached to the ceiling with an invisible string, don't slouch! Port de main, curve your fingers!
At the end of the year, we gathered in a small classroom on the first floor and presented our routine to the thirty or so parents gathered there.
I moved on to the second year. Pastel blue uniforms, this time. This was the first serious year, at the end of which we would have to pass exams to move on to the next year. We were a roomful of serious ballerinas, working in a line, sometimes wavering on uncertain toes, with the odd crooked arm and out-sticking knee. I began to practice outside of class, stretching in my tiny room, repeating steps in the small living room of the apartment, asking the teacher for a tape recording of the music so I could practice to it.
When time came for the exams, we all huddled in the dressing room, all fifteen or so of us, with a twinge in our stomachs as one by one we walked out the door and into the classroom.
There, with only the familiar piano behind me, I faced the three judges, curtsied, and waited for the music to begin.
My heart pounding, I went through all of the familiar motions, my lips outstretched in a smile. When I was done, I curtsied again and walked back to the dressing room.
An hour later, when everyone was done, we all filed into the classroom, curtsied again to the judges, and waited for the announcement of the grades.
The first name came up. Dix-huit, mention très bien. The girl stepped forward, curtsied, and stepped back into line. Of course she would have performed the best. She was tall and graceful, lucky enough to begin her transformation early, unlike the rest of us who were still very much children.
The second name. Seize, mention bien. The girl stepped forward, curtsied, and stepped back in line. Another logical choice. A perfect pupil, who always listened intently and reproduced the professor's movements with precision.
The third name. Mine. Quatorze, mention assez bien. Dumbstruck, I stepped forward, curtsied, and stepped back in line. Everything after that point happened in a haze. I was the third best in the class. I could not believe it.
In the final gradesheet I received from my professor, a comment: A du talent. Peut aller loin, si elle travaille sur la souplesse.
I floated all the way home.
The next year, however, the plans for Moving To America went underway. My parents did not have enough money to keep sending me to the conservatoire.
I never really went back to ballet. There was a brief stint, in the summer after my junior year, when I signed up for classes in a (religious) studio close to my neighborhood. For a month, despite my obvious lack of technique, I fumbled along in the back of the class and twirled and jumped and arabesqued in the living room and went back to stretching every morning.
Summer ended, I became busy. But, really, I was too embarrassed to go back to the studio and start in a beginner class again. I clearly did not have the technique nor the years of training.
I do get the odd comment on my abilities to stretch further than most people, or my habit of going on tiptoe and doing dance steps at home when I am bored, or once (and most flattering) my (apparently) dancer's legs, but the truth is, I'll never be a danseuse étoile, star of the Mariinsky or Bolshoi or Ballet de Paris.
I don't mind. Not all childhood dreams come true and, the fact of the matter is, I love academia too much to consecrate my life to anything else.
I do wish I hadn't given up before going en pointe, though...
I remember standing there, barefoot, in my green leotard, waiting for my turn. Then I was callled into the judging room. I bowed to the examiners and waited for orders. They asked for a few steps, to judge the quality of my previous training. Then, one of them stepped forward and began to stretch out and arrange my limbs in various positions, testing the extent of my flexibility and ease of movement.
Deuxième année? Première. Elle a du talent, mais pas assez souple.
I hear comments going back and forth above my head. From what I hear, I'm accepted, but it looks like I won't be skipping a year. It doesn't matter: I'm in.
That's one step towards my dream of someday being a danseuse étoile.
The first years all wear pastel pink uniforms. We stand at the bar, upright, with hair in a tight bun and no jewelry. The piano starts to play, and we move through the familiar motions.
Première, deuxième, troisième, quatrième, cinquième. Rond de jambe, rond de jambe, coupé, coupé... Plus droit! Your skull is attached to the ceiling with an invisible string, don't slouch! Port de main, curve your fingers!
At the end of the year, we gathered in a small classroom on the first floor and presented our routine to the thirty or so parents gathered there.
I moved on to the second year. Pastel blue uniforms, this time. This was the first serious year, at the end of which we would have to pass exams to move on to the next year. We were a roomful of serious ballerinas, working in a line, sometimes wavering on uncertain toes, with the odd crooked arm and out-sticking knee. I began to practice outside of class, stretching in my tiny room, repeating steps in the small living room of the apartment, asking the teacher for a tape recording of the music so I could practice to it.
When time came for the exams, we all huddled in the dressing room, all fifteen or so of us, with a twinge in our stomachs as one by one we walked out the door and into the classroom.
There, with only the familiar piano behind me, I faced the three judges, curtsied, and waited for the music to begin.
My heart pounding, I went through all of the familiar motions, my lips outstretched in a smile. When I was done, I curtsied again and walked back to the dressing room.
An hour later, when everyone was done, we all filed into the classroom, curtsied again to the judges, and waited for the announcement of the grades.
The first name came up. Dix-huit, mention très bien. The girl stepped forward, curtsied, and stepped back into line. Of course she would have performed the best. She was tall and graceful, lucky enough to begin her transformation early, unlike the rest of us who were still very much children.
The second name. Seize, mention bien. The girl stepped forward, curtsied, and stepped back in line. Another logical choice. A perfect pupil, who always listened intently and reproduced the professor's movements with precision.
The third name. Mine. Quatorze, mention assez bien. Dumbstruck, I stepped forward, curtsied, and stepped back in line. Everything after that point happened in a haze. I was the third best in the class. I could not believe it.
In the final gradesheet I received from my professor, a comment: A du talent. Peut aller loin, si elle travaille sur la souplesse.
I floated all the way home.
The next year, however, the plans for Moving To America went underway. My parents did not have enough money to keep sending me to the conservatoire.
I never really went back to ballet. There was a brief stint, in the summer after my junior year, when I signed up for classes in a (religious) studio close to my neighborhood. For a month, despite my obvious lack of technique, I fumbled along in the back of the class and twirled and jumped and arabesqued in the living room and went back to stretching every morning.
Summer ended, I became busy. But, really, I was too embarrassed to go back to the studio and start in a beginner class again. I clearly did not have the technique nor the years of training.
I do get the odd comment on my abilities to stretch further than most people, or my habit of going on tiptoe and doing dance steps at home when I am bored, or once (and most flattering) my (apparently) dancer's legs, but the truth is, I'll never be a danseuse étoile, star of the Mariinsky or Bolshoi or Ballet de Paris.
I don't mind. Not all childhood dreams come true and, the fact of the matter is, I love academia too much to consecrate my life to anything else.
I do wish I hadn't given up before going en pointe, though...
1 comment:
I noticed early in my life that those with a ability and talent in one field are often equally talented in many fields. I know a very successful international environmental lawyer who, when he was a teenager, couldn't decide between law and becoming a professional footballer. He decided on law because he was assured in his own mind of a longer career and because he loved academia. I have absolutely no doubt, Archduchess, that you will succeed at whatever you choose to do. Empiric evidence tells me that.
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