In the fall, I spend most of my evenings at Lincoln Center. I sit on the rim of the fountain surrounded by the trifecta of illustrious auditoriums and watch the theater-going crowd while the first cool breeze grazes my skin. On the eve of this year’s autumnal equinox, I decided to go to opening night at New York City Ballet. My friend told me that more than two hundred and fifty alumni were invited back to celebrate the 75th anniversary of the company. The thought of being in the same building just feet away from living legends was well worth a ticket at full price.
Stepping into the Koch Theatre, the granite and marble walls resonated with the return of its prodigal children. Generation after generation of former dancers filled the space. It was the youngest looking crowd of all ages ever; Ballet has a way of preserving the body in time. While wrinkles and sallow skin are an inevitability, their bodies remain strong and erect, belying their age. Ironically, though they stand tall and move with grace, there is a lot of hobbling around from the toll of ballet and the lack of cartilage left in the body. Even though I’m younger than most, I’m nursing arthritis in my knee and even though I’ve been retired from dancing for two years now, I still feel the grinding of my joints as I make my way around. We all looked at the stairs as a monumental task.
Walking through the crowd of hugs and reunions, it seemed like the retired alumni were more interested in catching up with each other than the actual performance. I paid attention to each individual scene taking place while I meandered around the theater. By the main staircase that leads to the mezzanine, I spotted my first ever dance teacher, Alexandre Proia, a French dancer who joined the company in 1984. He was the first teacher to recognize my potential and encourage me to become a professional. I don’t know why I didn’t expect to see him. After all, not only was he with the company for ten years, he was also one of its principal dancers, the highest rank a dancer can achieve. I remembered the stories he used to tell me about the company, about how his director dangled roles in front of him but he never got to do them, and I remembered the animosity he still held decades later after he left. He was all smiles and giggles now. So easily the trauma can melt away when you’re sharing memories with loved ones, but I wondered how he really felt being back in the theater.
It had been nearly a decade since I last saw Alexandre. Our reunion was heartfelt. We caught up briefly until he was pulled into another conversation with an old colleague. Listening in, they talked about the roles they danced together. His friend quickly corrected him when he thought she had danced a principal role in Rubies. With a shift in her stance and a sarcastic tone she said she was never allowed. Flashes of pain swept across their faces; no doubt difficult moments of casting woes flooded their memories. But, the conversation quickly moved on. I quietly departed to go to my seat, not wanting to insert myself or detract from him. This was more his night than mine.
Due to the nature of the night, the curtain went up twenty minutes late. The company was reviving Jewels, a triptych ballet, each section designated to a specific jewel. It opens with Emeralds, a piece cloaked in mystery and green tulle. Emeralds takes place in an autumnal world and seeps a romantic perfume of French impressionistic melancholy. Then Rubies, an ode to Americana with a jazzy meter. And finally, the show ends with Diamonds, which is in the manner of the grand Russian imperial style—think the Romanovs. The dancers seemed tight on opening night. The awareness of all the alumni in the audience must’ve weighed heavily on them. Most, if not all of the former dancers watching had danced these ballets and would know a mistake if they saw one. That awareness did not serve the performance as the dancers appeared wooden under the extreme scrutiny.
At the first intermission, I continued my walk through the theater in hopes of seeing some of the greatest dancers of the 20th century. Specifically, I wanted to see Suzanne Farrell. She was Balanchine’s greatest muse, and, second only to Igor Stravinsky, his most influential creative partner. She defined the ballerina of the 20th century. I first saw her dance in dated performance videos on the internet. Immediately I idolized her. She had this hypnotic power that forced you to watch. Dancing seemed so innate to her, as if she were improvising the steps on the spot. She wasn’t the most technically brilliant dancer but she was the most unique dancer. A perfect case of having that thing that separates stars from the rest of us.
I imagined running into her during intermission and saying, “Hi Suzanne, it may seem odd considering I never saw you dance in person, but I’m one of your biggest fans.” If there was ever a chance to see her, opening night of New York City Ballet’s 75th season was it. I scanned the crowd, not really knowing what to look for; I’ve only seen her in films from the 70’s. Walking around, I ran into more former dancers I had worked and trained with during my career. They all left a strong imprint on me and I was flattered that all these years later they remembered me.
Right before I returned to my seat, I saw Suzanne. She was holding court next to a costume display case. There was a line to see her. Supported by a cane and a friend, she appeared frail and shy, almost timid. Even so, throngs of people gathered around her. She harnessed the gravity and we all fell into her orbit. Initially wanting to talk to her, I decided that seeing her just feet away was enough. This was a night for her and her fellow dancers, and to take any of her time felt selfish.
They say don’t meet your heroes, but they never said you can’t look at them.
At the end of the performance, when the curtain was raised, all the dancers from New York City Ballet were ushered on stage in unorganized groups. There was no order as the horde of retired dancers awkwardly crept forward. Some very old dancers appeared, one woman using a wheelchair was wheeled out and placed directly in the front of stage right. She managed to briefly stand up from her wheelchair, and after a few seconds she took a very low bow. It was a powerful moment that shook the audience to our core.
The orchestra was playing Pomp and Circumstance, which felt like the wrong choice. This was a celebration, but nobody was graduating. The first movement from Tchaikovsky’s Serenade for Strings would have been more appropriate. Serenade is a ballet that has been in the company’s repertoire since its founding. Each dancer on stage at one point would have danced it in their careers. This should’ve been the obvious choice, but instead I watched the dancers line up as if they were graduating.
It’s hard to watch ballet sometimes. Stepping away from something that I loved was not an easy decision, but for me, it was the right one. After a decade of throwing myself around the stage and fighting gravity, I felt like I had hit my personal peak and had nowhere to go but down. Instead of continuing to force my body to take flight, I felt it was time to ground myself and start anew. I don’t doubt my decision, but I wouldn’t be human if I didn’t feel melancholic about it from time to time. That night, I was reminded of not only what I left behind but who. I miss my friends, my built-in support system, my eccentric, dysfunctional chosen family. We each eventually leave at some point, as all those dancers on stage did, but that doesn’t lessen the pain. My face felt hot as tears rolled down my cheeks. My hands stung from all the clapping.
I left the theater and stepped back into the crisp autumn night, more thankful than sad to have attended. Walking among all the alumni of the company, we began our journey back home. Some had long journeys across the country; I was headed to the East Village. The music followed me as I hummed it all the way home, stepping in time with Tchaikovsky’s diamonds.