The Rehearsal
“Alright. We’ll start with very simple plies like so,” she began, her head tilting and arms moving in fast, abbreviated motions as she gave us the exercise. “So…demi, demi, grande, grande, port de bras forward, roll up, then tendu to second position. We’ll do that en quatre. In second port de bras goes toward the barre, in fourth it goes away, and in fifth, back. After you come out of fifth, releve, then come up and balance en passe for eight. Arms in first or fifth for the balance. Come down, turn, and we’ll go straight into the left side. I want to really see those arms working through molasses…let them fill up all the counts. Okay?” She didn’t wait for any questions. “Damon, take it away!” Barbara breezed past me as the pianist began the accompaniment, hurrying to correct one of the apprentices standing behind me before the preparation counts were even finished.
I moved fluidly, subtly watching the ends of the fingers of my right hand as my arm floated down, then up to my navel, then above me, and back to my side, outstretched in second position, preparing for grande plie. It was as if my hand was placed at the end of a pulley that released and retracted from my shoulder. I could feel the muscles stretched like a rubber band all the way through to my fingertips, the energy seeming to shoot out through the end of my middle finger. As my arm lowered and I bent my knees, my heels lifting off the floor at the last moment at the bottom of my plie, the outside of my arm took over and it floated down like a bird rustling her wing.
I wore black footless tights; my burgundy legwarmers covered half my satin-slippered foot and stretched half way up my thighs. A charcoal grey leotard with thin straps, the front cinched with a safety pin to bring the neckline down a bit, peeked out beneath my warm up sweater, which had slipped when I raised my right arm and was now hanging off my left shoulder. I was in my regular spot at the front of the studio at a portable metal barre. They were placed two long and stacked up two deep, and the permanent barres lined three walls of the company’s largest studio. My spot guaranteed me a direct side view in the mirror, allowing me to correct my turnout and watch my lines constantly. As we moved on to tendus and degages, I turned my head down slightly and my eyes caught the reflection of thirty legs moving behind me almost in unison, only the colors of their leg warmers distinguishing them from one another.
Two hours later Charles and I were in the much smaller Studio D with Theo, working through a difficult lift sequence.
“It seems like the counts are off to me,” Charles was arguing. “Up, turn, three, four, fall, six, balance, eight…” he counted out loud, lifting, turning, dropping, and pulling me back up like a stage prop to show our artistic director what he meant.
“No, see, that’s too predictable,” Theo explained. “The fall really needs to be on the four so the audience isn’t expecting it.” Now Theo took hold of me just above the waist, his strong fingers carefully wrapped around my ribcage, thumbs pressed against the small of my back as he demonstrated to Charles how he had intended it. The drop from above felt almost freeing as I fell into his capable hands — he was 62 years old and hadn’t performed in two decades, but on the few occasions when he partnered me in rehearsals for new repertoire it was effortless and comfortable. He guided me back up from the drop. I ended en pointe in first arabesque and Theo stepped back to let me hold the balance. Then the studio door slammed shut and I faltered.
