photographs by Devin Alberda
I’ve made no secret of my love of ballet (I’m convinced all that exposure to French words at age 3 might have had something to do with me turning into a Francophile later in life, even if they were shouted by a brusque, crazy English ex-dancer) so imagine my delight at seeing these photographs in last weekend’s New York Times magazine, behind the scenes with the New York City Ballet corps. Oh, how I miss it sometimes! The stretching, the bloody toes, the blisters, the hairspray, the grace, the beauty, the music, all of it. I’ve thought about taking a beginner’s class again for about, oh, five years now, but I’m too afraid my body would rebel against being made to bend and move in ways outside of what is expected for laying on the sofa binge-watching tv by cramping horribly the moment I donned a leotard. Ah, well. Do you think I could raid that pointe shoe closet? Sometimes when I wear leg warmers (don’t judge me, it’s cold in my writing room) I point my toes and use my desk as the barre and practice a few pliés. My posture isn’t what it used to be, and my turn-out is laughable, but I still like to think I’m a ballerina inside (buried underneath donuts and a contempt for exercise).