D.A.N.C.E

"Chin up, bottom down, belly in," she barked to the class, terrifyingly, eyes zooming in on my leg that was turned out as far as the joint would let it go, but, I knew, not nearly enough for her. Impatiently, she adjusted it for me, examining the angle momentarily, before pausing to see how long I could keep it in that position without squealing in pain. It wasn't long. I huffed out a breath, dropped my leg to the ground and stared vulnerably at her.

"From the top," she called to the piano lady, staring back at me steely-eyed. It broke my heart. I couldn't do it again. My legs were shrieking, my nerves fraying. I wanted my mum so I could bury my head on her shoulder and cry.

The first note was struck, a deep, omnious chord. I glanced over my shoulder at the girl behind me on the barre and noted that her cheeks were heavily flushed, her breathing ragged. She looked at me and smiled thinly. I rolled my eyes in return.

At the end of the lesson, I vowed I would quit. Ballet was torture. I hated it. I hated my teacher, hated the music, hated the pain in my legs, the pain in my heart that came from loving it so fucking much.

I knew I didn't have what it takes to be a dancer. I was too weak, too prepared to give in. Real dancers would block out the pain, the annoyance, the tiny voice inside your head that whispers seductively that it would all be so much easier if you just didn't bother.

I gave in to that voice. At fifteen years of age, I quit.

That was before I discovered YouTube, and the endless number of ballet videos available on there. I'm pretty sure that if I were aware of the following, I wouldn't have given it in, even though I'm acutely aware of the fact that no matter how much hours I had put in, I would never hold a candle to these tear-your-soul-wide-open, fucking amazing dancers.



This is Rudolf Nureyev and Margot Fonteyn dancing the balcony pas de deux from Kenneth MacMillan's Romeo and Juliet. Dame Margot was in her fifties when this was filmed, just in case you needed a reason to feel bad about yourself and another reason to worship her. From two such legendary dancers, it is expected that the dancing is never less than blow-your-socks-off impressive, or that the acting is vibrant, vivid and joyful enough to make you forget about the twenty year age gap, and make you absolutely belief true love exists. (*sigh*)

And who needs words when you have choreography from Kenneth MacMillan that fits so perfectly with Sergei Prokofiev's score, that matches so completely Shakespeare's poetry. There is nothing I have ever seen that is quite like this.



Here, Laurent Hilaire and Elisabeth Maurin dance in Rudolf Nureyev's adaptation of The Nutcracker for the Paris Opera Ballet. Both dancers are the epitome of classical ballet: clean lines, flawless technique, a certain flair, a certain sparkle.

It doesn't hurt that Mr. Hilaire is maybe the most beautiful man I have ever seen.

He's also a wonderful actor:



This is an extract from a contemporary piece choreographed by Angelin Preljocaj, called Le Parc. Out of context, it's simply the coming together of a man and a woman, any man and woman, and even so it's pretty fucking powerful.

I would highly reccommend finding out what it is about in context for yourself. If only to see more of Laurent Hilaire's gorgeous face...



Personal crushes aside, I'll leave it for now with one final clip of one of my favourite female dances, Alina Cojocaru, in one of the most famous moments of classical dance: The Rose Adagio from The Sleeping Beauty, choreographed by Marius Petipa.



It's just lovely.