Critique 3

"The Ballet Class" was one of Edgar Degas' earlier ballet paintings. It depicts an ordinary ballet class; however, there are some elements which seem out of place for a regular class. This oil on canvas was created in 1881 and now hangs in the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York.
Degas' "The Ballet Class" illustrates a ballet class, apparently, somewhat not according to regular etiquette. There are three girls in the upper left corner who are dancing in juxtaposition. Two seem to be watching the third, which seems somewhat disoriented. There is a man who seems to be the teacher watching the three girls. There is another grouping of dancers off to the right, standing behind the teacher. They are standing, stretching, and not completely paying attention to their surroundings. There is also an old woman who is reading a newspaper, closest to the viewer. The positioning of the characters in the composition is proportional throughout and creates a balance. There is a sharp contrast between the dancers and the woman and teacher because of their colors. The dancers are in light shades, while the others are in much darker values. The light source appears to be natural and coming from the lower right corner because it casts shadows to the upper left of all of the figures. The color scheme of the composition seems to be shades and values of yellows and browns. Mostly earth tones are used in addition to these colors. The perspective of the composition is from the side of the class, viewing the entire studio. The focal point appears to be the seems to be the old woman who is reading the newspaper, most likely because her whole figure is shown and her attire contrasts the brightness of the rest of the composition.
This composition depicts a class, during center, but some elements do not seem right. For example, why is there a woman reading a newspaper? Why isn't she watching the class? Who is she? Also, some of the dancers pose questions that are not answered. For instance, why does one girl have her hair down? The girl that is currently dancing seems as if she is off balance or going to fall, is she? "The Ballet Class" uses sharp contrasts between colors, the curiosity of the viewer, and the dancers' disobedient characteristics to attract the eye.

Narrative 3

It’s a day before the show. Actually, 25 hours, 37 minutes. Trust me, I’ve counted. My first opening evening performance of Romeo & Juliet. The thick crimson curtain rises at 8:21 sharp, on the dot. Rises to ten thousand microscopic faces staring down upon me, beating down on me, watching my every move. I have to admit, I am more nervous than I have ever been in my life. This even beats out the time I auditioned for my favorite company, my dream company, Bolshoi. Legs shaking, nerve stricken face, sweating palms, and this is worse. I’ll have to admit, standing here, looking out into the enormous house that will look back at me tomorrow night, it’s kind of relieving. The shadowy, muggy darkness and almost eerie silence calms me. I run through my intricate steps during the Party Scene of the first act for the last time in my raggedy tattered dress and my sweater made from old ripped tights. The difficult steps frustrate me to no end. I can’t get the timing right; I could never get the timing right. A wetness streams down my face as I fall apart in front of those thousands of seats all gawking at me. I wipe this wetness away from my eyes and off of my already dewy face. Why can’t I get it right? Now with only 24 hours, 56 minutes and decreasing. Rapidly.
My long, delicate legs bring me to the front of the raked stage as I once again look out into the house. It’s so huge. I don’t remember it being so big. I must become accustomed to it. I run through ever part, every phrase, every second of it in my head. My emotion, my steps, what I should be feeling, what I want to say to people. My legs are about to give in for some unknown reason, so I sit on the rough marley that covers the stage. It’s cold and slick, yet sticky with rosin. I continue running through the steps, but with my arms this time. They seem frail and small, but for tomorrow they need to be big and projected. Right now it feels like everything is going wrong and nothing is going how I want it to. Nothing works, my arms ache, my legs weaken, my back wants to give into the weight of my body, my head is racing, and I don’t know what to do.
Now 22 hours, 17 minutes, and I don’t think I will be ready. Every doubt I have ever had, every insecurity comes into play in my mind. Why now? Why me? I don’t think I can do this. I really don’t. My director walks in. I can tell. The sudden stench of tobacco, scotch, and cologne fill the stage. I don’t mind it but I know it means one thing. “Go home. Get some rest. You must be ready for tomorrow night.” But I can’t. I begin to cry. This time more tears flow and they come more rapidly. He keeps repeating, “Do not cry. You mustn’t. There is nothing to worry about. You will be perfect. Trust me.” I know I want to but I still can’t bring myself to believe that.
I arrive at my apartment; comfort and warmth overwhelm me once I walk in. I don’t have the strength to continue doing anything so I surrender to my welcoming bed. 7 hours, 53 minutes. Time is ticking. Class flies by with the blink of an eye, and I feel like I’m trapped in a bubble. I work as hard as humanly possible to prepare for tonight. We run through the pas de deux’s once more before heading to the theatre. Surprisingly, everything goes according to plan. In the blink of an eye its 5:59. 2 hours 2 minutes. I warm up one more time, already in my pastel yellow, silk and chiffon Juliet dress. I clutch the rusting iron bars in the wings carefully doing plies and tendus. I take a deep breath then let it out. I'm ready. 43 minutes.

~

I take my place on stage and the curtain rises to those ten thousand faces I was fearing. But now it seems like instead of gawking in disgust and criticisms, they are staring in awe. It feels good. Now I know what I have been waiting for my whole life. It makes sense. I don't want it to end. I'm fearing the end.

Community Project

For my community portion, I was thinking that I might ask people at my dance studio why they like ballet in particular. I would ask them why they started ballet and what keeps them going. I would ask our students of all ages in order to be able to compare young dancers to older ones.
I also might create a "workshop" for my friends. We could take a class taught by myself, then I could teach them a variation that I personally like. I think that would be a fun way to incorperate our community into ballet.

Narrative 2

Hours of classes. Hours of rehearsals. Buckets of tears. Buckets of sweat. Blistered toes. Bloody feet. Hurting feet. Strained muscles. Shaking legs. Weak arms. Desire to give up. Desire to continue.

Pain, sweat, tears, blood, all leading up to three hours of showing people. Showing everyone what I love, what I dedicate my life to. I strive to make an impression after countless hours of working until I could not possibly work anymore. Until my muscles give in and my toes can not take anymore. I kill myself everyday and wake up the next to kill myself again. I perfect my art for an unmeasurable amount of time in preparation for what? An evening performance of The Sleeping Beauty, Chroma, Don Quixote, Romeo & Juliet, or Giselle. As a corps danseuse, a soloist, or a principle. Three hours that make me feel like I'm on the top of the world. Like I could do anything.

My life is dedicated to what I love. If I didn't love it, I wouldn't do it. Wake up every morning, and each day is the same. Go to class, then rehearsal. Evening performance. Sleep, start over. We're lucky to get a vacation after a tour. Two weeks at most, of course, never more. But it is worth it. To feel that important. To feel that beautiful. To feel immortal. To feel young. To feel like someone other than yourself. To feel in love.

The characters I play, each so simple, yet so complex. One is a young girl in love, a forbidden love that is never to be. Another, a fireball on her wedding day. And yet another, a sweet peasant who dies of a falsely broken heart. Eager to show all their dimensions, all their characteristics, every last detail of their being, without speaking a single word. Portraying the most difficult people for an audience of critics who will nitpick my simplest mistakes. Their applause, their "bravo!"'s, their flowers, their curtain calls. I rely on them to better myself.

It is a treasure I hold deep in my heart. Taking my last bow for an audience cheering my name. Screaming for more. It feels amazing how one small girl, barely clearing five feet, from a small town can change so many lives. Make so many heads turn. Be an inspiration for so many people in only a short, sweet, simple time. It will never cease to amaze me, as long as I live. As long as I perform. As long as I dance. As long as I love. It is BALLET. My only life, my only love.

Ballet...Declaration

Ballet is one of the most misconceived art forms that exists today’s world. Many think it is just another one of those types of dance where one would just prance around and try to look pretty. No one can really understand the hard work, dedication, long hours, and pain that goes into this art form to make it look so easy. As a student of ballet, I have experienced and seen the blood, sweat, and tears that goes into ballet.

When I was presented with the opportunity to expose others to my world of ballet in the form of a concept-folio, I knew I had to take the chance. It has proved to be more difficult than I had anticipated, but it poses as a good challenge. I enjoy the chance to write about ballet and find beautiful pictures of ballerinas and every aspect of ballet. It is my love and my life and I would not change that for the world. I want to use this concept-folio as a way to show everyone how much I love ballet and how much work goes into my art form to make it look beautiful.

More Pictures...

Narrative

“No! You’re doing it all wrong; I don’t know why I chose you for this part. Again, from the top, and please try not to look like a dying cat.”
There was no end to my constant torture. I came to the studio everyday, day after day, to do the same barre, same center adage, same variation, and same ballet. Nothing changed. And everyday of my continuous torment, I was yelled at, screamed at, at the top of his lungs, bellowing so loudly that my eardrums hurt. It seemed like he was never satisfied by what I did, no matter how hard I tried. I put my soul into each rehearsal, but it was never enough. He was never through with me until he made me cry so much that I could never shed another tear even if my life depended on it, until tomorrow.
Once he let me leave, I ran out of the studio, and up the stairs. My aching feet, blistered heels, and bleeding toes crammed into tiny shoes carried me up them, and my wretched strait jacket stopped my breathing. I stood, clutching the building, thinking about what had occurred after yet another seven hours of suffering. I gathered myself and asked myself, “Why do you put yourself through this everyday?” I answered in a heartbeat. “Because I love it.” Everyday I woke up to put myself through another nightmare, but for some reason, even though I have the freedom to leave, I kept coming back to repeat this wretched dream. Hanging onto the building, looking down at the small city, dressed in the shoes and pannier that make me a goddess, I felt like it is alright. Everything in the world made sense on top of that building. My hopes, dreams, and wishes all became clear as I stared down at the rushing city beneath my feet. I regained the courage that I never thought I would have; enough to build confidence and return to my studio.
As I walked back through the heavy, gray double doors to the academy, I no longer felt the weight on my shoulders that I usually felt. Everything looked lighter, more vivid and colorful. When I walked into the studio, the other girls whispered and pointed and laughed, but I tried hard to ignore it. “Has the crybaby decided to grow up yet?” He’d ask, just like every other day. Instead of turning around and leaving once again, I nodded. He acknowledged my courage and demanded the pianist to begin his accompaniment. I danced the steps, performed them to death, used every inch of my body to express myself, using every drop of my energy. I felt lighter, like I had lifted some weight off of myself: no guilt, no sadness, no pain, no anything. Just a sole feeling of accomplishment, like I had done something, and now my life was complete. When the music ended and I dancing ceased, he stared at me for a while, long and hard, like he was trying to see through me or see what was inside of me. After what felt like centuries, he finally said, “Good. We will continue tomorrow.” I could have sworn I saw him smile at me with a twinkle in his eye.