The Velvet Staircase

How it all started, on the bottom of the staircase. It is almost like a distant memory of when I was only a little girl that I would see the staircase. Like falling asleep, those stairs were a pathway to a dreamland that only my little girl imagination could conjure. It was every once a week that I would go up the staircase with my mother’s hand holding on to me with the subtleness of her touch. I remember the first time that I wore tights and an all-white dance uniform. When I would walk into the building, there it stood, a grand staircase that was lined with green velvet carpet that stood out to the eye with its emerald trance.

I have been a dancer for many years but the staircase has felt many dancers come and go throughout the years. From a little child’s fidgety toes to a young woman’s broken ankles, the steps stood as stepping stones to the unknown for every dancer that dared to walk up, for it was a place up there where the parents were not allowed to walk up with them. For some, it was a daunting task. For others, it was a form of escape as it was a place where the outside world, the waking world could not reach them.

I hope that when I die, I will see that staircase again, only to never walk down it. Ballerinas of all ages would all have to walk up that staircase, but the real magic that I will share is what is waiting on the top of it. And there it stood, the ballroom. It would never host grand parties, but grand classes that were held. Looking up, you saw two chandeliers that were only lit on very special occasions, but on the side of the walls, stood head-to-toe brass mirrors so that the dancers could see their performances. All of the students wore white and had their hair up in a high bun, and all were princesses and queens of their castles when they walked into that room. Our hair curled and shoes fitted to perfection.

The instructor would walk in only a few minutes before the class would begin. A pianist would go up to the dusty piano and start to play some gentle music as we started to warm up on the barre. The wood was all the time old, and once I came home with a little sprinter in my palm, but otherwise, we were always told that the barre was supposed to be the hand of our prince charming, and we were instructed to hold it gently, which was something that I had never mastered.

The instructor, Mister Arnold, was a keen man, linear and thin, stiff most of the time, but if he had a spotlight and a stage, I would believe that he would be very graceful like he always taught us to be. When he would walk in, the class always fell silent at the demand for his attention.

“Girls,” he said calmly. I have always wondered if he enjoyed teaching the young ones like me and the other bright-eyed, pigeon-toed ducklings that we were, we were not primas at that time, but I wondered if he saw our potential to be these queens that we thought we were through our white facade.

We always started with pliés. It was slow and could come off as tedious to the naked eye, but it was always essential for us to warm up before we did the more complicated and advanced movements. The pianist, who was a man named Fredrick, would place his hand gently on the piano, playing a soft tune that was harmonizing to our ears. And the violinist, who was an old man, always had his music placed in a top hat and would always improvise to the sound of the piano keys. Even though it was slow, it helped calm down our nerves. for what was in our head.

Then, we would go on to do tendus, piques, grand battements, and frappés, which were my personal favorite. Throughout the barre time, Mr. Arnold would come up to us, and everyone would have this feeling that we were never always standing up as straight as we should have been or that our toes were not as pointed as they should have been. Either way, Mr. Arnold would always find ways to correct every one of us. However, it was when he gave us a compliment that our hearts would warm up and we would gladly straighten up a little taller and point our feet a tad bit more.

But what many of the students were excited for the most was to be in the center of the ballroom, and I believe it was Mr.Arnold’s favorite as well, for it was his time to put us to the test. At this portion of the class, he would create a combination that we would have to follow. This was when we took all that we have been learning throughout the class and put them into practice. No barre or prince to help us this time, it was just us ourselves.

“Clarence!” Mr. Arnold demanded. I stopped right in my steps. I looked up at him, my hair that couldn’t cover my face was not giving me the invisibility that I was craved at that moment.

He pointed to the floor and in my imagination, he reminded me of the evil wizard Rothbart in Swan Lake in the way he looked at all of us, always giving us challenges. For me, it was always to demonstrate the combination in front of the class, in front of the girls that were better than me, and of course, in front of Mr. Arnold.

In some ways, it was intimidating to dance in front of other girls, but when I would sway my arms and would feel the ruffle of my skirt dancing along with me in the wind, I felt like a swan flying in the wind, high above the clouds where no one could reach me. The violin played in my head and the keys of the piano started to float like little birds and for the first time, I felt certain that freedom would have only arrived at me through my heart.

After our bows and praises to Fredrick for his wonderful performance on the piano, every student would then go up to Mr. Arnold and thank him. When I said thank you for that day, I saw him smile as I have never seen him smile before. I didn’t know at that time but later found out that he was proud of my efforts to step out and conquer his challenge. I walked back down that green staircase, back to the real world and away from my dreamland.