There Are No Words

Dear Boo and Bubble,

I was having lunch the other day with several ladies.  Two of them are artists – one a jeweler with specialty in silversmith and the other a canvas painter concentrating on water color.  With some inevitability, our conversation evolved into a discussion about the importance of the arts in culture and how societies that do not foster them lose a certain vibrancy and depth.  For me, it goes even further than that.  When the arts are not encouraged, one of the most essential tools of communication vanishes to the detriment of us all.

Globally, there are two arenas that form common denominators regardless of the country, language, religion or any ethnic definition – sports and the arts.  Every four years, the world convenes at the Olympics for competition in a myriad of games.  Athletes condition their bodies, prepare for months, and hone their skills – all in an effort to perform at their best level when the time comes.  They may not be able to even say “hello” to each other because of the language barrier, but when they walk on the court, or skate onto the rink, or lock their feet in the blocks of a race lane, no words are necessary.  They know the rules of their sport and the prowess of their competitors……there is an appreciation for and an understanding of both.  

The arts are no different.  You can assemble visitors from every country on the face of the earth into an auditorium and their chatter is indecipherable to those around them. Yet, let a symphony start or the ballet begin, and their enjoyment of what they hear or see requires no verbal explanation.  They become common in the experience and are brought together by it.

In 1989, when your Aunt Bee was ten years old, she danced with Anne Brodie’s Civic Ballet in Columbia, SC.  Early in the fall of that year, the highly anticipated cast list went up for the company’s annual performance of “The Nutcracker.” There were several demanding and prized roles which, with the exception of Clara, always went to the most senior dancers.  Among them was the Dew Drop Fairy – the soloist in the “Waltz of the Flowers.”  

When I picked Aunt Bee up at the studio, there was a buzz all around her.  Ms. Brodie and her Artistic Director, Radenko Pavlovich, had selected her to dance Dew Drop Fairy.  It represented quite a departure from the past, but the creative rationale seemed to be that a dew drop was but a tiny spec on a flower blossom.  Therefore, a smaller dancer in the midst of more mature ones made sense.  The choice of Aunt Bee for the role proved to be a mixed blessing – she was honored, but the pressure on her to show worthiness mounted with every rehearsal.

Adding to the pressure, the company had invited acclaimed danseur, Stanislav Issaev, to perform the role of the nutcracker prince.  A member of the Moscow Ballet Theater company, he was renown in Russia and Europe and had won a gold medal at the 1980 prestigious Varna International Ballet Competitions. In Aunt Bee’s world, he was a superstar and someone she wanted to impress.

The week before the production was to open, rehearsals moved from the studio to the Township Auditorium to begin the critical elements of staging.  Limited numbers of people, including the volunteer mothers working on costumes, were allowed into the facility.  It was our first opportunity to see the show – and, for me, my first chance to see how Aunt Bee would do.

The time came.  The lyrical strains of “Waltz of the Flowers” started and the older dancers took the stage.  On cue, Aunt Bee came out of the wings, flitting through the flowers until she came to center stage, alone in the spotlight.  Her opening choreography required several triple pirouettes to be executed in rapid succession.  She began…..and one after the other, she fell off of the turns early and obviously.  A murmur ran through the sparse, but critical assemblage in the cavernous auditorium.  My heart sank.  I knew what they were saying – that it was a mistake to have put Aunt Bee in that role to begin with – that she wasn’t ready – that she had nabbed a premier part from some older dancer who might never get the chance to do it again.

Since it was a complete run-through, there was no stopping and the rehearsal continued after the Waltz to its conclusion.  Ms. Brodie and Mr. Pavlovich gave critiques, but neither said anything to or about Aunt Bee.  Afterwards, as we were leaving the auditorium, he approached me.

“I want you to hold Lyn out of school tomorrow and bring her to the studio around 10 in the morning,” he said.  

“Okay,” I responded.  “Whatever you think.”

On the way home, I shared with Aunt Bee what he had said.  She didn’t offer up any of her feelings, other than she was delighted not to have to go to school.

The next morning, I took her out to breakfast and, afterwards, we headed for the studio.  Mr. Pavlovich was there with Stanislav.  

“Go on home and come back in about an hour,” he instructed me.

My expression of confusion must have been obvious because he added – “I want him to work with her and she doesn’t need any distractions.”

And so, I left.

What went on during that hour is a story to prove my point.  In that studio were just Aunt Bee and Stanislav.  She could speak no Russian; he no English.  And yet, they both knew the common language of ballet.  Through demonstration, he thoughtfully and gently showed her what she was doing wrong.  In her efforts to make sure she had enough momentum to complete the pirouettes, she was actually throwing her arm too hard which took her off-balance.  He guided her to the proper position.  She easily mastered the turns.

Aunt Bee went on to great success as the Dew Drop Fairy.  And, I will always be grateful that the common denominator of the dance brought her and Stanislav together – two people who couldn’t even say “hello” to each other, but in their art could talk forever!