For my entire dancing life I have always maintained the daily practice of taking class. Even as I get ever closer to 60 years old, the need for daily class (whenever possible) has stayed with me. I have already written extensively on why I am still studying (https://classicalballetandallthatjazz.com/2018/01/04/why-i-still-take-class-2/) and that is not the purpose of this article. But suffice it to say that the ritual of walking into the studio, placing my left hand on the barre and doing the work, is at the very core of who I am. I have even made a practice of getting to the studio early (when I could have access to an empty room) and giving myself class. I have always found something calming and comforting in being in that empty studio early in the morning; the quiet, the peacefulness, the opportunity to work carefully and methodically and at my own pace. Now we are faced with a global pandemic and we are living in a new world. Dance studios have been closed down and we have been asked to shelter at home. It has been nearly four months since the last time I could take a ballet class, and at least in New York City, there is no end in sight to this shut down.
Artists being who we are, and the diligent, methodical discipline of dancers being what it is, we simply adapted our lives and our work to the internet. My classes transferred to Zoom, I gave myself my daily class in an empty studio, and I told myself that everything was alright. And for a while, everything WAS alright. I taught my classes on Zoom, and the students seemed to be thriving. I arrived early to the empty studio from which I was broadcasting my classes, and I gave myself class. I tried, best as I could, to keep everything as normal as possible. But the days turned into weeks and the weeks turned into months and this existence turned into anything but normal.
Students, especially the young children, were loosing interest in classes on Zoom. I and my colleagues were constantly brainstorming for new ideas to keep them engaged, but the students came to realize, just as we had, that it just will never replace teaching in the studio. The professionals who take my open classes remained engaged, still working to the best of their abilities, as did many of the adult amateurs (in the best sense of the word) who are my students. They were, like me, trying to hold on to a sense of normalcy that was rapidly slipping away.
Now, four months later, as I enter that empty studio in the early morning, the quiet peacefulness that I once felt has been replaced with despair. That windowless room with the harsh fluorescent lighting that once welcomed me to work quietly and slowly, by myself, is now sardonically glaring at me; daring me to find the comfort that I once found there. The ritual of class, the music, the barre and the mirror, now represented loss and desperation. And the doing of the work that I once loved, that I sacrificed everything to be able to do, was steadily becoming an insurmountable challenge.
But I have never been one to shy away from a challenge.
So every day I will return to that empty studio. Every day I will face the flickering computer screen and try to reach my students in their little boxes on Zoom. Every day I will strive to continue to find the love and passion that I had for my work. There is a war being fought. Patients are fighting this pandemic. Doctors are fighting this pandemic. Politicians are fighting this pandemic. And I am fighting this pandemic; fighting to hold onto the joy in my work. Just as I strove for years to perfect a line, to hone a technique, to shade a nuance and make something beautiful, I will strive to fight this virus and keep it from robbing me of the one thing that has always brought meaning to my life: the joy in my work. So as doctors and nurses are fighting to keep hearts beating, I am fighting to keep hearts loving; loving this work that we do. But I’m just not exactly sure how.