There are just over 20 of us lined up against the walls of a large, square room and I am offended by how many people’s hands are raised. Our ballet teacher has just asked the class who has prior dance experience. This is an absolute beginners course on the foundations of classical ballet and, a single catastrophic line dance lesson aside, it is also the first dance class I have ever attended. I am in the minority.
As we take the barre, it quickly becomes apparent that not being able to tell my left from my right will be a significant deficit over the next 16 weeks. This, however, is a tertiary concern. For now my two biggest worries are my feet. After a series of flexes and points I will later come to learn are tendu, they are cramping so badly it feels as if they have been stomped on.
I cast my eyes around the class to see if I am the only one with screaming arches and feel oddly relieved by other students’ winces. When our teacher, Kristina, tells us that with practice and massage this pain will pass, I do not believe her. But she is right. By week five my foot cramps have stopped. This minor miracle was aided by the acquisition of correctly sized ballet shoes, a ritual one classmate likened to being fitted for your very first bra. By week seven, I have started to notice how uncomfortable some of my non-ballet shoes are. By week 12, I realise I have gone up a shoe size.
This is not the only change ballet effects on my body. My glutes become stronger, my calves shapelier, my turnout more turned out. And when I fail to engage my core in class, my lower back becomes my enemy.
Perhaps the most pronounced physical shift, beyond the expensive extension of my feet, is a growing sense of rhythm. Before starting ballet lessons, I couldn’t hit a beat if it hit me first, but after weeks spent attempting to sync movement with our teacher’s shouts of “One-and-a-two-and-a … ” I can clap along to pop songs in 4/4 time for the first time in my life.
I signed up for ballet on a whim. After watching a performance by professionals at Sydney Dance Company one night, I walked past several studios full of amateurs of all ages and sizes taking open classes. “That could be me,” I thought. I was wrong. By the end of the semester, I still can’t tell my left from my right. I’ve discovered new things I cannot do, too: a pas de bourrée, a balancé, a pirouette that does not send me stumbling sideways.
Many of my classmates have fared far better. They are ready to graduate to Sydney Dance Company’s open beginner classes. Perhaps, in another 16 weeks, I will be ready to join them.
