CAN YOU REALLY RELIVE A LOST DREAM?
Lisa Templeton rediscovers the joy of ballet 30 years after she gave up on her passion
‘I drove home with my heart singing: “I’m going to dance at Artscape! I’m going to dance at Artscape.”’
Late last year I found myself standing in the wings of Cape Town’s Artscape Opera House bending, stretching and jumping to warm up.
I was about to dance on stage, and in public – which was surprising for two reasons: firstly, I was 15kg heavier and 30-plus years older than the last time I did it. Secondly, I’d only committed to it two weeks before, which meant I’d had a mere fortnight to learn four ballet solos.
And yet I was buzzing from the thrill of it. I loved being in the cavernous blackness that is backstage at an opera house, with chandeliers racked up in the ceiling and my 13-year-old daughter sending me encouraging thumbs-ups from the door to the dressing rooms.
As I stretched and plié’ed at the barre in the darkness, my nerves jangled. Would I remember my solos? Or would I confuse the very similar steps in the adage and port de bras as I had done in rehearsal? Would I get the tricky timing right on the tango? And most importantly, would I make a complete arse of myself? This is the big fear we face as adults.
‘I’m scared I’ll look a fool,’ said a fine-boned advocate during rehearsals, to choruses of ‘me too’ from the rest of the dancers and amazed looks from the teacher, who reminded us that this was meant to be fun, a chance to perform on the big stage. But here’s the thing: I once strove to be a ballet dancer. Not in the way little girls dream of tutus and tiaras. I planned to dance professionally, and worked obsessively at it throughout high school. I did eight ballet classes a week, three during school hours as a matric subject – for which I earned an A – and five with the legendary Mignon Furman at UCT’s ballet school.
One of my highlights at high school was when Miss Furman stopped at my side as I did grand battement (high kicks) at the barre with the long, skinny, strong legs I had then, and said: ‘I think you’ve got it. I really think you’ve got it.’ I floated for days.
So there I was, dreaming of dancing, avoiding sugar, handwashing pink tights night after night and spraying my pointe shoes with hairspray then baking them in the oven to keep them hard. When I lay on my bed I would gaze up at the poster on my wall that read: ‘If you can imagine it, you can achieve it. If you can dream it, you can become it.’
During my matric year my parents went to war with ballet. The next step in my education loomed, and they were determined it wasn’t to be ballet. They pronounced a categorical ‘no’ to my upcoming Advanced exam, the culmination of two years’ work,
telling me to concentrate on my school exams instead. I needed a ‘proper’ education.
And then there was my height. At 15, my body suddenly betrayed me by shooting up a few inches.
All that focus, joy, camaraderie, personal identity, fine-tuned physical ability and total, unwavering commitment to an unseen future was shattered. Where once there was a clear goal, now there was a void.
I took to jolling like a swan to a lake, making a rather desultory job of the first two years of university before taking four gap years in Europe and the UK, where I took professional dance classes in Covent Garden and was praised for my training.
But I never regained my confidence and lacked the courage to make another go of it.
Iwas backstage amid the mirrors, makeup and tutus at Artscape two years ago, waiting for my daughter who was in a Cape Town City Ballet (CTCB) performance, and chatting to another ballet mom when my sad story came up. ‘Why don’t you dance again now?’ she asked. ‘I started ballet at the age of 45 because of my daughter, and I love it,’ she added.
I thought about it. I had tried adult classes over the years, but I’d hated my mediocrity. Maybe I should give it another shot. So I wrote to the gorgeous Kerryn Howard of Ballet Bodies (a name I found most evocative) and told her I was ‘old and vrot and fat’, and that ‘my daughter has my legs and I want them back. Could I try a lesson?’.
At the age of 51, I got back into a leotard and returned to the studio. I found I still loved to dance. It’s the music, the quest for accuracy, the sheer joy of movement and the very ballet-ness of it. I love sitting on the floor chatting while pulling on leg warmers, I love the demands and personalities of the teachers and I remembered what high achievers dancers are.
While I wasn’t thrilled with the larger profile reflected in the mirror, the legs that no longer soared around my ears and the dizziness I felt doing pirouettes, I was grateful for the incredible muscle memory that allowed me to do this again. I subsequently started classes elsewhere, and one Saturday late last year, I rocked up at the Cape Ballet Centre in a bid to boost my fitness. After class I chatted to the centre’s founder, Evelyne Aregger Esterhuyse, a curvy, pretty dynamo. ‘Why are there still dancers here?’ I asked. ‘Oh, they’re rehearsing for the Stars of New York Dance. They are going to dance at Artscape,’ she said.
I’d been following this event for months. Not only were soloists coming from the iconic American Ballet Theatre (ABT) and the New York City Ballet, but the performance was in honour of Miss Furman. ‘I want to do it,’ I said immediately. Evelyne looked at me in horror, ‘But it’s in two weeks.’ ‘I’ll learn,’ I said. Having persuaded her to let me try a rehearsal the next day, I drove home with my heart singing: ‘I’m going to dance at Artscape! I’m going to dance at Artscape.’
That euphoria lasted until around mid-afternoon when it dawned on me what I’d committed to. Was I going to make a twit of myself – not only in front of an audience, but the Stars of New York as well?
But I relished the hard work, sweat and intense hours. Before I knew it I was buying a jaunty red rose for my bun and joining a bunch of over-excited dancers at the stage door. By day they were writers, asset managers, lawyers and beauty therapists, and by night (well, this night at least) stars of the stage.
In a gleeful role reversal, my daughter helped with my bun and we joined two new ballet friends – an advocate and a writer – in a backstage foyer to warm up.
It was here that a man who could only be described as a god in trackie pants appeared. It was as if someone had manifested a tall, unshaven and broad-shouldered Hugh Jackman – who once said you are never too old to dance – in ballet shoes. ‘You look like you’ve been rehearsing ballet,’ I said. ‘I’m one of the visiting American dancers,’ he replied. It was the great Marshall Whiteley of ABT, once a national ice-hockey player, now a dancer renowned for his
‘At the age of 51, I got back into a leotard and returned to the studio.’
leaping ability. This was a great opportunity to be incredibly cool, and we totally blew it.
‘Ooh,’ I simpered. ‘We’re about to go on stage too.’ And with that, I am ashamed to say, we sank into deep ballet curtseys. The poor man jabbed frantically at the button for the lift and backed in, looking horrified. Meanwhile, we looked at each other with glee and said sensible things like ‘wowzers’ and ‘phwoar’.
Before I knew it I was in the wings, waiting for my turn. And then I stepped out into the bright light, striving to look calm as I walked on my toes to take my place centre stage. I looked into that vast auditorium at my dad and daughter, soaked up the moment and danced my heart out.
Early the next morning – in those wee unguarded hours when your brain throws things at you that you might otherwise block – I awoke with a start.
Did that satisfy the urge? Are we done whinging about the lost dream? I realised no, it didn’t make up for it. My dream depended on physical ability and the narrow window of youth. I’ll never know whether I could have made it in ballet, or where it might havetakenme.
My thoughts turned to a colleague’s husband, a keen cyclist who’d dreamt of riding the Tour de France as a young man but studied instead. ‘When the Tour is on TV,’ she said, ‘I see him stare off to one side and I know he is wondering if he could have done it.’
There are some dreams, like mine, you can only fulfil in your youth. Then there are others you can start later in life. If your dream is to teach, paint, speak another language, travel, walk the Camino, become a doctor or anything that doesn’t need the physical ability of youth, I would urge you to seize the day and make it happen. As for me, I will still dance.
And know this: when that curtain went up for the Stars of New York Dance gala performance four nights later, I sat a little straighter in my seat and smiled to myself. I, too, had danced on that stage. And no one can take that from me.
Lisa Templeton is currently working on fulfilling her other dream: writing a children’s book about a ballet dancer, with former star of Cape Town City Ballet Laura Bösenberg. Maybe she’ll get to wear a tiara yet!