The human body is an incredibly strong and resilient thing–tests show that the bones can survive multiple thousands of pounds of pressure; even the delicate act of going “en pointe” puts something like the strain of the weight of a couple of elephants on the concentrated area of the toes. Ballet training teaches one that, yes, pain is a part of the deal and that in order to make a beautiful spectacle, sometimes it is necessary to endure a certain amount of discomfort.
Sometimes, though, things get a little excessive. I’ve bruised toenails. I’ve lost toenails. I’ve endured tendonitis and open blisters, sprains and subluxated kneecaps. Yet few things can quite compare to the unique agony of forcing oneself to dance in ill-fitting pointe shoes. I had to learn that one the hard way, after a week of intense training followed by two performances in close succession. I had always been taught that cancelling was simply not an option–when in pain, my teacher’s response was always, “too bad, so sad!” But after opening a blister right where the shoe was digging into the back of my foot and performing on it, I practically lamed myself. I could see that the shoe had, literally, dug out flesh from the wound. Yet I pushed myself to hobble to a rehearsal the next day, even though the tendons around the wounded area were getting swollen and tender to the touch. I took a class the day after that, wincing with each step I took and hoping a night’s sleep would help. By this point, I had hollowed out more of the skin, leaving a nasty little depression of red agony.
I had to continue, though, because I had a major event in my performing career–I was going to attempt an actual variation from “The Sleeping Beauty,” one of my all-time favorite ballets. I had to make this work–I had to do it right.
By Tuesday, I was having a hard time walking, but still felt that “the show must go on.” I hobbled through ballet class in normal, flat shoes and proceeded to obsessively “mark” the dance (which means to kind of do it half-way, for the sake of memory) and run it in my head. I was too afraid to put the pointe shoes on and *actually* run the variation, for fear of being physically unable to dance for the actual show.
That night, I was in a sort of trance–my makeup turned out better than I thought it would, perhaps because my fears and trepidations were all aimed elsewhere. All I needed to do was make it through the 48 second piece and then I could sit on my backside and let my abused body heal itself.
I was the last performer of the night and had to try and keep myself warm and prepared for the duration of the show. The speed of the piece, faster than is performed now, was stubbornly kept (thanks to moi) for a sense of historical accuracy. When I walked on stage and posed, I thought, “This is it.”
The music started, and I began like a shot from a cannon. From the very beginning, I felt like I was running a race, pushing my body in order to reach velocities that felt like the speed of light. For a brief moment, I thought it would all be ok. My mind was changed, however, after I felt a pop and insistent pain in my right ankle. This flash of pain proved to be enough of a distraction that I was immediately pulled out of “magical ballet land” and deposited in the real, smelly, painful world. I felt like everyone assembled could see the stress on my face. I could barely accomplish my rises to pointe after this and I started to feel despondent, wishing, above all else, to simply stop and slink off of the stage.
I kept it up, though. I think I was smiling. All I know is that I aped most of the moves, staying on the music even if the steps were not, exactly, well executed. All of a sudden, the music stopped. I bowed and retreated to the dressing room.
Sitting in the dressing room, sweaty and rubbing my ankle, my entire world felt black. In my mind I had failed—I had let my body dictate how the piece had gone rather than the other way around. The producer of the evening, and other artists, tried to make me feel better, but I was nothing but a black cloud of disappointment. I felt that I had made a joke of myself, for reasons that were outside of my ability to control.
I retreated from classes and performing for a couple of weeks. I felt like I would never perform again. I sat around, eating chocolate, wondering how much it would cost to move to Cambodia and live in total isolation.
After some time spent wallowing in self-pity, I started to re-examine the situation. Maybe things hadn’t turned out exactly as I wanted, but that didn’t mean that I wouldn’t have further chances to make it better. I started taking classes again. My ankle had healed itself and I had further bookings to look forward to. The world did not end; I was still a performer.
It’s hard to be reminded, sometimes, that we are human–no amount of mental energy, no “mind over matter” theology can change that. We are fragile, yet incredibly strong. In the same manner, a performer will have triumphs and failures. It is all part of the journey–it’s all live theatre. Things sometimes go wrong. It’s how you carry it off, how you continue from that point, that defines what kind of entertainer you truly are.
So, folks, keep on trying. Be nice to yourself. If you fall down, get back up–just wait until you’re properly healed before you jump back into the swing of things. In the end, it will always be worth it.
xx ragina
The Ragina 