This week I attended a ballet recital put on by a studio that my daughter and I had attended for four years. She had moved on to a new studio; I had taken a temporary break from dance altogether. As the auditorium filled, we both felt conflicted for related reasons. She, understandably, felt left out as she watched the girls with whom she had danced for several years perform without her. She found the choreography more interesting than what she was doing at her new studio. Well past her bedtime, this spilled out in an angry, pouty, teenager-to-come outburst,
I could relate. I saw many people, parents of other girls, other women with whom I danced for many years, all very welcoming and happy to see me. But it wasn’t the same as dancing with them on a regular basis. I also noticed a number of talented young dancers in the audience that I was accustomed to seeing on the stage. And some weren’t there at all. I was not the only person that had moved on to something else.
I also viewed the performance with a more critical and less indulgent eye. The little ones were adorable; their primary function is to be cute and they did it well. The more seasoned dancers performed a variety of interesting, often playful or moving numbers. But many in my daughter’s cohort seemed to struggle with the ambitious choreography. This contrasted with an informal holiday performance at my daughter’s new studio. While the dances were simpler, they were well executed in unison and with confidence.
Fast forward to yesterday evening: opening night of the Nutcracker. This version is put on by the studio my daughter now attends and she and a good friend were both performing in it. Her friend’s mother and I had volunteered as ushers. Here I experienced a different sense of community. I had performed in this show last year and thus had gotten to know many of the dancers. For several months, I have also been interacting with them in the studio. I have watched their skills evolve and seen them move into new, more demanding roles. I have begun to know their parents. So, there I was in the back of the theater sitting on a folding chair next to the mother of the female lead, “Clara,” watching her cry (and shedding more than a few tears myself).
What was wholly unexpected, was my reaction to the first act, the party scene, in which I had participated last year. I expected to feel some regrets at not taking part, some envy, feeling left out. There was some of that. But mostly, I was spellbound, genuinely moved. In the past, I’d always found the party scene a little boring, a little too prolonged. But having done it, I felt as if I were there and not there, simultaneously within and without. It was as if I was watching myself even though I was not on stage. Perhaps this is voyeurism, or a kind of narcissism, who knows? It was, nonetheless, a curious sensation. I could predict the choreography, the flow of people on and off the stage. But from the outside, I could see and fully appreciate the complexity of the staging that involves so many people in a relatively confined space. When on stage, my primary concern was to not bump into anybody, remember my right from my left, and to engage in purposeful milling about.
My daughter and her friend, of course, were lovely in the roles they performed. More mommy tears. Then, at the reception after the performance, a number of dancers and parents came up to me and said nice things about her. Not just about her dancing, but about her essential character, aspects that only people that knew her and was paying attention would notice. She may not yet fully appreciate this new community. But I did. And I also look forward to reconnecting with the old one.
