Pointes and Perspective #46 Invisible To The Eye

Invisible To The Eye

Right before the Holidays, the University where I teach held their December Dance Concert. I choreographed a large Ballet piece for the concert, and on the Monday before we opened, I finally had the chance to sit back in the audience during the tech rehearsal and watch the ballet. It was the first time I could see the whole picture. Not trying to direct, at the front of the dance studio, on top of the 12 dancers, but truly watching as a member of the audience would.

And for a brief moment, I panicked.

If you teach in a university setting, you know, it is a different animal than teaching in school or studio. At your home studio, the students have grown up together. They’ve likely had the same teachers, the same foundational training, the same strengths emphasized year after year. The group is cohesive, and their technique often mirrors one another’s.

But in a university? You have dancers from everywhere. All different studios. All different teachers. All different genres. All different levels of experience.

For this piece, I opened the casting to anyone who wanted to perform, whether they were true beginners, intermediate dancers, advanced dancers, and even pre-professionals. Everyone was welcome to dance in this large ensemble ballet. I wanted it to be an opportunity, not an exclusive club.

One dancer grew up at the School of American Ballet - strong, refined, the real deal. Another is a hip-hop dancer who wandered into ballet two years ago and bravely decided to stay. And then there are those in between. Some with years of technique, some with only months, some who simply said, “This feels like something I should try.”

So when I watched the full piece onstage, the fear crept in. Will the audience judge the entire ballet by the inconsistent levels of technique that inevitably appears? Will they miss the art, story, and feeling the piece was to convey, because they’re zeroing in on the differences?

But then something shifted.

I stepped back from the worry and looked at that beginner student, with only two years of ballet who chose, with her whole heart, to stand on that stage next to dancers who’ve trained since childhood. She danced with such grace, such composure, such sincerity. She had grown. She is a ballet dancer now. She belonged. And I was unbelievably proud.

Then I watched the classically trained dancers perform beside their less-experienced peers with complete professionalism, generosity, and warmth. They welcomed them. They supported them. They lit up the stage with them, not despite them.

And what I felt was not fear. It was gratitude. Pride. Joy.

The next morning, I was reading a post from John Clifford about Balanchine and his dancers. “Balanchine lived through them. He was right there on stage dancing with them. Their success was his success. I’ve never seen this particular emotion from any other director or choreographer. Yes, they’re happy when their ballets are successes, but it was different for Mr. B. It was never his ballets that made him happy. It was his dancers that did.”

And that is exactly how I felt.

Of course I hope the audience enjoys my work. Of course I hope it is well received, that the lines land, that the musicality sparkles, that the piece feels cohesive.

But more than anything, it’s the dancers who make me happy.

Working with them. Sharing my art with them. Watching them grow. Watching them take a chance on themselves, and on me. Seeing courage, vulnerability, and joy show up onstage in equal measure.

I couldn’t wait for the performances. I couldn’t wait to see the hip-hop dancer who never took a ballet class before college. The SAB-trained dancer who moves like silk. The students I haven’t even taught for a full semester yet, but who heard the experience would be meaningful. The first-semester beginners. The lifelong dancers. The curious ones. The brave ones.

All of them. Together. Dancing in the same light.

Antoine de Saint-Exupéry once said, “What is essential is invisible to the eye.”

The essential thing was never the ballet, it was the dancers. In the end, the piece doesn’t walk out into the world, my dancers do. And they are the true work of art.