Published
This essay appears in our Out of Body issue. Order your copy here.
I was a new member of the unemployed society late last year, and I found it to be a mapless territory. A feeling of freedom abounds in a life without a 9-to-5, but it comes with a price. When you’re unemployed, Father Time bookends your days with extra hours that go unnoticed in the world of the employed. So I killed some time! A book here, a movie there, the boxing gym, etc. That’s all well and good, but to deter any kind of monotony from setting in, I tried something new: participating in an art form rather than reading about it? I don’t know! Just bear with me here.
Ballet came into my head through boxing. I returned to the boxing gym for the first time in years after losing my job, and I knew for a fact that some of my favorite boxers took ballet classes to improve their footwork. The idea clung to some corner of my mind. I only go to that gym for exercise, so there was no realistic need to improve my footwork. But there was something to this concept of "gracefulness”.
Let’s do that thing where we refer to a dictionary definition. Let’s just get this out of the way. Here comes Merriam-Webster, defining something the way mortals cannot. Gracefulness (noun): dignified or restrained beauty of form, appearance, or style.
Well, now we’re cooking with gas. As someone concerned with aesthetics and style in a world of showboating, I couldn’t help but feel that emphasis on the adjective “restrained” to describe the beauty of form. Look up “gracefulness” on Wikipedia, and you’ll see a photo of a swan, not a peacock. Think about it.
I like people but I tend to think that the modern world is full of buffoons, I really do. The idea of incorporating gracefulness into my life was appealing. I pictured myself dripping with poise when I removed my wallet from my pocket, or opened a car door, and maybe—just maybe—exiting a room in the form of an Élance.
I ordered ballet shoes and tights. That’s how I essentially was forcing myself to follow through. Once you pay money for the gear, you’ve crossed the Rubicon. I wasn’t about to let tights and ballet shoes gather dust in the corner, no sir! I decided against buying a tambourine, though it was tempting, because in my head I was thinking there was a possibility I was such a naturally gifted ballerina that someone would beg me to play the lead in an all-male production of Esmerelda.
In adult life, it’s rare, outside of a new job, when you have that first-timer experience of walking into a room and being the new guy. At a new job, someone is guiding you, showing you where the bathroom is and pointing to the desk you will sit at for the rest of your life. A class, especially one rooted in rigor, is full of people who are already accustomed to the day-to-day. There’s no one to hold your hand. You’re expected to learn with the same expediency as everybody else. You avoid asking too many questions to prevent the appearance of being a novice. I did ask one guy if this was the correct adult beginner’s class, and he looked at me like I was an idiot and said, “Uh, yeah.” Sure, it was obvious he was an adult, but how was I supposed to know he was a beginner as well? I hope you take my side on this one, dear reader.
Class began, and I was thrown right into it. Stretching and barre warm-ups, then center work, and ending with allegro (jumps and traveling steps across the room, in pairs). I won’t bore you with details, but I’ll tell you my first class went smoothly. There were times I would mess up, step out of time, and thank God for mirrors and other, more seasoned students in the room in case I needed to correct myself with a glance. What a concept: a class where you’re actually encouraged to copy your classmate’s work. As expected, in each subsequent class I attended after the first one, I felt more and more like I knew what I was doing until the jumps and traveling steps came along and I realized I’m still an unsophisticated oaf. Humble pie found its way to my table even though I insisted on being full. Humble pie comes for us all.
At the studio, there’s a big window where a wall should be, directly across from some second-story Korean restaurants that come alive at night with hustle and bustle and neon signs and all that. Maybe if you’re a passerby, you can take a seat and peer through the glass, and here’s what you’d see: Plies. Lips parted just enough to sneak a deep breath. Damp headbands. A tutu-clad 80-year-old woman playing piano. And at 8:30 pm, you’ll see the teacher lead us in reverence. Everyone claps. And through the glass, all these graceful movements are soundless and dreamlike.
When you think of dreams, does your mind associate them with aspirations or beauty? We can dream about a different life, or job, or whatever kind of world we want to live in that’s within arm’s reach, or we dream of something that’s visually splendid. It’s either something you want for your future or something you simply want to see. I couldn’t help but think about the idea that some of the people in class were making a dream come true, either always wanting to be a ballerina and taking the step late in life, or maybe putting on the tights again after giving up in their youth. I don’t aspire to be a ballerina.
When I think of dreams, I think of beauty. I don’t think I’ll be en pointe in this lifetime, but whatever I’m learning from ballet class has made me better understand what makes ballet beautiful. My participation, though slight, further informs my understanding of this world. Yukio Mishima said, “Beauty is something that burns the hand when you touch it”. My hands feel fine, but my legs feel the “burn” as they say… does that count? I sure as hell hope so.
