I haven’t watched Swan Lake since its rendition in Barbie (…or the last scene of “Billy Elliot” if you count that). I never sat through a live ballet of any sort apart from a Christmas production of the Nutcracker at age eight, which I recall as a somniferous and daunting expedition. But I am in my heart a capital-R Romantic, so on Oct. 9, when the Kyiv Ballet Company performed at Innovation Theatre, with an opportunity to dress in a wrinkled button-down and sit cross-legged in a plush theatre chair, how could I refuse a night at the ballet?
At the first sliver peaking from beneath the heavy velvet curtain, my interest was piqued. I watched as feet scampered across the stage, blocking astigmatic stars of blue light from reaching my eye, and reflecting the pinks and yellows of costumes not yet seen. Then the speakers startlingly popped, the music began to swell, and I felt chills rise across my skin (classical always does that to me).
When the curtains pulled back to reveal a visual cacophony of poorly-laundered costumes and faces plastered with plastic smiles, I was overwhelmed. My memory flooded with flashes of red, flushed faces and sweat from stage lights, hair ripped off by mic tape, and powder-caked and makeup-slathered skin from my infrequent appearances in middle school theatre. I could see nothing but a mirror to my own past discomfort. I could see terrified eyes hiding behind unwavering grins. I could see my last panic attack, well-hidden, dancing cheerfully at a ball.
Looking at the black noses of their white point shoes I was reminded, beyond the scope of my projective fear, of their labor: the countless hours of practice, the meticulous self-regulation, and the exhaustion of travel. Why did they choose to be here tonight, halfway across the world, performing with a plastic throne to a near empty theatre? Why do they dance?
The stage light turned red, reminiscent of an LED-lit dorm room circa 2020, and I felt wine-drunk, as if sipping from a stale plastic cup once again and beginning to realize I have missed the point. I focused on the imperfection of a sunburnt back or foundation smudged corset in order to remind myself of their humanity, to intellectualize my amazement at any lift, to avoid being lost in the performance — how antithetical to the purpose of entertainment this is. At some point, I forgot myself in order to enjoy the show, and just then, the slow turn of the white swan and queen allowed just that. I was “Anastasia” remembering the music box, and briefly, the magic of simply watching returned to me. What a pleasure it is to be passive.
As the back buttons of the Swan Queen’s bodice became undone in her twirls, the courageous intimacy of dance was undressed. Never is there a more clear expression of our collective corporeality than in performance like this. The hard-beating hearts and heavy breaths hidden behind stone faces, the intense intentionality of each arc of the body, the thump which shakes the ground with every lift form a collective pursuit: the performance to which we all strive.
Swan Lake’s plot may have been lost on me by the end of this evening. I contemplated a wiki debrief in order to inform my memory, but ultimately decided I got what I needed out of my night at the theater.
