The Pleasure of Ballet
A quest for perfection that doesn’t exist, and its precious, perfect moments
I don’t pray. Not outside of a casually tossed off “Please, God,” a figure of speech I use when I’m running late, or running low on an essential ingredient in a recipe. Please, God, let them be running behind, too, or, Please, God, let me have enough tomatoes. I don’t pray, but I come the closest to prayer in the moment right before the beginning of a ballet.
The lights dim and the conductor walks out. The audience applauds, dutifully welcoming a person we will doubtless ignore for the next few hours. The curtain is down, and the lights dim further, and then, just before it rises, there is a still, almost sacred moment in which I close my eyes in the dark and say a…“something” of thanks. It’s not a prayer, exactly, but it’s not not one, either.
If you have a daughter and you live in the United States, there’s a good chance you’ll attend a spring dance recital some time soon. At the end, after hours of watching tiny children bob up and down and stumble adorably around the stage like tiny drunks in matching tutus, followed by several more hours of increasingly well-coordinated routines by older and more able students, there will most likely be speeches. In one of those speeches, someone will thank all the people who did not…
