![]() Fake diamonds drip down my sternum, and my false eyelashes seem as large and as dark as butterfly wings. It happens every time I dress for Waltz Variations: I feel as if I’ve time-traveled to a past, more glamorous era. Her legs are long and almost skeletally thin.īut as I step into my own circle of ridged white tulle, I leave the chaos behind. “You’d better not let Christine see that gum or she’ll grab it right out of your mouth,” Adriana says as she sews into her pointe shoes. “I hope I don’t die before the curtain comes down.” “I took, like, eight Advil today,” a dark-haired dancer named Olivia says as she smacks her gum. On the floor are discarded bits of clothing, lone pointe shoes, leg warmers, and half-empty water bottles. Some girls look deep in thought, while others chat loudly with one another. The room is a tangle of satin, tulle, and long, lean limbs. We’re backstage in the Green Room before a Friday night performance, and all around me dancers are being fastened into their pristine white tutus. I sympathize with Christine: It looks chaotic in here. With one last glance at us, she turns and scurries out, her short, platinum blond hair sticking up in all directions. This means worrying about everything from the placement of the spotlights to the egos of prima ballerinas. It’s her job to make sure that every performance of the Manhattan Ballet goes the way it should. I have the whole overture.”Ĭhristine smiles then, looking affectionate but also a little tense. ![]() Am I going to have to hold the curtain?”Īdriana wrinkles her pointy, powdered nose and holds up her shoes, plus the needle and thread she’ll use to sew herself into them. ![]() “Adriana, you don’t even have your shoes on. Her headset crackles, and she hastily barks something into it, then turns back to us. Let’s shake a leg!” Christine, the stage manager, stands in the doorway with her hands on her hips. “Throw yourself into your dancing now,” one of my teachers once said, “because the life span of a dancer can be as short as a fruit fly’s.” There’s nothing pink or froufrou about that. Today, for example, I’m wearing a faded navy cotton leotard and black, slightly less faded leggings. We rarely buy new dance clothes because we know that most ballet careers are short-lived. We rehearse in old leotards, threadbare tights, and torn leg warmers. We spend most of our time hidden from the audience, working as hard as we possibly can to strengthen and control our bodies so that when we step onstage, everything we do looks perfect and effortless. Yes, we wear tutus and tiaras, but only when we perform each night. My mother thinks I’m a star, but she’s biased.īesides, the word ballerina sounds too pink, too froufrou. Me, I’m a dancer in the corps de ballet, just one of the dozens of girls who dance in graceful unison each night. Their head shots are printed in the program, with their names in large print. They dance center stage under the spotlight, and they get their own curtain calls. ![]() Don’t call me a ballerina.īallerinas are the stars of the company. For all of the unsung heroes in the back line ![]()
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