The City
… Masters At Work: Balanchine and Robbins, a ballet at the Lincoln Center on the west side of the City. The first act was called “Serenade” and featured music by Tchaikovsky, and the second, “The Goldberg Variations” featured music by Bach. Balanchine and Robbins related to the choreographers, respectively. I tried to explain the profound effect the ballet at the David Koch Theater had on me and how I had yet to believe art could be that, in a word, beautiful. The night felt like finding words I’d been searching for my entire life. The performance reduced me to tears and how even in my infantile understanding of the arts in general, I felt as though the music, in conjunction with the Ballerinas and Ballerinos, had imparted more knowledge than simple instruction from textbooks or lectures ever could. An utterly floored response to such a sight, I thought I would whole-heartedly mock upon conclusion. Oh, how I was humbled, so humbled by the sheer strength of the men and the grace of the woman. The danseurs and danseuses were marionettes, and the music their puppeteer.
As the curtain drew, revealing the proscenium a solid sound rose from the orchestra pit. The ballerinas were already in their positions. Upstage, there stood four in what appeared to be repose. Their arms bent in a way, meeting in the middle, creating a perfect circle. Downstage was a single ballerina again, standing in repose entirely still, frozen, her feet firmly planted yet positioned so that once she meets her mark, she is sure to explode and flow flowery, guided by the sounds from below.
It came to me in that moment that the artist is often irrelevant to the life of the art. When he dies, his art lives. When art enters the world through sounds or sights, it is impossible to remove it completely. You may destroy the painting, burn the books, and topple the statues but once it has been produced and made true, it is in the world forever. It then takes life inside the air, inside the people and the sky, inside the dirt and inside the water, inside the heart and inside the mind. The art will exist there forever; once seen, the existence is eternal.
I nearly shed another tear as I described the experience to Alina, how I sat alone next to an old man of maybe eighty years, and how we shared a moment together. We did not know each other; it was something The City placed into our laps. Our first ballet, the old man and the burnout. Both of us taken, awe-struck, smacked in the face with such a sight to make a warrior lay down his arms, enough to civilize the barbarian and turn a king into a saint. Alina was no stranger to ballet as her mother was a frequent flyer, and it was a thing they loved equally.
“the light in their eye carries them further than their feet ever could.” She said
I wanted to grab Alina by the ears and kiss her, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t force myself to force her. She was a swan deep in the depths of a love I couldn’t match. I couldn’t risk her sudden flight. I’d rather her presence than a mismatched reaction. It took everything I had to hold my hands and smile. A smile I wish I could have shed years ago. A smile that shows so much, I wish I could maneuver my face in a way that hides my true feelings, but I had to wager a bet before the cards were in my hands. I let her go in that moment; I couldn’t lie to myself anymore. She was farther away from me than she had ever been before. Down the road of love, she was accompanied by another. I was stranded at the station listening to the tolling bell. On to the next stop, hand in hand with another, she rides while mine find comfort in their pockets.
Even if I held her, would it even feel right? If she rested her head on my chest, would it feel like home again? I would be an intruder in a home that doesn’t belong to me. Yet, her face still looked the same, and her hands and hugs still felt like they used to. Her voice contained that familiar tone. That familiar sound still escaped her voice box and invaded my brain. The sound envelops my mind and makes me fall in love all over again.
She had an anxiety attack while waiting in line for the bathroom at Molly’s. So I suggested we go outside for fresh air and a fresh perspective. I’d follow her to hell if it brought her a semblance of peace. I always thought she was made for heaven, even if she worked like the devil to be somewhere else.
On a night like this, a couple of years ago, we’d walk to our apartment and take seats in a different city. I would be railing cocaine on our toilet tank, and she would wonder why I was failing. We walked a couple blocks to my apartment, where she fell asleep on the floor. We both agreed it would be unwise for her to drive back to New Jersey after the Guinness and Jim Beam we shared at Molly’s. I begged her to trade places with me, but she refused to move once her eyelids closed. Maybe I should have joined her, but she had boundaries I must respect. We both woke up hungover, and I looked to see if she was still where I had left her. The heat was pumping; my room was an inferno. Slow to rise and with a casual conversation, we played house inside the morning. We discussed plans and, with a tacit agreement, decided to spend the day together. She had a toothbrush in her car, and we shared the bathroom like we used to. I washed my face, and she fixed her hair. I seldom washed my face in the mornings, but after living with her for so long and listening to her suggestions, it was safe to say a few finally sank in. The irony is I never took her advice until after we broke up. I don’t think she noticed my behavioral change, but that was fine by me; I enjoyed the laugh to myself.
We had breakfast down the street over on 3rd Ave at the feet of Baruch College and took a stroll through Madison Square. We were sharing a bench, two souls together again. Our morning was spent in the Sunflower, Oscar Wilde’s, and her car. A spritzer before high noon and a flower of love to boot …
Cover Art: Portrait Of Irene - Eric J. Drummond
