Dancing Through It: My Journey in the Ballet

by Ringer, Jenifer

  This happened to us the first time we had an orchestra rehearsal for a ballet that Peter Martins made called Naïve and Sentimental Music to music by John Adams. It used almost every principal dancer on the roster, twenty-six of us either onstage at the same time or just exiting and entering. We were all experienced and used to dancing under every kind of stress, but when we were onstage for our first orchestra rehearsal and suddenly couldn’t find a beat or a melody in the music, we just stood around and stared at each other, befuddled. Peter had anticipated the problem and rehearsed us often to a CD of the orchestra version of the music, but somehow the orchestra sounded wildly different from the CD’s version of the piece. It was hard for us to find any kind of rhythm or melody to anchor our steps. In group sections where we were supposed to be dancing together, it looked like we were all doing different choreography because we were so out of sync. Peter was obviously very upset, because the premiere was only days away.

  We eventually figured out that in every section, there was somebody who could hear where we were supposed to be. Those who were musically lost just found a way to watch that dancer and stay together with his or her movements. We counted for one another and gave one another significant looks. During a section where the women danced in a revolving circle and we couldn’t make eye contact with one another, Janie Taylor called out the counts for us. Before a finale step that Jennie Somogyi and I led off, we would look at each other across the stage, nod, and take a large preparatory step so that we started at the same time. At other times, when in doubt, we just watched whoever was in front, and even if we thought she was wrong, we did what she did.

  Somehow we pulled it off, but we were all stressed about it. For this ballet, it was not necessarily the dancing that was hard but the musical and mental focus required to do it correctly. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen that many principal dancers counting music loudly at the same time, both in the wings and onstage, looking questioningly at their opposites and partners to see if they were correct. But in the end, hopefully we looked professional from out front! We tried not to move our lips too much as we counted. . . .

  —

  And indeed, despite all of the preparation and repetition of rehearsals, performances are rarely perfect. Actually, performances are never perfect. I’ve never stepped offstage and thought, There was absolutely nothing wrong with that performance. I find that when I perform, I have many thought processes going on simultaneously. My analytical brain is trying to make sure I do the technique properly; I’m thinking about pointing my toes, straightening my knees, keeping my shoulders down, placing myself in the proper alignment so that I’ll stay in balance. I might also be hearing the voice of my ballet master telling me to remember to do something particular at a specific moment. Or I’m counting how many steps I have to do before I take off for a jump into my partner’s arms. These are the things that I’ve practiced and rehearsed over and over again, so they should be mostly in my muscle memory, but I still need to remember them and force myself to execute them properly, especially if I’m tired.

  But drowning out that analytical part of myself is the part of me that just dances. There is something so different about being onstage. Performance never feels like rehearsal to me. There is a different electricity to the air. I feel a surge of adrenaline as I wait in the wings and hear the music building to the moment when I’ll make my entrance. The actual air is usually colder on the stage than in any rehearsal studio because of the air conditioning that flows in from the audience. I can sense a feeling of hushed expectation pressing toward me from the hundreds of people sitting in the dark and watching. Suddenly everything counts, and even if we make mistakes, my partners and I have to make it look good, as if what the audience is seeing right then in that moment was what we fully intended to do all along. We have a responsibility to be our very best, and to transport them to another realm.

  In performance, I become primarily consumed with the artistic part of my dancing because all of the rehearsal and repetition gives me the freedom, finally, to just perform. I’m trying to embody and project the feelings the particular choreography evokes within me. It isn’t just a matter of counting, or precise balance, or any technical execution of a particular step or combination—it’s something less definable. The music suddenly seems more present as I try to interpret it or respond to it exactly as it is sounding that night. I’m also reacting to my partner and what frame of mind he is in for the performance. I may be feeling serene and loving, but if I look at my partner’s eyes and he is looking back at me with desperation or sadness, I have to adapt and respond so that we have a silent dialogue going on between us, not only technically but also emotionally, at all times. We may have rehearsed a particular scene in one particular way for weeks, but suddenly, onstage, moods and feelings can change and we have to stay responsive, in the moment. Inspiration or insight can come out of nowhere during a performance, and following that inner quicksilver spark—that something inside that transforms a dancer into an artist—can lead to experiencing the true and honest emotional depths of a ballet. Dancing onstage in front of an audience is the most important part of our day, and it is why we put in so many hours of rehearsal, why we work so hard over the weeks—years, really—to build for ourselves a technical foundation from which we can soar artistically. It is with the freedom of technical assurance that dancers can allow their artistic imaginations to fly unhindered.

  One ballerina whom I’ve always admired for her stage presence is Wendy Whelan. In rehearsals, she works immaculately, fixating on small details as she strives to understand and conquer whatever role she is dancing at the moment. She addresses minute technical issues as well as broad motivations and themes, and at the final stage rehearsal it appears that the part has never been danced better. But then the performance comes, and Wendy somehow takes everything to another level, transporting herself into the role, inhabiting it as only a creature of the stage could. Her way of working yields amazing results and has made her one of the most memorable artists of this generation; I’ve held her up as an example to follow ever since I first saw her perform.

  When dancers step onstage, they see each and every performance as the culmination of years of work and dedication. They are prepared to expend any amount of energy and to sacrifice their bodies in order to make the performance somehow special. The goal is to move and thrill the audience, and to make them feel lifted up and taken beyond the ordinary world.

  But as I said, performances are never perfect. Usually the mistakes are minor and are noticed only by the dancers. We might take off for a jump on the wrong leg and have to fix our position midair, or find a new ending position for a pirouette that didn’t go as planned. A lift might go badly, and the man may have to carry the woman in an unrehearsed position that the woman then has to find a way to make pretty. Sometimes, however, something goes so wrong that there is no recovery from it or disguising it, and everyone, including the most inexperienced audience member, knows that a big problem has occurred. I’ve certainly had my share of every kind of mistake.

  First of all, I’ve fallen. Now, at this stage of my career, I know that falling down onstage isn’t the end of the world. It is a little embarrassing, but it usually gains the dancer so much sympathy and goodwill that she gets an extra-loud round of applause. But the first time I fell onstage, I was devastated.

  It happened when I was still a student at Washington School of Ballet. For the spring student performance, I was given a solo to dance. It was a short solo with quick footwork that ended with a diagonal of very tricky pirouettes; the pirouettes were en dedans, or “inside” turns, which I happened to do well. To turn en dedans, the dancer stands on the right leg and turns to the right. The other way of turning, en dehors, is the “outside” pirouette, where the dancer stands on the left leg and turns to the right. In variations class, I’d been one of the few who had been able to successfully tackle that diagonal of eight en dedans pirouettes,
which must have been why I was eventually cast. I still even today feel much more comfortable in this type of turn than in the en dehors, or “outside,” pirouette.

  Rehearsals seemed to be going well, but I was still terribly nervous as the performances approached. We had three shows over the weekend, and I felt as if these were the most important days of my fourteen-year-old life. In the first performance, after executing four of the pirouettes, I fell. I was mortified. I got sympathy and reassurances from teachers, students, and parents alike, but it didn’t help. And some of the sympathy seemed tinged with a little bit of gladness that something ill had befallen the “girl who got the solo.”

  The next day was a Saturday and we had our last two shows, a matinee and an evening performance. My dad was with me that day. He and I prayed before the matinee performance, but I still felt very nervous. While I was dancing the opening section, I felt like I was unconnected to the floor, like a deer on ice. Before my solo, I thought butterflies would erupt from my gut. Then the moment came and I made it through all eight pirouettes, but as I started the steps to get into the final pose, I fell again! I couldn’t believe it. Now I was given sympathy with sidelong glances; I could tell that people were wondering if I was a “choke artist.” Maybe I didn’t have the guts to perform under pressure. Maybe I was one of those talents who would end up a flop. Literally.

  In between the matinee and the evening, my dad and I went to a fast-food restaurant for something to eat and just to get away from the theater. I cried. We prayed again. And then, oddly, I fell asleep on a bench right in the middle of that busy restaurant. My brain must have needed a break. But I woke up feeling refreshed and ready to tackle the last performance. The worst had happened, twice, so it could only get better.

  Mary Day, the head of the school, was backstage for the last show. She looked anxious for me. As I waited in the wings to go out for my solo, I was nervous but felt a certain grit-your-teeth determination. I was going to get through this, and I was NOT going to fall. Suzanne Erlon, one of my teachers, had suggested not thinking too far ahead of myself, but just counting each turn as “one.” It was too easy (and dangerous) to start worrying about the fact that there were eight turns in a row. I decided to try it. This time I felt connected to the stage and like I was dancing as myself, not as someone labeled as “talented” or “going to be something someday” or “has just fallen twice during her eight pirouettes.” I danced the solo well, executed all the turns, and finished on my feet. I had done it. I ran into the wings and jumped for joy; I felt I had never jumped so high in my life. Mary Day jumped up with me and hugged me, saying, “I knew you would do it. I just knew it!”

  Since those early experiences, I’ve been able to handle my falls with more grace. Falling in the corps de ballet was always complicated because I had to get up and somehow find my place in both the choreography and the formation without disrupting things too much. Also, while on the floor, there were usually pointed toes and kicking feet to avoid. Sometimes I had to roll or crawl a bit to get out of everyone’s way. We don’t get in trouble when we fall—everyone knows that it is an accident and that sometimes there is nothing a dancer could do to prevent it. But certainly no one wishes to fall onstage.

  Falling during a solo meant that I had to find a way to recover well and pretend nothing had happened, all the while knowing that everyone knew something had happened. Once while doing the Fairy of Generosity solo from The Sleeping Beauty in the Saratoga Performing Arts Center, I had a particularly loud fall. SPAC is an outdoor theater, and the performance was a pleasant summer matinee. I was enjoying dancing and being able to see the faces of the audience while dragonflies and butterflies darted over the lawn. About to dance an easy transitional step, I thought, I’m going to do the loveliest bourrée right now, looking back at the audience the whole time.

  Suddenly I was facedown on the floor like a frog about to be dissected, staring at the stage tape through my fingertips. There was an echoing brong kind of sound bouncing through the amphitheater, no doubt caused by my knees and elbows forcefully connecting with the somewhat hollow-sounding stage. The packed audience of almost three thousand gasped a horrified Oh. I stood up quickly and went into B-plus, a ballerina’s go-to pose where she stands on one leg with the other leg crossed behind her, toe on the floor. I had a couple of bars of music before my next step began, so I simply smiled at the audience and opened my palms toward them in an acknowledgment of what had just happened. We shared a moment. They clapped.

  I once had a tumble during Balanchine’s Kammermusik No. 2, a neoclassical ballet set to difficult Paul Hindemith music and danced by two women with a corps of men. The counts of the steps were intricate and unusual and took all of my focus. Right in the middle of the opening dance, I slipped and fell to my knees. Luckily I was dancing that night with my friend Kathleen Tracey, who always knew what she was doing. When I fell, all the counts with their matching steps flew out of my brain, and I had no idea where I was in the music. I knew I was about to be hopelessly lost for the rest of the section. But without pausing in her own difficult steps, Katey began barking out the counts to me.

  “Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen!” I heard her say, and she looked at me on the floor as if to say, “Get up!” I got up with alacrity and was able to join right in with her; she saved the moment. What would we do without generous friends onstage?

  Another memorable fall of mine happened during the Winter section of Jerome Robbins’s Four Seasons, where all the ballerinas zip around the stage, pretending that they are freezing. There is a section that’s particularly hard because it’s nonstop jumping; it feels like the hardest aerobics class that must be done with pointed toes and a smile. After the solo girl’s first entrance, she stays onstage to dance a pas de trois with two boys. At the end of this part, the three dancers do a series of coupés jetés, or turning leaps, in a diagonal to a final pose on one knee. During one performance, I slipped and fell during these jumps. Fortuitously, I had so much momentum built up from my previous leaps that I slid like a baseball player all the way across the stage and was able to pop up onto my knee, right in the perfect formation between my two boys, and finish with my arms out on the last count of the music. This fall was beloved by those in the company and reenacted many times. In fact, I found out weeks later that the boys had gotten a copy of the performance tape and played it over and over in slow motion in their dressing room.

  Perhaps my favorite fall, however, happened during a Nutcracker gig with Charles Askegard in Brooklyn. December can be a lucrative month for dancers because thousands of schools across the country are doing their own productions of The Nutcracker and need dancers to come in for the principal parts. I’ve always loved to do these gigs, which enable me not only to augment my dancer’s salary but also to meet and talk to students across America. It is wonderful and refreshing to see their love for dance and their joy in being a part of such special performances.

  On one such gig in Brooklyn, Charles and I came onto the stage at intermission to warm up and get acclimated to the space. We discovered that the Snowflakes had gone rogue with the resin box. Dancers use this sticky powdery substance called resin when the floor is slippery; there is usually a box offstage that we can step in so that we can get some of the substance on our shoes. Apparently the Snowflakes had felt that the stage was especially slippery, because they had taken the resin box and dumped the entire contents onto the stage. The stage now felt as if someone had covered it with upside-down duct tape.

  Charles and I could hardly dance. We had to pull our feet off the floor with every step we took, resulting in little tick-tick-tick sounds as we moved around. Even in my pointe shoes and with Charles’s vigorous partnering assistance, I could turn around only twice during the pirouettes of our pas de deux because the tip of my shoe would stay planted on the floor while the rest of my foot and body tried to turn. Before his solo, Charles found some baby powder and sprinkled it on his s
hoe while he was in the wings, hoping that he could eke out a double pirouette himself, but he made it around only one and a half times and then had to jump the rest of the way. Under normal conditions, Charles usually turned like a top.

  Somehow, in the middle of this very sticky situation, I managed to slip and fall. It was right before our big grand jeté lifts, and Charles and I had moved to opposite sides of the stage as the choreography built suspense. The music soared, Charles ran majestically toward me, and I wound up on my bottom, feet in the air. Charles just looked at me in consternation and then helped me up gallantly. While he held me over his head in the first lift, he said, “How did you possibly manage to fall?” I will never know.

  —

  Another problem that often catches dancers unaware (literally) is what we call “blanking.” Sometimes, no matter how hard we have rehearsed or how many times we have repeated the choreography day after day and week after week, we get onstage before the audience and our brain draws a complete blank. It is a disconcerting feeling to be standing in front of over two thousand expectant people and not have a clue as to how to entertain them.

  This has happened to me several times, but two instances in particular stand out. The first is when James and I were dancing the lead roles in Francis Patrelle’s Romeo and Juliet. It was a full-length ballet and we were onstage the majority of the evening, so there were lots of entrances and exits to remember. This is usually not a problem, however. It was, after all, what we had trained ourselves to do for a living. But during one of the shows, the worst happened: both of us blanked out at the same time.

  In a pas de deux, when one partner forgets the steps, usually the other remembers what they are supposed to be doing and is able to prompt his or her partner with either physical movements or a whispered verbal cue. But I turned to face James and suddenly had no idea what step to do next. I stopped moving and looked into his eyes. He looked back at me, waiting for me to move so that he could respond and partner me. I said one word to him: “Blank!” and watched as panic entered his own eyes when he realized that he didn’t know what to do next either.