Super Bolsheviki

Observation classes were this weekend at the ballet school & if you think the Russians give a fuck about the Super Bowl, you can think again, although I guess the last class closed tonight at 4:30.

 

This is what I regret from observation class: in deference to my new role as her videographer I asked her where she wanted me to sit with my camera; when she told me right at the center of the facing wall, I could not negotiate. Ugh.  I do not like sitting there -- particularly not while waving an AV-recording appliance, no matter how holdy-in-the-hand and discreet -- because of the pressure of sitting right in front of every performing child. 

Anyhow, she got the documentary footage she wanted for her own self-assessment & as I tweeted last night, it wasn't just enough for her to watch it, no. 

 

I don't know what hardly any of that means & I had to crop it because it turns a little Ballerina Burn Book toward the end of the page. 

 

The girls all looked good (except for the one who has never, ok), the three girls who are great looked fantastic, and Jake, the lone danseur, really kind of topped them all.  I mean, he isn't learning how to dance all over again in new shoes, so he has the time, but it is obvious he is putting a lot into the dance. 

 

 

Fifille looks really strong, a million times better than she did a year ago, but her suppleness is still somewhat lacking. I mentioned to her that it is completely noticeable she is not stretching after class, but I am looking forward, also, to more hours on the dance floor to give her a way to work through all of that.

 

She had asked me, maybe as many as six weeks ago, if she could take the daily class at her school on a more regular basis.  I hedged, because I simply have no desire to ride over to Ballet Town more than the two days we already do.  Then, after a while of chewing the inside of my cheek whenever I remembered her request , I realized we have an exceptional studio right here.  I never vetted their primary syllabus, because their name never comes up for primary ballet, but they do a daily, open class for adults, which is almost certainly attended in large part by professional dancers waiting for a ring from this company or that to flesh out the corps for whatever production is coming & the rest are going to be girls like her, looking for more workout time, and then erstwhile dancers, with 35 years of training in their history, just having a sortie.

I finally called last week to ask if she was technically able to take the class -- fourth year on the Vaganova syllabus means what it is -- and was told yes, without a doubt, but she would be the youngest in the class by about 5 years.  I reported this information back to her.  She was gratified to hear this assessment of her textbook ability, but seemed nervous, a little.  I told her she could try it, no pressure, and she seemed a little more serene.

You guys, I am the smartiest:  I texted Eve & asked if she would go to the class with Fille to be her Ballet Godmother.  Right?  Smart!  They are going to go tomorrow!  Hold your applause, though, because then I told Fille I would buy her a new ballet bag to take to her fancy dance class.  What is wrong with her grimy, Land's End backpack? I want to know!

 

Anyway, this is a nice life with great friends & I am glad to get to share it with Fifille.  I am probably going to let her use my cute Fjallraven backpack tomorrow, and as a surprise, will buy her one of her own.  The Clean Cleanse is going great & I have ended the first week, no sweat, except one day last Tuesday I required a deep-breathing exercise to keep away from a bag of chips.  I prevailed!  Bisous x 

 

 

Comments

[Becky]

Smarty patarty! That is great that she wanted more workout time and that you found a way to give it to her. And a new bag is always celebratory!

Love her doodles in her notes.

[lala]

That wasn't as smooth a transition as we'd hoped for, I have to say.

She doodles on everything, like the contortions and the singing and the percussion and the talking. She is irrepressible.