Who would of thought, that a fellow who'd shied away from all sports except baseball, (well shucks man), who, during the four years he was in high school, had successfully sneaked out of mandatory weekly army practice drill, and who made a point of leaving active physical work to others, would become a dancer? Who? I stand before you, guilty as charged!
My father, a cabinet maker, gave body building and gymnastic instruction in his spare time. He had a Charles Atlas physique. Twice a week, for I don't know how long, he would drag me off to one of his classes in a futile attempt to put some muscle on my skinny frame, and hopefully instill in me the wonders of athleticism. I failed miserably to learn or achieve anything. I couldn't even develop a tiny bump on my upper arms. I had no desire whatsoever in learning to do anything physically demanding. I was a bit of a nerd, though nerd was a word unknown in those days. (Dr. Suess introduced it in 1951 and it was not seen in print again until 1957. A bit of trivia for you). It could, I suppose, be used nowadays to include a wallflower personality.
Oh, let's face it, I was simply an introverted kid who loved music and books; I didn't like attention drawn to myself, therefore I did my best to escape from any activity in which I would have to compete with others I knew were more capable.
Hello! Central? Give me heaven - put Dr. Freud on the line! Now little skinny me, was about to
enter a realm where not only physical but self inflicted torture was worshiped! A grueling pain filled world unlike anything my father had come near to introducing me to in his gym classes. On top of which I was about to put myself right in the center of a profession where you were supposed to be noticed! Noticed? I mean, well, not to put too fine a face on it, but for starters there would come a time when I would have to wear tights! You want noticed? Put on tights! 10 am, Saturday morning, a week after I'd accepted Calvin's dare, I walked through the open door of the Vancouver School of Dancing, a pair of dirty white sneakers in one hand, a brown paper in the other containing a pair of shorts, and a tee shirt, also white, but clean.
Bravely, though visibly shaking, I took my fatal first steps into that sanctum sanctorium of Terpsichore; home to the muse of dancers and choral singers (what the two have in common I have no idea), determined and prepared to get through the day without making a fool of myself. Ha!
I would never have dreamed that I had embarked on the first day of many incredible tomorrows.
In the foyer Jeanette, receptionist and sister of Kay Armstrong, welcomed me with a quick up and down glance, eliciting a look on her face which clearly stated her degree of sorrow for Kay, and the future of the studio, and pointed me in the direction of the male dancers' – boys' -changing area. Nonplussed by her look, I turned to where she was pointing and quaked. Reaching the boys' dressing room was going to entail my going through the main studio, in which a class was in progress, and making my way towards a door on the other side.
Cheeks burning, brick red with embarrassment, I threaded my way through a group of heavily perspiring girls, wishing I possessed the ability to make myself invisible. Finally, after a series of mumbled apologies I arrived at the other side; congratulating myself that I had bested a gauntlet of plies, entrechats, and furtive glissades without either mishap to myself or student. Flushed, feeling not only increasingly out of place, but also out of my mind, wondering what in "Sam Hill" (a euphemistic phrase of my father's) was I doing? - If my friends could see me now!? Yeh! I know! Shamelessly borrowed from “Sweet Charity”, but in a context overwhelmingly different than the musical’s!
All that aside, here I was, and where I was was a small, square room, which in it's aesthetic sparseness seemed well suited to the singular dedication of its users. Along one wall were a few dingy lockers; four ancient benches stood willy-nilly in front of them. Attached to the center section of another wall was a large mirror, on another a number of hooks from which hung hats, coats, and assorted etceteras. A practice barre had been attached to the last remaining wall, and was plainly visible from the main studio.
A dark, curly haired fellow - in the process of getting into a pair of black tights – was the only occupant. A white tee shirt lay on the bench he occupied. In one of those moments when one wonders where to look, and hopes not to be noticed not looking, I concentrated on a pair of ballet slippers lying under the bench. They had undoubtedly started out some shade of white, but now well scuffed, and certainly well worn, their color could only be described as vintage dirty. I reckon another reason I latched on to them was because of the wide elastic band stitched over the insteps. I imagined it there as a possible safety measure, to prevent their coming off while he was cavorting. (I was damned clever even then!).
Anyway I had – as mentioned earlier - made it through the gauntlet, and now stood, unsure of what to do. Feeling stranded, and ridiculously embarrassed by my disruptive journey, I now found myself trying not to look at a fellow I didn't know at the exact moment he was in the process of adjusting himself inside his tights.
He looked up at me for a moment, then continued with what he was doing. Finally achieving whatever goal he was after, he turned to me with an apologetic grin on his face and said,"Damn dance belt's a new one, won’t get comfortable until it's broken in. Anyway, I'm Ray, and I guess you're the new guy, so welcome". Dance belt? I had no idea dancers wore some kind
of special "belt", I wondered if girls wore them as well. (I had so much to learn!). Ray was my height, though heavier, good looking and with a warm smile. His easy manner helped me relax, so after telling him my name I asked him what the drill was, and which locker I could use.
Ray was the first male dancer I had ever spoken to. It was pleasing to find that he was a friendly and outgoing guy. He eventually became a good friend. It also turned out that he lived only about a half a mile from me, in the same district. Almost neighbors.
After our introduction Ray showed me where I could put my things. Our dressing room - the boys - unlike the girls, was not private, people had to go through it to get to the loo or the shower, and was also used for solo lessons. It knew a lot of non male traffic. One was often déshabillé at the same moment a girl or a complete stranger needed passage, or had decided to do some exercise or other and needed the barre.
I found, through all my long years in the theatre, that I very seldom met a dancer who was not friendly. I believe it's because we all knew what a hard life each had chosen, and that the camaraderie of the group was necessary to both our singular and collective well being. You didn't have to know someone well for them to be a friend - we all had our special or individual friends - but just belonging to the "group" made you a friend. Every dancer – hoofer - in show business belongs to that family. A roving band of "Footlight Gypsies," we might never know where our own personal caravan was headed - the next job - but wherever it was, theatrically, we could always find members of that wide spread, unique, Gypsy nation. And with it the inference that a family always cares for its own.
Incidentally, a little clarification here. Dancers, for some strange reason, are assumed, to never grow up. It is accepted that they are certainly quite capable of growing old, but up? No way!They are perceived to live in a sort of Peter Pan world, existing on another plane, and of another nomenclature. You see, female dancers and male dancers are never "men and woman", no, no, they will forever be "boys and girls"! A strange world, the theater?
"Aha!" I hear you say, "But, it is, is it not, a world of make believe?"
Touché!
of Dance, but I shall keep looking as I’m sure that somewhere there are a few. In the meantime the photos I am posting will have to do. The kid on the left is me (!), on loan to another dance studio which had no male dancers. The fellow on the right is Ray, also on loan. The girl next to me is Ada (her last name escapes me), she’s the one I was partnering. The woman sitting by Ray is Rosemary Devison (aka Natasha Sobonova, a once famous ‘baby ballerina’). Ray was her partner for this session.
Rosemary taught classes at her studio a few blocks from ours. She had asked Ray and me to partner some of her senior girls in pas de deux work, to give them the chance to have some knowledge of working with a male dancer if they were accepted into a company, or had gotten into a show. Ray and I were around the same age 18! Just turn that number around and that’s what I’ll be in 2 months! Oh! The years! Where have they gone?
1 comment:
Love this last post. It gave me a good laugh, brought back lots of memories and made me realize how "brave" you were!! I'm glad we former dancers never grow up!
Post a Comment