A shower of sounds comes from under the door of Studio 610, the space where my ten-year old granddaughter has her classes on Wednesdays. Focused on the laptop while waiting, I do occasionally rise to peek through the high, narrow window of the door, trying to see the top of the students’ heads or get a glimpse of ballet-mistress Alejandra Dore’s expressive face as, step-by-step, she instills discipline in them through the exacting rigor of the American Ballet Theater curriculum (ABT). At this level called Prep-2, the children take class three times a week for two hours, and top it off with a Saturday rehearsal for an end-of-semester production, inevitably the Nutcracker for fall term. Through it all, Ms. Alejandra shapes their technique and progress.
One reason we chose Winston-Salem as our new home had to do with access to the University of North Carolina School of the Arts. Founded in 1963 as a state-supported arts’ school for college and high-school students, the campus has vastly expanded from the almost experimental school I attended in 1971. It now is considered one of our country’s leading institutions for training in the arts.
While house-hunting here in summer of 2018, I made a nostalgic visit to the campus, barely recognizing any of it, so much had been added or remodeled. In fact, I wrote in these very pages about one aspect of that visit: my astonishment at seeing the replacement for a rickety wooden bridge and rocky path we used to climb to the adjacent neighborhood where students had apartments. Now stands a stylish concrete bridge and brightly lit complex of stairs with fine wooden rails and a bench, just in case someone wants to sit and enjoy the creek. Well, good for them, I thought.
Suffice it to say, I survived just two semesters here as an undergraduate. For starters, I was knocked flat by the intensity of everything around me. I had never been close to any of the following: the inner workings of an orchestra, the buzz of a chamber music program, the energies of an opera company, a real drama department, or a school of ballet. Suddenly, these things defined my daily life. They framed the identity of everyone I met.
Beyond that, my piano study with the legendary teacher, Mr. Clifton Matthews, turned my world upside down. I was at the bottom of his studio, although the standard at the top was stratospheric, so the bottom was nothing to be ashamed of. Still, if you’ve read my book Why Freshmen Fail, and How to Avoid It, you know things did not end well for me here.
Yet, when I slunk away, I carried a precious store of tinder for the rest of my life. I had fallen hard in love with opera. I had learned how orchestras rehearse and felt the rhythm of musicians practicing and performing at high levels. I had attended multiple performances of the same plays—an education in and of itself. Most astonishingly, I learned some of what goes on within the training necessary to become a dancer. I still remember the day I looked across a line of dancers, strewn in exhausted rest along the wall of a hallway, and realized that dancers’ feet do bleed.
After UNCSA, I returned to my parental home, in Roanoke, Virginia, and enrolled in a community college for a year. There the light dawned. Apparently doing well in college was far less mysterious than I thought. It included things like always going to class, tackling assignments early, working in increments, seeking professorial help when needed, and above all, learning to penetrate subjects that were hard for me (calculus).
Crank forward many decades and here I am again at UNCSA, only this time rejoicing in a granddaughter who is learning (far earlier than I did) about the discipline necessary to master an art form. Even the mellifluous voice of Ms. Alejandra inspires, her strong Spanish accent giving deep color to the French terminology she fires out at her young dancers. She spins and dances with each of them in between doing what all ballet-mistresses do—watching every foot, arm, and leg, every turn of the neck and each aspect of overall carriage. Yes, these kids are young. But that is all the more reason that they must do everything right.
And the music. Ah, the music! In a world where many children “study ballet” to the sound of insipid, distracting pop songs, here each excerpt is lovely and classical: extracts of waltzes, polonaises, minuets, polkas, mazurkas, and a range of luscious works to which lyrical choreography can be set. For older students, the music often is rendered by actual pianists, a traditional way dancers studied before the age of recording. Occasionally the younger students get the chance to have a “live” pianist play for their classes, and it really is special.
I wonder if these children realize the value of being enveloped for hours each week in a palette of such stately melodies? Do these tunes sound in their dreams, and spring forth in their conscious or unconscious humming while they’re doing schoolwork or chores? They do in our household, and I’m fairly sure they would not without the dance program here.
Meanwhile, the class is cranking up. The level of Ms. Alejandra’s voice is rising as the students undertake a new series of jumps: ”Up, up, up, plié, relevé, plié, relevé . . . up, up, up, again.” The door has opened a crack and I see Ms. Alejandra sitting on the floor, seeking a different angle to observe what her young dancers are doing. She claps the rhythms heartily, pours out the commands with vigor as the wooden floor resonates (a sprung floor as would be the floor of any authentic dance studio). Just as I’m about to find my granddaughter’s back, the door closes.
But worry not. Activity is picking up in the hallway, too. Apparently, there’s a performance this evening. Audience members clutching bouquets of flowers for their favorite dancers are already streaming in. One group of six dancers floats by on their way to the back of the stage, clad in white and blue floral tops and gauzy flared pants whose swaths of fabric will make their own choreography when set into motion. Dancers still in sweats move past in both directions, wishing each other luck. You’d never know, from where I sit, that the world was conflicted by turmoil and darkness.
The arts have reflected, even foretold, the evils that relentlessly infect our human condition. But the arts also have provided an antidote. There’s a reason why people turn to Beethoven and Bach, to Shakespeare’s dramas and Monet’s gardens, and to the easy-to-watch but difficult-to-achieve steps of ballet’s astonishing vocabulary. If I could snap my fingers and achieve any one goal, it would be that every child undertake the serious study of an art form. Where that is not possible, then I wish this child a chance to draw nearer to those who do practice those arts, to witness the challenges and disappointments, to feel the victories—in essence, to watch dancers wrap their chapped toes with bandages before rising en pointe to create their visions of loveliness.
Beyond that, I would wish for every child to be surrounded by music—the best music, music of substance, music edifying in rhythm and harmony, rich in melody, and abounding in orchestral and vocal color. Such music will help them to grow and give them strength to face the darkness, as every person in life must do. Yes, that is what I would wish.
