Mary + Winter Ballet Recital
Location: Royal Opera House / December 21st, 1976
I gave this a title, yes I did. For reference I’m just sort of listening to Broadway music, specifically “Stronger” from Finding Neverland but it’s definitely not set to that song. :))
Mary took a breath. Her hair and makeup were perfect, her pointe shoes were on and properly secure to her feet. She felt steady in them. She’d warmed up, her muscles felt relaxed and nothing hurt. Henri was right behind her, dressed in coordinating ways. He was to be Jack Frost, in a sense. A trickster of winter, manipulative and cunning, and there to destroy everything that was beautiful. Mary was the opposite, she was the so-called victim, the winter fairy, determined to restore what Henri’s character destroyed.
She knew when choreographing, choosing costumes and music, and the like, that it was not just a winter fairytale, based on a children’s story from her past, but in every way a testament to her own story. It was what made sharing the dance feel so vulnerable and so freeing at the same time. Mary’s hand slipped into Henri’s and she gave it a reassuring squeeze, offering her partner a smile. He looked down at her, giving her a nod in response. “Do not fret, mon amour, you will be brilliant.” He promised in that accent she adored so much. Henri was like a sort of uncle or big brother to her, older and a veteran in the world of dance. His name, unlike hers, was more or less known in the ballet community, and he took great pride in that. The dance held higher stakes for him in terms of technical skill and his reputation as a professional, whereas Mary’s stakes were in making this right for herself, in healing through the steps she took.
Time was moving too quickly and not fast enough. Already, Mary’s heart hammered in her chest. She was positive Henri could hear it himself, but she knew that was untrue when she approached her fear with logic. She closed her eyes, blocking out the rest of the world. Her father had told her to dance for herself. This dance was entirely for herself. It was a plot driven performance, one that would look simply entertaining on the surface, but she knew what it meant. Henri was going to get in her head, he was going to invade her space, he was going to make her feel small and afraid as part of his character. She had to trust him. She had to trust that he was simply acting, she had to trust that he wouldn’t actually let her fall. She had to trust that he would remain steady and firm, that he’d be aware and ready for each lift, each step.
It wasn’t an easy thing for Mary to do at all, but she was determined to do it. Courage was doing things that scared you, in spite of the fear in the pit of your stomach. She heard the first beats of the music, knowing exactly what was happening on the stage. The lights were changing to a soft blue glow, the wintery scene was something straight out of a children’s novel. She knew the orchestra was sitting straight, watching their director while rehearsed fingers gave Mary her cues. She silently thanked them as she opened her eyes and began to move. Four seconds and she’d be on stage. Three seconds. Two seconds.
At first, it was just her on the stage. She moved with practiced grace and elegance, though the steps she transitioned through were far from easy. Her focus was on the story. Her facial expressions had to be everything. She knew her friends and family were in the audience, watching as the story began to unfold. Within a moment, Henri had joined her on stage. He was taller, looming around her. What Mary couldn’t see was the mischief on his face, in his motions. She had turned her body toward him purposefully, missing the warning signs as he danced about. He played the troublemaker in every way.
But Mary didn’t see, what she saw of him was every part the gentleman. For the unknowing audience it was meant to be funny, as Henri shifted personalities with his body language, with his facial expressions, going from magical trickster, to nearly romantic gestures. He bowed to her, he guided her through steps similar to any romantic pas de deux. He was her partner, and yet every so often Mary would spin away from him, and he’d return to his naughty ways. It was going smoothly, she hadn’t truly stumbled yet, even if she hadn’t gotten high enough on her last shift from demi pointe to fully being en pointe.
It was nothing that took away from the story, or from the way Mary was feeling. It was freeing, even if it was vulnerable, to dance this way. Every step was matched with Henri’s precision, but she braced herself for what was coming. Henri’s movements became larger, more demanding, more controlling as he tightened his grip on her, or seemed to. She wasn’t quite as far away from him anymore, instead she was nearly constantly touching him in some way. The music adjusted as well, becoming more intense.
Mary’s facial expressions and body language changed too. The trusting, relaxed smile became one of force, concern etched across her face more than once as she tried to move away from him only to be pulled back. The first lift was in response to her “attempt” to pull away. She braced herself as his hands found hers, the weightlessness of being in the air mellowed by the knowledge of how this lift was meant to look: not as freeing and silly, but as pulling her away from where she wanted to be.
Soon Henri was completely around her. No matter where she turned, he met her. Her eyes were wider, her cheeks flushed, lips parted as she was pulled back each time, as she was blocked in by purposeful blocking in the choreography. Despite her best attempts, and despite the fact that she’d rehearsed this a thousand times, she felt small again. She longed to be free of him. Her heart hammered louder and louder, but she had to focus. The lighting had progressively darkened as well, making the stage look like a winter storm and not the winter wonderland it had been. It wasn’t real, she reminded herself. She knew what happened at the end of the story. She wrote it. She won. She would always win this story, no matter what.
The most important lift was coming. Another eight count. She prepared herself. Trust, she reminded. Trust Henri. He wasn’t going to stumble. His arms would be steady, his core controlled. It was a Russian lift, though modified for the needs of the dance, a nod toward the composer she’d chosen, and to certain friends who she happened to adore. She felt Henri’s hands move into position as he lifted her above his head. She focused on clean lines, despite the fear in the pit of her stomach. That was what made her a Gryffindor. She was petrified, but she was doing it anyway, to tell her story, to scream it from the tops of her lungs. She was giving herself a voice, and she’d be damned if she was going to let fear of falling take that from her.
The music, much faster now, was reaching its climax point. She moved, pretty hands, pretty feet, as Henri held her. It felt like forever in the air, though she knew it wasn’t. Then she was falling, falling, falling, so close to the ground. She was going to hit the stage. She was going to hit the--no. In the last second Henri moved as he needed to, keeping Mary from the floor. She was steady again in half a second, and it took everything in her not to grin, to keep the character face on instead. She had heard the gasps from the audience. It had been a risky move, but one she saw as crucial. She’d fallen, so hard, felt so small and out of control, but in the last moments she had regained control. It was Henri in truth, of course, but from the audience’s view, Mary had stopped herself from falling completely.
It signified what Mary wanted to be true. Dominic had pushed her down, had made her fall, lower and lower with each day. Like Henri’s character, he’d invaded her space, he’d controlled her, he’d haunted her like a winter storm. But this was her declaration of freedom, even if it wasn’t true, even if it didn’t feel true yet. It was her dance, her story, she got to choose. Mary, as the winter fairy, began to fight back. The lighting began to brighten again, returning toward the light blue, the winter storm turning back to winter wonderland, the music more playful and happy again as she moved out of Henri’s reach over and over. As she pushed back with him, sending him away.
Henri, to his credit, played his part especially well. He showed the frustration, the annoyance, with each step. His character was a trickster, after all, mean and hurtful, but he wasn’t a Mulciber. Another eight count and Mary had “sent” him to the ground. She was above him, elegant lines a testament to her technique. The fatigue had long since set in, but she pushed through, Her hand found Henri’s as he rose to his feet. He swept into another bow, a sign of defeat rather than mockery this time before he took his leave from the stage.
Once more Mary was alone, lights on her, every eye, the music would end soon, very soon, but she felt freer than she had in a very long time. Her relaxed, peaceful smile had completely returned as she spun. The winter fairy had won. She had restored all things beautiful. The music came to a close, in the exact moment Mary finished. She’d had a few missteps, minor things that she’d scold herself for later, but it was the first time in a long time she’d truly put her whole self into a dance. She swept into a révérence, accepting the applause though she could barely hear over her heart thundering in her ears. She held her arm out as Henri returned, taking his bow as well, and then together.
They’d done it. She’d done it.
