Story Behind the Picture: B is for Ballet

A few months ago, a reader asked about my dance background in reference to another post, specifically why I would have started taking point classes at the age of 21. I've decided to write this post for Thanksgiving. When you read it, you will understand.

College. That one word brings back a swirl of emotions, not the least of which is nostalgia for a time in my life when I was simultaneously a genius and an idiot (for those of you who knew me then, I appreciate your silence regarding that latter part). It was my time to discover what I was good at (analyzing, writing, getting by on very little sleep) and what I was not good at (all things math, making it to 8 a.m. classes, staying awake in 8 a.m. classes). I was thrilled to find that I could take a ballet class to satisfy some of my credit requirements. I hadn't danced in years, having long since found horses more appealing than barre work, but I didn't let this deter me. I was nervous my first day, not sure what to expect of a college dance professor (Serious? Tall? French accent?). Susan was none of the three. She was a petite blonde pixie with a wicked sense of humor and an uncanny ability to not laugh at her students, no matter how horrible their performance. I saw her eyes laugh, but her face never broke form (I ought to know - most of that laughter was definitely directed at me). Still, I loved dancing in Susan's class. She knew I couldn't pick up choreography at all, and she mercifully let me hide in the back for four straight years. That fourth year, however, something changed about her. Her once thick blonde hair looked thinner, and there were dark circles under her eyes. She started wearing a sweater tied around her waist, and only one time did I glimpse the chemotherapy pouch that lurked underneath. She never missed a class.

The winter of my senior year, I decided I wanted to try a pointe class. Susan didn't teach pointe classes at the college, but she did have a Friday night class with the local dance company. For ten year-olds. I asked her permission, and I was in.

I stopped going out on Friday nights, and instead spent hours sweating and bleeding through my new shiny satin shoes. If anyone has any questions about how brutal pointe work is on the feet, let me assure you it's much like having your toes caught in a bear trap, if not worse. On full pointe, I was at least a foot taller than all the willowy little girls in that class, but again, Susan never laughed. Smiled, but not laughed. She taught me it was perfectly acceptable to be the ostrich in a room full of little swans.

I went to her house shortly before my graduation when she kindly agreed to sit for a portrait with her daughters for a final exam I was completing. I met her husband, played with her dogs, fell in love with her two little pixie blonde girls who climbed all over their mother and gave me some of the most breathtaking images I've ever shot. I aced the final.

Susan died of breast cancer two years after I graduated. She left behind two beautiful little girls and a world that was a little less sunny without her. I'm thankful every day for her influence. She was funny, but never laughed at us. She was beautiful, but never made us feel awkward in her presence. She was fighting a battle, but she never let it harden her. Thank you Susan, for showing me that grace and beauty are not reflected in a mirror, but in my actions.

Story Behind the Picture: Wedding Shoes

This weekend I had the incredible honor of attending my dear friend Keith’s wedding: he and his bride Sarah kindly invited my whole family to the beautiful event (even the boys, who miraculously behaved like cherubs ...I’m wondering if my father bribed them with the promise of new cars on their 16th birthdays). In case it isn’t obvious from the photograph, Keith and his family are Scottish - his father, John, agreed to pose proudly with his son for my photograph. Afterwards, he looked down and noticed the way Keith had tied the laces of his shoes.

Keith’s dad: “You’ve tied them wrong!”
Keith: “I’ve done no such thing!”
Keith’s dad: “Yes y’have! They should be tied to the side, like mine, not in the front! I can’t take ye anywhere, can I?”

This, of course, is banter I’ve been privy too for the eleven years that I’ve known Keith. We met in graduate school at a Caleigh dance where there were quite a few inebriated folks performing what was meant to be the “Highland Fling.” My rendition was probably more “fling” and less “Highland,” but Keith and his friends took pity on the loud American who was, at the very least, putting forth a good effort. Luck was very much on our side when we ended sitting inches from one another for the next year: I in stroke seat and he in the coxswain’s “throne” of several extremely fast eights. Keith was - and is - the best coxswain I’ve ever had the privilege of rowing with. All jokes aside about short, bossy people with loud voices, having Keith in that seat was tantamount to walking in a bad neighborhood with a pit bull: no one stood a chance against us. Better yet, he never yelled at us, he yelled for us, a difference that I’m convinced is instinctive and cannot be taught. My husband (also a rower) always laughs when I insist it’s just as physically demanding to cox as to row a race, but I don’t think he’s ever seen someone invest themselves the way Keith did. Even in practice, he brought legendary intensity: no matter the weather (usually rain) or the exhaustion level (usually high), he found our speed for us.

Keith is the same in friendship as he is in coxing - unwavering, intense, complete. He actually helped pick out the shoes I wore on my first date with my husband:

Me: "Which ones should I wear?"
Keith: “That pair says ‘take me seriously, I’m highly intellectual.’”
Me: “And these?”
Keith: “They say ‘I’m a complete tart and I’m here for a good time.’”

(And no, I’ll never tell which ones I chose).

Keith has steered me into more blade clashes than any other cox (we never lost a single one), has baby-sat my children (although he looked very panicked as I left the house), and has climbed atop rickety scaffolding to paint our hallway (because we finally had to put him to work during a visit where he sat on our couch for over a week). I look forward to spending decades more with Keith and Sarah, and sharing this photograph - and my memories - with their children.

Story Behind the Picture - "Dancing Shoes"

I originally created this piece for Natasha’s wonderful weekly blog challenge: the theme was “dancing.” I’ve choreographed and performed countless dances in both bare feet and ballet slippers (and even started taking pointe classes at the virtually geriatric age of 21), but these shoes are, by far, my favorite. These are the shoes I wore on my wedding day. If you’ll look closely, perhaps you’ll see where my husband stepped on my toes several times during our first dance together...Fred Astair, he is not. These are the shoes I wore when my father twirled me around the dance floor in a beautiful waltz, recalling every bit of his own dance training in his youth. These are the shoes that nearly crippled me: I had to exchange them for sneakers by the time Marty and I cut the cake…they were not designed for endless hours of dancing.

I decided to photograph them on my feet. It has been seven years, two children, and countless hours of hours of yoga since I last wore these shoes. Did anyone know that yoga actually makes your feet expand? I tell my students this as an anecdotal joke, but clearly, it is true. Carrying children around for nine months also has a similar effect. After wriggling my feet into my shoes, al la the evil stepsisters in Cinderella, I realized I would need to roll up my jeans to get a clear shot of my feet. Now there’s a look: rolled jeans and heels. I began to wonder if living so close to New Jersey was beginning to affect my fashion sense.
*please refrain from throwing tomatoes at the author: she merely jests*

My next hurdle was lighting my shot: generally, natural light from the windows doesn’t illuminate our floors, and this was a particularly dreary day outside. As I wandered around the house in my rolled jeans and painful shoes, I noticed the soft light falling across the dining room table. Perfect! The table pad that protects to wood provided me with the subtle backdrop I envisioned, so I climbed up and tried not to bump my head on the chandelier as I positioned my feet in the optimum location. Did I mention there are a lot of windows in my dining room? Yet another case where I’m flabbergasted my neighbors have not called the police. Anyway, after much finagling, I managed to take enough usable images before I nearly fell backwards off the table. Apparently teaching yoga doesn’t really prepare one to balance on a table in these shoes (and anyway, I’m not sure I want to be known as a lady who can dance on a table in high heels…).

Some things have not changed in seven years. I still feign anonymity if Marty starts dancing in public (think Elaine from "Seinfeld" and you’re on the right track), I still look forward to dancing with my father on those occasions that he can be coaxed into doing so, and I still keep these shoes safely tucked away at the top of my closet as a reminder of the happy night where we all danced like there was no one watching.