(Part two of Traveling - from May 2)
After I changed into my gear (looking, no doubt, like someone who had become lost on his way to the gym) I presented myself to Kay, and took to her immediately. Kindly tactful, she suggested I visit a nearby store that sold practice clothes; I would, she said, find something much more appropriate, and comfortable than my (ahem) present outfit. Her surprise was genuine when I told her my age, thinking me a lot younger. The age revelation seemed to catch her off guard, and whatever she had been about to say she let it go, and instead posed a question; one I had sort of been expecting might be asked. Wording it not to appear unkind, she asked if I was absolutely sure I wanted to study Ballet, suggesting that maybe Tap would be more suitable, my being a late starter to the art of Terpsichore, and all. (Her question conveyed to me her need to let me know that I would do a lot less damage to myself putting tap cleats on my shoes than I would trying to do the splits.). I assured her I had thought it out before I came, and had made the decision to at least try. (A few years later I confessed to her that my being there was the outcome of a dare. She laughed, and said Karma will out!). Dear Kay, she didn't turn me away, in fact she said she was pleased, and that if I was still of the same mind after my first class she would be happy to welcome me into the school. She also admitted, her face blossoming into one her lovely smiles, that as it was very difficult getting fellows interested in ballet, she wasn't about to abandon a guy who was willing to give it a go. Kay’s comment not only produced a grateful smile, but stopped briefly the butterflies fluttering in my stomach, and my sense of guilt for the deception. But the butterflies returned an instant later, when the moment I had been dreading arrived!
Clapping her hands sharply Kay called the class to order--all girls except for Ray, and now me--quickly introduced the new student, me, then everyone moved to the barre, found themselves a spot, and waited for the down beat to begin the first exercise. I was positioned behind Ray, and told to follow him as best as I could. A moment later I was bending my knees up and down in the obligatory pliés which, I soon learned, would begin every class, warm up, and rehearsal. I was red faced, both with embarrassment and effort, but strangely exhilarated. Whatever it was that tipped the scales of my life and directed me to this moment I will never know, but as I pliéd awkwardly up and down I had the sense that I was shedding my old self, being reinvented, rewired, and glowed inwardly with the realization that I had at last become the person I had no idea I’d been looking for.
When I picture how I must have looked as I stood with my hand on that rail, a shaking, eager, ill equipped neophyte in clod hopper sneakers, baggy gym shorts, and an even a more baggy tee shirt, I cringe. If I could have seen what I looked like, what I was doing, really pictured it, I’d probably have run for the nearest exit to become a tie salesman at the Bay. The truth is, even if I had pictured it I would not have run, and why? Because I had fallen in love, and love as they say, is blind.
Oh, but it was tough! How I struggled and struggled to make my poor skinny frame move in a way that would show I had grasped some of the steps I was being taught, and that I was able to execute a movement close to what was expected. I was completely won over by the wonder of dance. But, my God was I out of my depth. I had chosen a profession for which I was so ill equipped it was sad. It cost me a great deal of pain and misery to achieve what one day would ensure me a living. Still, I did it, I became--this still gets me--a professional, card carrying dancer, theatrical, whatever. Sure it was painful, and sometimes cruelly so, but believe me, I have no regrets. To simply say it was worth it, says so little. For me during those years, to dance was to live.
After my first pliés, and the acquisition of proper dance attire I knew I wanted nothing more than to be capable of expressing myself in movement. I went from one class a week, to two classes, then on until I almost lived at the studio. I quite my job after about 8 months and paid for my lessons tickling the ivories as accompanist for classes. (It’s okay! I was fairly--I use the term loosely--competent at the piano, not as good as the other accompanists by far, but I managed.). I even went so far as to put up a barre in the basement at home; and those times I wasn’t at the studio I was down there in the depths, sweating away; often with tears flowing. Weeping tears of frustration because of the relentless refusal of my muscles and tendons to perform as they should. Perseverance and discipline I learned the hard way. My dad just shook his head in wonder, and my mom, suffering for me, felt that I should have taken her advice and become either a Minster in the church or a radio announcer. Either one and she would have been happy.
Calvin was not happy at all that his dare had turned into my passion, and confessed to my Mom that if I was not going to give up my quest, and the only way he could get together with me was at the studio, then the only thing to do was to enroll himself as a student as well. Amazing how a decision made for a different reason entirely turns out to be the decision that affects the whole course of one's life. For Cal, enrolling at the “Vancouver School of Dancing” had consequences he would never have conceived.
The great friend of my youth, went on to do great things. He took lessons from, studied with, and worked alongside many famous dancers, teachers and choreographers. He even became assistant to the great choreographer and dancer Matt Mattox for a period in New York. His list of friends among the famous in the theater and film was extensive. Ginger Rogers was a close friend, and when Cal’s sister lost all her hair from cancer therapy the film star gave her some of her wigs. He became a much lauded teacher of dance, touring the world as guest teacher in many countries, finally settling in Australia to head the dance department of one of its top universities, a post he held until his death.
Calvin passed away, in Australia, almost 20 years ago, after losing a long battle with prostate cancer. His ashes were shipped back to Vancouver, to be interred beside his father, mother, and other predeceased members of his family. A small group of his old friends from his early days at the studio, myself, my sister (who had known him as long as I had), his two remaining sisters, and the last of his three older brothers (Calvin was the “baby” of the family), stood for a short while in quiet communion around his grave, then went on our separate ways. A long, quite amazing life related in so few words; but my memory knows the breadth of it.
Story Copyright ©2010 by Gordon Wales. All Rights Reserved.
Clapping her hands sharply Kay called the class to order--all girls except for Ray, and now me--quickly introduced the new student, me, then everyone moved to the barre, found themselves a spot, and waited for the down beat to begin the first exercise. I was positioned behind Ray, and told to follow him as best as I could. A moment later I was bending my knees up and down in the obligatory pliés which, I soon learned, would begin every class, warm up, and rehearsal. I was red faced, both with embarrassment and effort, but strangely exhilarated. Whatever it was that tipped the scales of my life and directed me to this moment I will never know, but as I pliéd awkwardly up and down I had the sense that I was shedding my old self, being reinvented, rewired, and glowed inwardly with the realization that I had at last become the person I had no idea I’d been looking for.
When I picture how I must have looked as I stood with my hand on that rail, a shaking, eager, ill equipped neophyte in clod hopper sneakers, baggy gym shorts, and an even a more baggy tee shirt, I cringe. If I could have seen what I looked like, what I was doing, really pictured it, I’d probably have run for the nearest exit to become a tie salesman at the Bay. The truth is, even if I had pictured it I would not have run, and why? Because I had fallen in love, and love as they say, is blind.
Oh, but it was tough! How I struggled and struggled to make my poor skinny frame move in a way that would show I had grasped some of the steps I was being taught, and that I was able to execute a movement close to what was expected. I was completely won over by the wonder of dance. But, my God was I out of my depth. I had chosen a profession for which I was so ill equipped it was sad. It cost me a great deal of pain and misery to achieve what one day would ensure me a living. Still, I did it, I became--this still gets me--a professional, card carrying dancer, theatrical, whatever. Sure it was painful, and sometimes cruelly so, but believe me, I have no regrets. To simply say it was worth it, says so little. For me during those years, to dance was to live.
After my first pliés, and the acquisition of proper dance attire I knew I wanted nothing more than to be capable of expressing myself in movement. I went from one class a week, to two classes, then on until I almost lived at the studio. I quite my job after about 8 months and paid for my lessons tickling the ivories as accompanist for classes. (It’s okay! I was fairly--I use the term loosely--competent at the piano, not as good as the other accompanists by far, but I managed.). I even went so far as to put up a barre in the basement at home; and those times I wasn’t at the studio I was down there in the depths, sweating away; often with tears flowing. Weeping tears of frustration because of the relentless refusal of my muscles and tendons to perform as they should. Perseverance and discipline I learned the hard way. My dad just shook his head in wonder, and my mom, suffering for me, felt that I should have taken her advice and become either a Minster in the church or a radio announcer. Either one and she would have been happy.
Calvin was not happy at all that his dare had turned into my passion, and confessed to my Mom that if I was not going to give up my quest, and the only way he could get together with me was at the studio, then the only thing to do was to enroll himself as a student as well. Amazing how a decision made for a different reason entirely turns out to be the decision that affects the whole course of one's life. For Cal, enrolling at the “Vancouver School of Dancing” had consequences he would never have conceived.
The great friend of my youth, went on to do great things. He took lessons from, studied with, and worked alongside many famous dancers, teachers and choreographers. He even became assistant to the great choreographer and dancer Matt Mattox for a period in New York. His list of friends among the famous in the theater and film was extensive. Ginger Rogers was a close friend, and when Cal’s sister lost all her hair from cancer therapy the film star gave her some of her wigs. He became a much lauded teacher of dance, touring the world as guest teacher in many countries, finally settling in Australia to head the dance department of one of its top universities, a post he held until his death.
Calvin passed away, in Australia, almost 20 years ago, after losing a long battle with prostate cancer. His ashes were shipped back to Vancouver, to be interred beside his father, mother, and other predeceased members of his family. A small group of his old friends from his early days at the studio, myself, my sister (who had known him as long as I had), his two remaining sisters, and the last of his three older brothers (Calvin was the “baby” of the family), stood for a short while in quiet communion around his grave, then went on our separate ways. A long, quite amazing life related in so few words; but my memory knows the breadth of it.
Story Copyright ©2010 by Gordon Wales. All Rights Reserved.
1 comment:
I never realized what a scared "boy" dancer you were when you started. Must say you were very brave! Glad you carried on and it's fun reading about it!
Anita
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