PRINCE DISAPPEARED AGAIN FOR maybe another year before suddenly calling me once more in the fall of 2011. He wanted to fly me to his home in Minnesota for a photo shoot and to discuss a new collaboration. I agreed, and just as before, I went to see him, not really knowing much about what he wanted.
He told me that he was planning to tour the States, something he hadn’t done in a very long time. The tour would be called Welcome to America and would kick off with a concert in New York City at Madison Square Garden. I was honored that he wanted me to be involved, especially in the tour’s beginning stages, when he was envisioning and charting the tour’s look and flow.
We did a photo shoot together, him with his guitar and me in the gown and pointe shoes I’d worn nearly two years earlier in the “Crimson and Clover” video. I pirouetted and posed around him while he focused solely on the camera. A couple of hours later, when we were done, I went to another room in his home to sit with some of his staff, who were ready to pick the pictures that we’d use. I did the choosing, selecting those that best showed my dancer’s lines since they didn’t have the eye for that uniquely balletic attribute. They accepted that I knew best and then printed the shots that would be used in the posters and programs that would be on sale during the shows.
Playtime, however, was over. There would be no more improvising onstage. This time, Prince wanted a choreographed and set piece.
WHEN I RETURNED TO New York, ABT was in full swing preparing for our Nutcracker season at the Brooklyn Academy of Music. We were using a theater space in New Jersey for our daily rehearsals since the BAM facility would be occupied by another company until our premiere.
I would rehearse with ABT from about ten in the morning until nine at night. Then, during my breaks, I had a choreographer meeting me at the theater to work on the number I would do during Prince’s concert. I would be dancing to “The Beautiful Ones” from Prince’s movie and album Purple Rain.
After rehearsing all day and half the night with ABT, I was picked up from the theater in a limousine to go to the Izod Center in New Jersey, where I would then rehearse with Prince until about two in the morning. He was now very particular about what he wanted from me. But I was comfortable with that. This was the type of high-pressure environment I was used to as a ballerina, and while it had been fun to do what I’d wanted in the shows before, it was comforting to strive again for technical perfection and control. I was ready.
Prince would write pages of notes for me and the choreographer. He would have me listen to the “Beautiful Ones” over and over again until I knew every word and musical cue.
Baby, baby, baby,
What’s it gonna be?
Sometimes we would rehearse in his suite at the Ritz-Carlton in Manhattan, and he would blast the music as I danced on the dining room table, our substitute for the piano that I would whirl atop onstage during the concerts.
Working with Prince—experiencing his brilliance, his attention to detail, but also his belief in me—boosted my confidence immeasurably. Executing something that was his vision but based largely on my own, without the incremental coaching of my ballet mistresses, made me feel independent, as if I was truly a professional at last.
Up to that point, I’d still often felt like a student, the perennial latecomer to ballet. Working with Prince helped me to become a whole artist, responsible for every step I danced from its conception to its execution, from its birth to its final flourish.
MY EMOTIONAL BREAKTHROUGHS—MEETING AND falling in love with Olu, learning to cherish my new body, meeting my father for the first time—seemed to flow alongside technical breakthroughs in my dancing.
I remember the first time I performed George Balanchine’s Tchaikovsky Pas de Deux at the Met with Jared Matthews. It was in May 2009, and it was a significant turning point for me. Quick footwork, especially in Balanchine ballets, was always a challenge for me. I practiced relentlessly and performed well, a major accomplishment. And my technique improved each time I performed.
I have found that most of my progression and breakthroughs came when I was asked to perform outside of ABT. I think that was because in those outside shows, I was always the principal dancer, and I was able to perform major parts without the expectations and pressure I felt from ABT’s staff.
Sometimes the pressure existed solely in my own head. There was always the fear that if I had an off day, if I could not maintain the illusion of perfection that we dancers endlessly sought but could not attain, I would never be cast in that part again. But dancing outside of ABT, I felt as if there was less to lose. Worry and tension was replaced by pure, unfettered joy.
I didn’t just experience that burst of confidence and adrenaline dancing with other companies or choreographers. I felt the same freedom and electricity performing with Prince.
He was a perfectionist, like me, and he wanted to see certain elements in my performance. Still, I was the expert on ballet, and so it was up to me to choreograph, hone, and then perform my piece, all on my own.
He and I would stare at the mirror, figuring out poses that worked for me to do around him as he sang “The Beautiful Ones” on his U.S. tour. I would not be at every concert. Since ABT was in the midst of its season at the Brooklyn Academy of Music, I’d gotten permission to perform with Prince on our off nights, and Prince was fine with my coming and going according to my schedule with ABT, cutting my piece on the nights I was on at BAM.
I was exhausted and exhilarated. I’ve performed all over the world, from the Metropolitan Opera to the Karl Marx Theatre in Havana and the Cultural Centre in Hong Kong, but performing with Prince was something I could never have prepared for.
The first show was at Madison Square Garden, and I felt a bit more pressure than usual. The audience was filled with celebrities, and the air was crackling with intensity.
During the show, I sneaked under the stage, where Prince had a small changing room. He would perform a couple of songs before coming to join me. When he came downstairs, we were quiet. Then we hugged.
“Let’s do it,” he said.
Then he stepped onto a small square platform that rose from beneath the stage. He walked to the piano and started playing.
The platform was supposed to lower again for me to step on, rise, and take my place alongside Prince.
But the stage wouldn’t lower.
I began to panic. Oh no, I thought. That’s my cue! I’m supposed to be onstage!
It seemed to take minutes, but after a few seconds, the platform dropped to meet me.
I gracefully walked to the piano and picked up where I needed to. Prince’s relentless drills to make sure that I knew every lyric, every chord, helped me find my place without missing a beat. I felt ebullient.
I was about to have my solo when Prince stopped singing.
“Ladies and gentlemen, Misty Copeland!” My heart started pounding. He’d never done that in any rehearsals. I always saw myself as the backup dancer, twirling in the background. Now he’d introduced me to his audience, as if I were his equal, his partner. I was floating.
To be truthful, I don’t believe that I was able really to showcase what I was capable of as a ballerina. The gown—the same one I’d worn years before in the “Crimson and Clover” video and that Prince insisted I wear during his concerts—was a size four. I was barely a size zero. And its train was too heavy and long to allow me to execute jumps or intricate turns. Even the stage wasn’t quite right, with flooring that wasn’t appropriate for dancing in pointe shoes.
For the most part, I walked around in a very sultry way, doing piqué turn after piqué turn, going into a string of chaînés until I could no longer keep from becoming dizzy with the added weight of my dress’s long train. Still, it was nothing too technically difficult. My greatest balancing act was making sure I didn’t slip off as I spun on top of the piano.
Still, I’ll never, ever forget it. I was performing in concert arenas, giving a taste of ballet to many who had never seen one. Pr
ince and I would do several more shows together at Madison Square Garden, and at the Forum in Los Angeles, and it was an experience that is incomparable.
Prince loved watching the ballet, and came to ABT to see my performances often. He gave me confidence I hadn’t felt since I was a young dancer. One of the things I most value about our friendship was that he helped me realize my worth at ABT. I didn’t need to be so humble all the time, he said, just as Mr. Mitchell tried to tell me. You are a queen, a diva in the best way, he’d say. I felt like a different person onstage knowing that someone as talented as he is had confidence in me. As fleeting as his presence in my life was, I know I will be forever grateful for it.
It was also incredible that ABT was so generous, allowing me to take advantage of these other opportunities when there were times they could definitely have said no. And of course, they would express great support for my work inside the company, which was the most affirming of all.
I realized that support was there from the beginning. I frequently recalled those heady days during the first two summers I danced with ABT. I remember when Elaine Kudo, the wonderful dancer who had been the first to dance with Baryshnikov in Twyla Tharp’s Push Comes to Shove, approached me one day. She had seen me perform the year before in a contemporary piece created by Kirk Peterson called Eyes That Gently Touch, and she wanted to tell me how beautiful she thought my performance had been. She said that she had seen two other professional companies perform the same piece, and mine was by far the best she had seen. I was honored beyond words.
I also recall David Richardson, ABT’s then assistant artistic director, coming up to me one day and telling me that John Meehan had mentioned me the day before.
“I’m very excited about this coming season,” David said John told him.
“Why?” David asked.
“Because there’s going to be a Misty Copeland and a David Hallberg,” John was quoted as saying, speaking of pieces featuring me and the brilliant young dancer who eventually became a principal with ABT. David said that John told him that I was very talented. I felt so validated, so appreciated, I could have achieved ballon and never come down.
Chapter 12
THE TECHNICAL BREAKTHROUGHS, THE chances to dance with other companies and performers like Prince, and the words and demonstrations of support from Kevin McKenzie and others helped me to believe in my talent and to speak up for myself, not just about dance, culture, and art—but about race.
Knowing the footsteps of other black ballerinas who had come before also helped me to find my voice.
My introduction to Raven Wilkinson came while watching a documentary on the Ballet Russe. It was the first time I’d ever heard of her, which made me angry and happy at the same time. I was enraged that neither I, a young ballerina, nor many of my peers, had ever heard of Raven, yet I was overjoyed that I had finally found her.
When the Ballet Russe toured the South, Raven had contended with the Ku Klux Klan’s threats. Because of the whispers of racially tinged violence, she eventually had to leave the company and move to Holland to find a home where she could dance again. I wept as I watched her story. But I also knew now that I was not alone as a black ballerina and had been fortunate to walk a far less treacherous path.
I spoke about Raven so often that my manager, Gilda Squire, decided to do some research. She discovered that Raven was still very much alive, living in an apartment only a couple of blocks away from me on the Upper West Side. I felt this was a sign that we were supposed to meet and be there for each other.
Gilda reached out to Raven and learned that she had followed my career from its onset, watching all of my TV interviews and reading many of the articles about me. I was moved and surprised.
Finally, Gilda set up an event at the Studio Museum in Harlem. It would be a public conversation between two generations of black ballerinas: Raven and me. The first time I ever spoke to Raven, we were not even in the same room. We participated in a live radio interview to promote the Studio Museum event, and I got very emotional, just hearing her voice. We finally met only a couple of minutes before we took the stage together for the conversation in Harlem. I burst into tears and hugged her tightly. She was so small, delicate, and beautiful.
We have stayed in touch ever since. She attends all of my performances, and we’ll often go out afterward for a meal. Even before I was able to meet her, she had been a guiding light in my life, and now she constantly, selflessly encourages me to go further than she ever could. She often says I have so much more ability and talent than she did, which I find hard to believe. She is humble, hilarious, and so full of funny, poignant tales that she never repeats one. We speak the same very rare language: that of a black classical ballet dancer.
I think part of my purpose as an African American ballerina is to share Raven’s story and educate people on our history within the ballet world. Not just Raven, but Aesha Ash, Alicia Graf Mack, Lauren Anderson, Tai Jimenez, and the myriad other black swans who have enriched the world of ballet but who have often not gotten their due. I feel a strong connection to them all. It isn’t easy for us in this world. Ballet is still a career that requires either a lot of luck (which I had) or a lot of money (which I didn’t have). In addition to impeccable training and emotional support. And as you climb, it can be lonely and terrifying to look around and see no one else who resembles you. Aesha, Tai, and especially Raven made me feel less alone.
IN A BALLET COMPANY, you often have to compete with your friends, your peers, for the same role. That’s never easy. But to compete on an uneven playing field is even more psychologically exhausting.
I remember that awful, empty feeling in my gut when I walked into a rehearsal with a ballet mistress, knowing that she had already made up her mind about who I was and what I was capable of. I could always tell. Having to put on a face of confidence, knowing that I would most likely not be cast, no matter how well I performed, taxed me emotionally. As did feeling that I sometimes had to defend who I was.
“But we don’t think of you as black” was the refrain from some of my peers when I made a small attempt to open up about my concerns that I had a harder time getting some classical roles, or getting recognition for some of my performances.
Of course they were trying to be nice, empathetic even. Instead, it just made me wonder, Well, how do you see black people in general if you believe not thinking of me that way is a compliment?
But I kept on dancing and practicing and performing. I got stronger in every way. And I can’t describe how it feels when you finally get someone to focus on your talent and not the superficiality of the package you come in.
Three years ago, I was playing the part of Puss in Boots in Sleeping Beauty. The makeup person was standing at the ready with her container of powder to turn my face white.
I looked at her. “I don’t understand why the cats have to be white,” I said defiantly. “I want to be a brown cat.”
And so I was.
IN 2007, KEVIN MCKENZIE nominated me to be one of two ABT dancers to represent the company in the famous Erik Bruhn Competition.
The artistic directors of the four top ballet companies in the world—ABT, the Royal Ballet, the Royal Danish Ballet, and the National Ballet of Canada—each select their top young dancers to take part.
I believe that Kevin has always thought I had something extra, and that’s why he gave me every scholarship, fellowship, or workshop opportunity he could offer, from the Coca-Cola Scholarship that paid for my training my final year in Southern California to my selection to compete for the Princess Grace prize. And now this. He was giving me the chance to step up and become a principal on the stage.
My fellow corps member Jared Matthews and I would compete on ABT’s behalf, with the hope of winning. I was relieved to have Jared, my friend and frequent pas de deux partner, by my side.
Three days before the competition in Canada, I hurt myself in rehearsal executing one of my jumps. I was preparing to dance the part of the
jumping girl in Swan Lake’s pas de trois, which I would perform on tour with ABT right after we returned from across the border. I was told that I had a stress reaction in my metatarsal. I was panicked and devastated, but determined to push through. I took the next day off, then returned to the ABT studios to see if I would be able to dance.
As I opened the door to the dressing room, I saw an unfamiliar suitcase sitting in the center of the room. No one had told me that another girl from the company was prepared to go in my place, but that was the message I received, startling and clear. I knew I had to pull it together. There was no way I was going to miss my chance. That night, despite the pain and nervousness I felt, I decided to go to Canada and compete.
There Jared and I danced the Grand Pas de Deux from Sleeping Beauty that I’d performed so many times with ABT’s Studio Company. We also danced a contemporary piece, an excerpt from Petite Mort, choreographed by Jirí Kylián.
The other dancers from the other three companies were, surprisingly, friendly. I think we were all united knowing what an honor it was to be selected by our respective directors to compete, and also feeling the pressure of performing on such a grand stage. I was particularly anxious about our piece from Sleeping Beauty. I think I was told so often at ABT that I excelled in more contemporary roles that I felt a little intimidated taking on such an iconic, classical part.
I gave my best performance yet that night. In the end, we lost the competition. But I won the greater prize.
A few weeks later, after I’d returned home, Kevin asked me to come see him.
He had decided, at last, to make me a soloist. Kevin told me that the night of the Erik Bruhn Competition was the first time he saw me as a true ballerina.
Life in Motion: An Unlikely Ballerina Page 19
