“I would like you to consider taking over my studio,” she wrote. “I know there are teachers who choose to continue running their own studio into their golden years, and I suppose they have more of an inner acceptance of aging than I do, and it makes the choice to stay with it more enjoyable. Or, possibly, what they have is unlimited, independent income.”
She went on to say, “So, in a way, a concert is much more than an annual reflection of your choreography; it’s a reflection of your everyday decisions.’‘
The morning after I received the letter, I woke with a start. Panic.
By the time I pulled my sweats on, I’d fought the worst of it off. I left my home to walk to the studio to workout, then out to buy some groceries, then out for another walk — as if trying to out-walk my worst fear (that I’d fail) — then out for a walk through Kinnear Park to hear myself think and then out just to get out, circling my own neighborhood.
I thought about how there was this big, big issue of how I saw myself that had been raised by the director’s letter.
And I’m sure she wrote instead of calling me because I don’t think either of us could have said all that we needed to say without one or the both of us tearing up, and she is much too professional and respectful for that.
Plus, for years she’s been reminding me what is appropriate for an email and what is not. Once, when she was handwriting another of her “NOW HEAR THIS!” signs to hang, she announced, “The written word is indelible; true meaning and experience cannot be deleted.”
To which my reaction was, huh? I scratched my head.
But once I figured out what she meant, the words clicked.
And they made me feel better about the fact that, unlike my peers, I wasn’t on Facebook. Even when it was new, it felt like such a waste of my time, all that small talk, all that nonsense. It bored me to pieces. It took up too much time and who had the time?
Not in the moment
Of course, my students are in to it BIG. Facebook, Instagram and…what is it called? Photobombing.
Last recital season, backstage, one girl started taking pictures of everyone pulling up their tights again and again, obsessively reapplying lipstick — all the things dancers do when they feel like they’re packing a few hundred pounds of pressure.
“I can’t wait to post these!” she said.
I thought, “You are missing the moment.”
Not that a few photos aren’t great, but any more seems like overkill. So I asked her why she was posting anything when she should be stretching, preparing.
“Posting can’t take the place of preparation,” I said.
But she and the other girls went right on taking pictures of every little thing they did.
I decided not to say, “You look like addicts, hooked on your own sweet faces.”
Instead of talking to each other or gathering themselves silently, they were all, “Let me see that. Oh, I look horrible! Take another one!” Click. Click. Click.
Even Mikhail Baryshnikov didn’t have so many pictures taken of him.
Facing the truth
I guess you could say the words on the handwritten sign really stayed with me. The sheer repetition of seeing that sign every day and remembering what the director said about it must have fixed a lot of truth in my mind.
And then, I think, it kept right on fixing until it reset every thought I had in my head about what I was willing to do to fit in.
And what I wasn’t willing to do.
And about who I was.
And who I’d grow up to be.
Just like every word of her letter.
MARY LOU SANELLI’s latest book is “Among Friends.” Visit her website: www.marylousanelli.com. To comment on this column, write to QAMagNews@nwlink.com.