When Arts Collide (Part 1)

This piece was written as a graduation present for a friend. A wondrous world awaits our heroines, Lola and Danni, on the other side of the curtain. Cover art by: Jocelyn S. Lee

“Art is not a mirror held up to reality, but a hammer with which to shape it.”

                        -Berthold Brecht

 

“Great artists are people who find a way to be themselves in their art. 

Any sort of pretension induces mediocrity in art and life alike.”

-Dame Margot Fonteyn

 

 

 

 

 

Lola

 

I open my eyes to see my room full of afternoon sunlight. The rose-gold sun strikes the glass such that the whole room is filled with brilliant geometric shapes made of light. Even though the walls are blank aside from peeling white paint, in this moment they become a gallery for the sun’s artwork. If I wait long enough this beauty will fade, so I pause in the doorway to admire the dappled light on the walls before stepping inside the room to find my dance shoes.

 

My gaze then turns to the flowers on my windowsill. The moonslilies--prizes given to me by my dance instructor, Madame Torou, after my final routine--have long since lost their color and softness. I remember how just a few weeks ago they were vibrantly orange, purple, and red, like the colors of the moons. Now the petals have gone shriveled and brown, clinging to the withered stalks in a chipped vase. I am not sad about this; the final performance with all of Madame Torou’s students did not last long, so it is fitting that the blooms should fade quickly, too. The memory of their beauty remains, even if their forms do not. That is how I wish to be: my talent shall leave a favorable impression on stage, even after I leave it. That is the sign of a great performer, and today I will prove that I am one.

 

I spent all the morning preparing myself for my first real audition as a professional Dancer. Mamma, a singer with Zenille’s company (the most respected name in Dance in all of the city), had managed to get my name on the audition list for her new production just a few days ago. She surprised me with it when she came home that night from rehearsal. No doubt Zenille did not protest because Mamma recommended Papa for the position of stage manager at her company. He has been the only one did not quit after two shows like so many others before him had because he can tolerate capricious nature. Perhaps Zenille thought that I, too, might be worthy of joining her company on Mamma’s recommendation.

 

It is rare for a young Dancer to be given an opportunity to audition for such a famous performer. Though I have only recently completed my training, I could not refuse such an offer! To dance alongside Zenille--one of the most talented Dancers alive--is too good to pass up. Of course, because the audition is so short notice I barely have had time to prepare. Lucky for me the routine I have prepared for the audition is from last month’s Coçeau Quarter street performance; it is still fresh in my body’s memory. If I can perform it on cracked pavement, I can do it in the rehearsal spaces at Zenille’s. 

 

All day I have moved slowly, weighted down by dread; the hour of my audition has nearly come. Every class with Madame Torou, every performance with the neighborhood children in the street, every show I have agreed to participate in, has prepared for this moment: the most important audition of my life. Still, I wish I had more time to ready myself for today. 

 

But I have no more time. I can hear the front door slam closed: the sign that Papa must leave for work. He is waiting for me outside; I cannot let my nerves make him late. I grab my favorite dance shoes, weathered but trusty yellow pointe shoes, and rush out of my room. 

 

Before I leave the flat, I find Mamma sitting on a stool placed in a pool of light by the window, humming along to piece of music in her hands. The sight of her stops me in my tracks. She looks up from the page at me, her head blocking the light and illuminating her figure like a halo. She does not speak to me, but her eyes glimmer with a mask of pride as she studies my appearance. I do not want to speak either, for fear of tempting tears to smear my painted face.

 

She beckons me closer. Softly, I step toward her, and lean in to kiss her on the cheek. She reaches up and tenderly places a hand on my arm, lingering there for a moment, sharing the warmth of her touch on my cold, exposed skin. It is only now that I realize how anxious I am to leave. 

 

With her hand still gently squeezing my arm, Mamma pulls me towards her so she can whisper in my ear. “Take a look at yourself before you go, sweetness, in the mirror in the hall. See yourself fully before you perform. See what a beautiful Dancer you have become.” I nod, and shuffle over to the tall mirror that stands beside the entrance to our flat.

 

After hours of fussing at my clothes, face, and hair, I am sure that my appearance is as perfect as it will be. I’ve taken my best leotard (the one that still fits well after my last growth spurt) and spent the last few days adding more bright colored tulle to the skirt to give it more volume and bounce as I turn and glide. My cheeks are powdered the same soft beige of my natural skin color to prevent stage-light shine (that would be a student’s mistake). I do not recognize my mouth, for my lips match the brilliant pink of my skirt. My eyes appear bigger and bolder with the white and black curves on my painted on lids and around my lashes. 

 

Despite all of the paint on my face I feel I look incomplete, but if I mess with it any more I will ruin it bit by bit, so I let it all be. I turn to leave, but my eyes linger on my reflection for a second longer. I do not feel beautiful, but I look professional.

 

I am ready to dance.

 

Blowing one final goodbye kiss and curtsey to Mamma, I follow Papa out the door into the afternoon light.

 

It is unusual for me to be outside when it is still so bright. Most of the rehearsals are spent in secluded, windowless rooms, and performances take place at night, so I miss how lovely the neighborhood looks by the light of the rosy sun. Papa pays it no mind, for must he leave so early for his work because that’s what he believes a stage manager should do: be the first to arrive to ensure that everything is in order for the day, and be the last to leave with the floors swept and every prop and costume in its place. In truth, I do not mind leaving so early, because seeing the bright rainbow the colors of the buildings in the Coçeau Quarter as we pass along the winding streets filled me with such pride for my neighborhood.

 

My family does not live in the part of town where the great artists live. Our neighborhood is the blocks designated for those who help make the great shows happen. It does not have spacious houses with private studios, and walls lined with art and sculptures. Our flats are small and modest, stacked on top of each other precariously, because we live mostly outside of them--at our theaters and stages and tents in the city center. That is where we choose to make beautiful things rather than where we rest and eat. I wish that some day, when I have made a name for myself as a Dancer, to have enough space not only for myself to dance, but also space to give Mamma and Papa for their own art. But who knows when that day will ever come.

 

We pass by familiar faces of neighbors and friends along the way. When they see my audition costume and my especially bold face paint they clap and whistle good luck wishes. I cannot help but wear a beaming mask; my pride is as much theirs as my own. 

 

Many have seen me performing with their children as soon as I was old enough to stand and walk. There is a long-standing tradition in the Coçeau Quarter of street performances organized by the neighborhood children. I remember joining in when I was maybe four, and quickly found my niche as a strong and fearless Dancer. 

 

There were ten or so of us who made up the Quarter troupe. We would plan the routines in the morning, rehearse and design sets in the afternoon, and perform our show at moonsrise for all the parents and neighbors to see. These shows were never particularly complicated because we had limited access to costumes and paint for sets, not to mention our stage was the most level and least cracked bit of sidewalk, but whatever we can find would be worked into our performances. Our imaginations, and our skills with paintbrushes and improvisation made up for whatever we lack. Enthusiasm counted more than quality among the Quarter performances, as most of the children came from stagehand and orchestral families, and did not usually receive formal training for performance such as Reciting, Walking, or Dance (I am one of the lucky few who convinced a teacher to take me on when I was younger). Still, that never stopped us from putting on those shows.  

 

For these friends and neighbors who have watched me develop myself as a performer on the street to now see me walking tall to my audition with a prestigious dance company must fill them all with such joy. I see it in their masks as they grin at me from their windows and porches. I cannot help but feel it, too. I owe it to my friends and family, who have applauded me since the beginning, to do well. I owe it to Madame Torou, who taught me how to refine my routines, to do well. I owe it to my neighborhood, made up of those who work unnoticed in darkness, to do well. I owe it to myself to do well.

 

These thoughts distract me from my mounting nerves. I realize I cannot remember exactly what the inside of Zenille’s theater looks like. I have occasionally visited my mother’s rehearsals in the musicians’ rehearsal space, but not recently. I have never seen the dance studio, or even the stage there, but considering how fine a space the musicians had (and they only provided the background music for the Dancers), I could hardly imagine how grand those spaces must be. Would the seats in the house be velvety and plush? Would the floors have a subtle cushioned bounce when you landed on them? Would the stage I would perform my audition on be large enough that one could spin and fly across it endlessly? 

 

Of course, these spaces should not have been a mystery to me. If I had more time to prepare I would have taken a few hours to rehearse my routine in the dance studio there. But with how quickly Mamma secured the audition for me, there was simply no time for that. 

 

Then there is the fact that I, the child of a singer and a stagehand, simply do not have free access to those spaces. Rehearsals for the shows take priority, then lessons offered by Zenille herself to train her performers, then the lessons offered by the featured Dancers to their private students. For anyone else to use the studios, they must reserve them weeks in advance. I may have been lucky enough to be given a time to audition for her so soon after completing my training, but to be granted time to practice in their space would have been too much.  

 

I try not to think of how ill prepared I am. I think instead on all of the standing ovations I received at my final performance at Madame Torou’s school, or how Gorçi, my oldest friend and long-time colleague in Coçeau Quarter performances, always told me that I was the best Dancer he knew with the genuine air only an aspiring Comic can give. I let these memories fill my mind with lightness, and let my gaze wonder to the brilliant sights around. The sunlight casts a golden light on everything, and making the colors of the spiraling murals on the walls of buildings seem even more dazzling. A warm breeze carries scents of citrus and the soft perfumes of Zailees and Idle-a-Days that grow in bursts of pink and yellow in window boxes.

 

After several silent minutes of following Papa through the bright streets that have become less and less familiar and inviting, we arrive at the Zenille’s studio at the edge of the Central Performance District. It is an older building of grey and blue painted bricks, standing so tall before us it casts a shadow across the block. Papa does not go in through the front doors, which are of sparkling kaleidoscopic stained glass, but takes the back entrance that leads directly to the stage. It is not at all glamorous, but fitting for a humble stagehand and a Dancer with mostly street performances to her name.

 

Papa opens the door for me, and I step inside into the thick blackness. My eyes take time to adjust to the near darkness of the backstage. While I have been in the wings at plenty of studios and theaters, I have never seen one as spacious as the one here. Shoes, rosin, spare ribbons, and sheets of music littered on tables and in corners show that these are the spaces where Dancers, musicians and stagehands mill around waiting for their cues, but not now. At this time of day, so early before rehearsals begin, all is eerie and silent and still. My anxious heart is the only sound I hear after the click of the door to the outside fades from my ears.

 

Papa places a hand on my shoulder, and smiles encouragingly at me. “Good luck, my brightness,” he whispers as he pulls me into a final embrace. It is just a few seconds, but gives me strength. He lets me go, and disappears behind the curtains. I wish he could linger and watch me, for he rarely sees me dance anymore, but I know he has work to do. And I have a dance to perform.

 

It is fitting that such large wings should surround a large stage, and I am not disappointed. Even from where I stand at the edge of the wings, I can tell that I have never seen a stage so large. The black mid-curtains, closed now, make it seem even more impressive. Fifty or more Dancers could easily fit on it and each have enough room to twirl and kick without hitting anyone else. The floor is pristinely black, like it has never been used before, and does indeed have a slight but comforting give beneath my bare feet. It is so enormous that I know I will look foolish dancing just alone. I try not to let my mind follow those dreadful thoughts, and concentrate on wrapping the ribbons of my shoes around my ankles and calves. When they are tied on tight, I take one last deep breath. My audition is ready to begin.

 

I step onto the stage, which is lit by so many blinding spotlights overhead. They seem to shine right into my eyes, so I can barely make out the seats of the auditorium beyond the edge of the stage. I can barely see the form of Zenille herself, perched on a seat just a few rows in front of me, her gaze level with my body. No doubt all of these lights are to make every step and slight movement visible. There is no hiding from her now. 

 

“What is your name?” she asks. No greeting. No introduction. That is not a surprise; Zenille herself does not need any. She already knows that I idolize her, as any young Dancer in this city does. I know her lean build and her chiseled face and the way she flies through the air as effortlessly as a bird. Who am I to her but another one of many greedy for her praise, at least until I prove myself?

 

“Lola,” I reply. It takes all of my strength to not let my voice quiver.

 

After a moment of awkward silence, she bids me, “Go on.”

 

I take a deep breath, hoping to slow my heart that is dancing to its own rhythm in my chest. I walk to the center of the stage, poised to begin my routine. In the depths of my ears I hear the opening lines of the music the orchestra played when I performed this weeks ago. When the imaginary music arrives at my cue I begin to move.

 

I am immensely proud of this routine because I choreographed it myself. It shows off all of my strengths: the flexibility of my legs and back (thanks to the lessons from my acrobatically-inclined friends from our street performance days), the speed of my turns, the height of my jumps. I glide through each component of the routine like I had hundreds of times before. Even the smile on my face is perfectly rehearsed. 

 

I arrive at the point when I must kick my leg back behind me, hold it there in stillness, and rise onto my toes. Balance has always been the part I most struggle with, especially when I must use my strength to hold myself in one position as I fight gravity. My leg hovers behind me, toes pointed and muscles engaged. I hope it is high enough. I have to trust what I feel. 

 

I rise onto my toes, but my focus is not in my feet but in my legs. I wobble, and must catch myself, lowering my extended leg to keep from falling onto my hands. A costly mistake!

 

My cheeks burn as I continue the routine. Try as I may to go on flawlessly, I start to stumble on little things. An incomplete turn here, a slip of my heel there, sloppy handwork… I am unraveling. Yet I dance on, letting my body take the lead. I do not let my mind think about how poorly I am doing.

 

“Stop!” the voice of Zenille echoes through the hall. “Stop!” I freeze mid-step, and relax as I see her making her way through the aisle, her features becoming illuminated as she moves closer. Effortlessly, she hoists herself up onto the stage and saunters over to me. I feel so small before her. She is not especially tall, but her prestige makes her seem gigantic as she stands in front of me. I try not to pant, though my heart races in my chest. She cannot see any weakness in me. 

 

Up close I see not only the deep creases that line her frown, but also that her eyes are unpainted; her pale gold gaze feels cold as she looks me up and down. For a moment she makes no sound other than the clicking of her tongue inside her mouth. Her face resembles no mask I recognize; I do not know how to react.

 

“How long have you been dancing?” she asks at last.

 

“As long as I can remember,” I reply instantly. I bear a smiling but humble mask as I continue. “I began when I was small--maybe four years old--performing with the children from my neighborhood in shows that we put on almost every week. I suppose it has been more than twelve years or so that we have been doing that.”

 

Most people when I tell them I am a part of a neighborhood children’s troupe that choreographs and directs our own shows are impressed, and their faces light up as they marvel at what that means for a young performer. Zenille, however, definitely does not seem impressed. Her expression is as blank as before.

 

“Have you done other things besides street dancing?” she asks coldly.

 

“Oh yes. I have been a background Dancer with Mari Gaspa’s circus troupe a few times when I was younger. Not professionally, of course. It was in exchange for some juggling and tumbling lessons with some of her performers. At my former studio I was a part of every performance, either as a background or a featured Dancer. In my last year there I performed a solo piece, too….”

 

“With whom did you train?” she interrupts.

 

“Madame Torou,” I say in a small voice. I am not sure how Zenille will react to hearing the name of another Dancer. “I studied with her for the last eight years.” A grin grows on Zenille’s face, but it is not a kind smile. There is something disapproving in her mask that makes me regret speaking so much. 

 

She gives a short snort. “Of course you studied with old Torou. She used to be a respected name in performing and teaching Dance. It is a pity that she could not train you properly, or rid you of your bad habits that you learned in Gaspa’s circus and on the streets,” she says. “But that is what amateur performance does. I cannot accept you in my company because you do not have the experience, you do not have the training, and you do not have the skills.” 

 

My heart stops beating. My cheeks are on fire, yet my body grows cold. I have no words to respond: nothing to defend my teacher’s honor, my neighborhood’s honor, or my own honor. Tears gather in my eyes, but I use all of my strength to keep them from falling.

 

“Some people just were not meant to perform in these halls. You are one of them.” Despite my rising anger and sadness, I still cannot bring myself to speak. After waiting for me to reply, Zenille shakes her head in disappointment, and then turns away.

 

“Get off my stage!” she calls as she leaves through stage right. I hear the slam of the door closing, then silence settles in the hall once again like dust. 

 

My legs will not move. My heart is so heavy that I sink to my knees. Though the impact of my knees hitting the floor stings, the pain of my broken pride hurts so much more. Like a child I begin to sob, and the tears flow freely down my face, landing in little drops on the stage.

 

Some of the company’s Dancers begin to shuffle in from the wings, warming up for their rehearsal. They stare at me with confusion and contempt on their brightly painted faces. Once I could imagine being one of them--wearing their skin-tight black costumes and my face painted white, blue, and red--but that will never come true now. 

 

I spare myself the embarrassment of having one of the Dancers escort me away and rise to my feet. With my gaze fixed on the ground I slink away through the wings, quietly shutting the stage door behind me. 

 

My body is walking, but I do not feel anything: not my feet scrapping the pavement, nor the breeze on my damp cheeks. All of the colors of the murals and flowers that welcomed me earlier not mock me with their brightness, so I avert my eyes. I hear people call to me as I walk by, but their words mean nothing to me. My mind is still back in the moment when Zenille tore me down. I hear her voice over and over again, and see her disapproving and disdainful mask when I close my eyes. 

 

When I arrive at our building I step inside, stopping in the landing at the base of the staircase that spirals up and up overhead. Our flat’s door is before me, but I cannot go inside yet. I cannot face Mamma, or even the wilted flowers from Madame Torou.

 

Listening to my heart rather than my thoughts, I decide I need some air. I want to be as close to the sky as possible. I climb up and up the spiraling stairs until at last I arrive at the door to the roof. No one is around to stop me, so I step out to the brilliant sunset sky. 

 

I find my favorite spot on the ledge that overlooks the endless spread of buildings below. The last of the sunlight vanishes in the honey-gold distance behind me, and the rich blue of evening creeps across the sky in front of me. Four of the moons already hang overhead: green, gold, pink, and blue. The moonsrise sky is more beautiful than any mural because it is so large and far away. It is bigger than any of us down here on the ground. The thought chases away my sadness, for what is the sadness of one Dancer--or whatever I am--compared to the moons above?

 

I hear the footsteps of someone approaching behind me. I look over my shoulder, ready to rise before Mamma scorns me, but to my delight it is only my best friend, Gorçi. I do not know how he has found me here on the rooftop, but I am grateful he has come.  

 

He greets me with a deep bow and a bright, cheerful mask on his white and red painted face. I do not smile back. I try to have a placid mask that would not inspire any questions, but he sees through it.

 

“What is wrong, Lola? What happened to you?”

 

I struggle to find my voice. “My audition was today.”

 

“I knew that, but…”

 

“It went terribly.”

 

“I am sure it was not as bad as you think it was.”

 

“No, I am sure it was terrible. I made a fool of myself right from the beginning. I was so nervous that I fumbled part way through my routine. I tried to save it, but then Zenille stopped me and asked where I studied. I told her with Madame Torou, and she had the most scornful look on her face.” I recreate it perfectly for Gorçi; he snorts as he prevents himself from breaking out into a full laugh at the sight of me. I tell him of the other horrid things she said about my training. “It is not my fault my parents could not send me to the study with the best Dancers in the city, or did not force me into professional performances before I was old enough to decide for myself that dancing was my art. But Zenille did not care. She told me to get off her stage. Now I can never go back there.”

 

“That settles it then. You do not need to dance with her company. There are plenty of others out there, anyway. No?”

 

“But hers is the best!”

 

“How good can she be if she does not want you to dance for her shows?” he says with a sly smile.

 

I flash him an anguished look. I know he means well, but sometimes he does not know when he should not be a Comic. 

 

“You just do not understand, Gorçi. I need to dance. I need to contribute my art in a company, because then I will be a fully participating member of society. Even a background Dancer with Zenille would be better than being the featured Dancer to a street show that no one will see. But I see no point in dancing if she says I am no good.”

 

“I do not think she say you dance at all. I have seen you, and I do not know anyone who is as good of a Dancer on narrow and broken sidewalks as you. I do not know anyone who loves it as much as you.”

 

“I guess I could just be a street Dancer--or rather a dancer--for the rest of my life. We could gather up the rest of the neighborhood kids and…

 

“Actually, about ‘we’…”

 

“What?”

“No, I should not say.”

 

“It is too late for that, Gorçi. What is it?”

 

“It… it would not be fair.”

 

“You have been accepted by Mari Gaspa’s circus troupe, no?” I hang my head in shame, for I knew that he had an audition to join as a Comic a few days ago, but I had forgotten that that he would hear back today. In my selfishness, I have thrown my broken dreams at his feet before asking after his own.

 

“Yes. That is why I came looking for you, to tell you, but… after what you told me I thought it would seem like bragging if I said anything.”

 

“Oh no, Gorçi! That is wonderful! You have always wanted to perform with Gaspa and her circus. I am so happy for you.” My mask changes to a beaming smile, but I cannot sustain it. My eyes must have given me away, for Gorçi sits down beside me and wraps an arm around my shoulder.

 

I cannot say anything more, and Gorçi remains silent, too. We sit in stillness for a few moments, watching the purple moonlight wash over the tops of the buildings below. The wind shifts, rustling my skirt around my knees and bringing new sounds to our ears. Laughter rings out somewhere below, followed by the lilt of a solo violinist. I still feel as hollow and rotten as I did before, but nestling in the warmth of my friend is a small comfort. I close my eyes as the music and breeze wash over us.

 

“I must go, Lola,” Gorçi says after a few moments, but he does not move. “I cannot be late to my first rehearsal.” Again, he remains holding me.

 

With glittering eyes and smiling lips I ask, “What routine shall you do?”

 

“It is one that I used at our last performance down my the market corner, but modified. Instead of getting my arms caught in the baskets, I shall use two chairs. You know I cannot perform the same thing twice.”

 

“Especially not when you are finally performing beneath a tent like a true Comic.” I sit up and out of his arm, meeting his gaze with a bright, encouraging mask.

 

“Indeed, you are right,” he agrees, and rises to his feet. He brushes the dust off his pale green suit (all of Gaspa’s performers wear green), and straightens his orange bowtie and matching moonslily boutonniere (that is all Gorçi). “You should come to our rehearsal tonight. You could have some fun with us. Gaspa would not mind.”

 

“Perhaps,” I say. I do not expect that I will, but I cannot disappoint him with a “no”. 

 

He bows a goodbye, and I lower my head reverently. In silence he disappears, and I turn my gaze over to the fifth moon, which has begun to show its soft lavender face through the grey clouds on the horizon. My eyes linger on it, watching it climb slowly up in its orbit to join its partners in their dance overhead. No thoughts stir in my mind, and no energy courses through my limbs. I am just an observer, watching the performance unfold.

 

My reverie is shattered by the sound of footsteps behind me. Startled, I glance over my shoulder, but it is Mamma who approaches me now. I spin around and face her.

 

“How are you, sweetness?” she asks in her singer-smooth voice.

 

I shake my head. My tongue is too heavy in my mouth. I cannot speak. 

 

“Gorçi stopped by the flat and told me everything before he left for rehearsal. That must have been so hard for you.”

 

I nod, and breathe a grateful sigh that I do not need to tell everything again to her. 

 

“That was cruel of Zenille to deny you based on your training. Rejection is a part of life as an artist, and it does not do to kick those who have fallen.”

 

“I am not an artist, Mamma,” I say at last. There is heat and anger in my voice. “An artist has talent, and if I had talent I would have passed my audition. An artist is an artist because they are recognized for their art. The greatest Dancer in the city says I have no talent, so I have failed.”

 

Mamma wraps her arms around me and pulls me close to her body. The white taffeta of her dress is soft against my skin, I snuggle in closer to her like a child, tucking my head down to keep from smearing the immaculate gold paint on her face with my hair.

 

“You are young, my sweetness. For every successful audition you have, you may have two or three that you do not pass. You must not let that stop you from doing what you love.”

 

I know she is right, but her words do nothing to assuage my mood. I want to stop talking about me.

 

“What are you doing home now? Why are you not at rehearsal?” I ask.

 

“I am home for a break to check on you, and to tell you some good news. Papa has arranged one of the stages at Zenille’s for you to use for the next hour.”

 

I blink in surprise. “But… I thought I was not to go there again.”

 

“No one said anything to that effect. Dancing brings you such joy, and you deserve more space to move than what our house allows and what the street can do. Go and dance there. That way you will part from that space with happier memories.” 

 

Oh Papa! How kind of him! I cannot imagine what he must have done or said to allow Zenille to let me use the space, but I glow with a grateful mask.

 

I say nothing aloud, but absently rise to my feet. Mamma leads me down the stairs from the rooftop, and before I slip out the door, she embraces me. The memory of her warmth lingers on my skin as I step out into the twilight air.

 

I make my way through the streets once again, smiling at those who wave from their windows or at the children practicing their juggling in the streets. At first it is just a mask to hide my true sorrow that gratitude cannot erase, but soon I feel a sense of genuine happiness walking through the twilight streets. From somewhere high above a tenor sings a lilting, wordless song. Instinctively, I spin and leap into the air to his melody until I am too far away to hear it anymore. Though my feet are back on the cracked sidewalk, my spirits still soar.

 

Yes, I think dancing out my feelings will do me good. 

 

When I arrive at Zenille’s I go around the corner to the side entrance by the stage where my father is waiting for me with the door open. As I go inside, he pauses to wraps his arms around me.

 

“Go on, Lola,” he says in a low, backstage whisper. “The stage is all your for the next hour.”

 

“Are you sure, Papa?”

 

“Yes, it is alright,” he assures me. “There is a long break before the rehearsal begins again. You will not be disturbed. Just turn off the lights when you are through, yes?”

 

I peck him on the cheek in gratitude, and then rush off to the stage. 

 

Seeing it again, this time completely empty of everyone, including Zenille, does change my view of it. Mamma is right; this time is different. I will treat this moment as my true memory of my time at Zenille’s theater. I will not let the image of her talking down her nose at me be what I remember about this space. I will create a routine like nothing I have ever performed before, because it will be guided from my heart. 

 

I slowly walk into the center of the stage, arrange my feet and my arms like I was trained to do, and close my eyes. The silence settles around me. In my mind’s ear I hear the opening lines of music unraveling, and to that melody I begin to move, seeing with my feet as they glide and stomp across the stage. My body surprises me with every move, sometimes attempting a bold leap or beginning again a sequence of steps that could be done better. 

 

I do not think. I just dance. 

 

Wherever my body takes me, I go. 

Reviews

[JayG]

One of the problems with the outside-in nonfiction methodology you’re using is that because you have a mental picture, and are talking about the progression of events occurring in that picture, you are going to leave out things that seem obvious to you, but which the reader needs if they are to have context. Moreover, you’re thinking cinematically, and treating the story like a report, so, while you’re using first person pronouns, the viewpoint is that of the narrator, who lives at a different time from when the events occur, and cannot appear on stage with the protagonist living the scene. So, we're hearing about the events second-hand, from someone not in on scene. How real can that seem?

It works perfectly for you, of course, because any missing information already exists, and is filled in as needed. For you, the words act as a pointer to images, emotion, events, and context, all stored in your mind.

But your reader arrives with zero knowledge of the setting, the characters, or the situation, and has no context but that you supply. So the picture your words create in the readers mind? It’s influenced by the fact that for them, the words act as a pointer to the images, emotion, events, and context, all stored in *YOUR* mind. And without you there to supply it… Look at the story’s opening as a reader must, having only the emotion that punctuation supplies, and the meaning suggested by their background, not your intent.

• I open my eyes to see my room full of afternoon sunlight.

Okay, we’re in an unknown place, presumably, lying down. Given that it’s this person of unknown gender, age, and situation’s room, it appears that we’re in bed.

• The rose-gold sun strikes the glass such that the whole room is filled with brilliant geometric shapes made of light.

Meaningless to the reader who can’t see the image you intend. We don’t know where and when we are. And given that the protagonist has seen this many times before, one thing we can be sure of is that they are not lying there dwelling on mundane details like the light on the walls. So who is? The author, trying to be literary and pretty. But… knowing what’s in an image is nothing like seeing it. And since describing it well enough to viseualize would take the traditional 1,000 words a picture is worth, and in the end doesn’t make us know our avatar. So this doesn't work toward our goal which is—as E. L. Doctorow put it so well—“to evoke sensation in the reader. Not the fact that it’s raining, but the feeling of being rained upon.”

• Even though the walls are blank aside from peeling white paint, in this moment they become a gallery for the sun’s artwork.

And is the reader is thrilled to know how someone they know nothing about, in an unknown place, who woke in the afternoon for unknown reasons, feels about feels about sunlight on painted walls? No. They want the actual story to begin.

• If I wait long enough this beauty will fade, so I pause in the doorway to admire the dappled light on the walls before stepping inside the room to find my dance shoes.

So…the unknown speaker wasn’t in the room? They weren’t asleep and in bed? They were standing in a doorway with their room? Makes no sense.

And think about this bit of trivia: Where, in the narrative, does the reader become aware of the protagonist’s gender? No one calls her by name. The shoes are called dance shoes. She does nothing unique to a female, and you forget that male dancers audition, too. So it’s 594 words, and we’re on the third standard manuscript page before we learn our gender via the shoes chosen. And what’s happened in the story in that time? She looks at sunshine on wall, checks her appearance, and goes downstairs. Three pages and all she does is go downstairs. Lots of backstory. Lots of poetic imagery, but not much story.

But put that aside for now and look at the dilemma of the opening through the reader’s eyes:

If she’s inside the room when she opens her eyes, she saw the sunlight on the walls BEFORE she moved to the doorway, from wherever she was. So…she’d be facing out of the room when she go there, and not go there for a look. But…you say the “whole room” is illuminated before she hits the doorway, and she can know that only if she’s inside the room and in a position to observe the whole room when she opens her eyes. So, being in the room doesn’t work.

If she’s not in the room, though, she would see the patterns on the wall as she approaches, and moves into the doorway. So for this to work she had to be fumbling down the hall, eyes closed until he or she gets into that doorway. And who would something like that? Certainly not someone focusing on a coming audition.

The problem is, you’re approaching this exactly as you were taught in school—like a report or essay: fact-based and author-centric. In other words, like a nonfiction project. It's not a matter of talent, how well you write, or the story.

Why? Because in our school days we learn ONLY nonfiction writing techniques. The skills of fiction, like those of any profession, are acquired IN ADDITION to the general skills commonly known as, “The Three R’s.” Nonfiction’s goal is to provide an informational experience. And since the reader cannot know how the narrator would speak a given line, the voice of the narrator is inherently dispassionate—which is exactly right for nonfiction applications.

But fiction, with its goal of providing an emotional experience, is, and must be, very different in methodology. It’s emotion-based and character-centric. We place the reader into the viewpoint of the protagonist, in real-time, and in the moment that character calls, “now.”

Do that and you, the author, are forced to view the situation, not as a reporter, but as-the-protagonist. You focus on what matters to that character in the moment, and follow it with their interpretation, decision-making, and action. And that’s an approach to writing that wasn’t mentioned in you school years.

The solution? Simple. Add the tricks the pros take for granted to your present skills. Will that be a list of “Do this instead of that?” Of course not. Commercial Fiction-Writing is a profession, one they offer degree programs in. You have to figure that at least some of it is necessary right?

In fact, for all your life, the fiction you’ve chosen was created with those techniques. We don’t see them as we read, only the result of their use. But we react to that, and can tell in a paragraph if those skills weren’t used. More to the point your readers can tell if you used them—which is the best argument I know of for acquiring those skills. And, perhaps I can be of help in that.

You can, of course, go for a degree in the profession, if you have lots of money and four years free (but avoid the traditional MFA, which specializes in the literary genre). Other resources are workshops, seminars, conferences, retreats, writing clubs (often the blind leading the blind, though), and that old standby, the library's fiction-writing section, which is where I’d start. There, you learn at your own pace, and on you own path. You can pick up the basics, and add to it by other methods.

And the very best book I’ve found date—the book that got me my first contract offer—Dwight Swain’s, Techniques of the Selling Writer, is available for free download at the site below this paragraph, in whatever format your reader requires. This site doesn’t handle links, so copy/paste that huge address into the URL window at the top of any Internet page, and hit return to go there.

https://archive.org/details/TechniquesOfTheSellingWriterCUsersvenkatmGoogleDrive4FilmMakingBsc_ChennaiFilmSchoolPractice_Others

For more on why writing from the protagonist’s viewpoint, as against simply using first person pronouns is necessary, you might try this article:
https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/2011/09/22/the-grumpy-writing-coach-8/

It, and many of the other articles in my WordPress writing blog, are based on Swain' work. It’s an older book, but still, the best I’ve found, and has over 300 5-star reviews on Amazon.

I think you’ll find that the book will be a lot like going backstage at a professional theater for the first time. And, it will have you saying, “But that’s so…how could I have missed something so obvious." And that’s fun…till the tenth time.

And since the practice is writing stories, what’s not to love?

So dig in. And while you do, hang in there, and keep on writing. If nothing else, it keeps us off the streets at night. 😀

Jay Greenstein
https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/category/the-craft-of-writing/the-grumpy-old-writing-coach/