I am alone on a silent, dark stage with the heavy red curtain in front of me. I wipe my clammy hands on my yellow dress, exhale slowly, and plead with my terrified self to relax. The makeup artist has spent 15 minutes making my lips bright red. I am a dance artist. As such, I am analytical, obedient, athletic, and loyal. My ability to focus on my own performance requires my selfishness; dancing with others requires my generosity. My dancer brain has spent thousands of hours counting, memorizing patterns, and moving my body through space and time. Thinking. Remembering. Moving. Counting. Preparing for this moment since the age of three.
I dance as part of a school of fish, a flock of birds, whizzing around, darting here and there, never bumping into one another.
A barely audible monotone cue. Stage left, “Places.”
“Oh my god.” I whisper to myself.
Another savorless cue, “Standby”.
I try to smile for real. Impossible.
“Curtain go”.
The sound of a curtain rising is the most terrifying, exhilarating noise. It is not really a noise. It is a feeling. Two atmospheres collide. The air pressure and temperature changes. A breeze tickles my bare legs and neck. The audience becomes still. I feel their anticipation. I feel their gaze. I am alone out there in the black quiet. But I am in a sold-out, cavernous theater – packed with a living, breathing, demanding audience. I feel alone. But I am the opposite of alone. Having focused so much attention on myself for years, I feel selfish for being up there alone. But all I want to do is give the best performance of my life. To move the audience is my one and only purpose. It is my gift to them. My reward is their thunderous validation. I feel selfish and silly for wanting, and needing, their applause. It is hard work to move an audience, I justify.
Another cue, “Music go”.
I exhale. The audience inhales.
“Oh my god.”
“Lights go.”
By Paul Henderson w/ Halle Henderson, Tiffany’s Dance Academy of Danville