WOSO Imagines

The Dutch Ballerina (Lotte Wubben-Moy)

"Zura, five minutes!" our stage manager calls into my dressing room.

"Thank you," I reply, continuing to warm up and stretch.

Tonight, I would be performing the principal role in Grand Pas Classique with the Nationale Opera & Ballet, a role I had been dreaming about dancing since I was 16. I'm one of the younger soloists in the company, having been recently promoted to understudy from the ensemble.

The original soloist had been injured at our last stop on the tour, so now I would be performing the next few shows in her place. To say I was nervous would be an understatement, but I knew once I got out there and the music started, I would lose myself in the dance and nothing else would matter.

"Places!"

I make my way to the wings, dipping my toes into the rosin box and smoothing out my platter tutu.

"You've got this, Zura. Trust me," my best friend, Aniek, reassures me, squeezing my shoulder as she takes my warm-up off for me. "You could do this in your sleep."

"I could do this in my sleep."

"Laat het allemaal op het podium, (leave it all on stage)." She offers me her hand.

"Het podium is van mij, (the stage is mine)" I reply, clasping her hand and completing our pre-show ritual.

The chatter behind the curtain dies down as the lights on stage dim. I take a deep breath, stepping out onto the wooden floor, and take my place. I mentally check my body, adjusting my alignment, relaxing my muscles, and reminding myself to smile. The goal was to make this variation look easy, even if I was dying inside.

The curtains slowly open and the music flourishes. I shift my weight back, presenting my arms to the audience. Point your toes, Zura! I pique into passe, feeling all of my weight on my box. Lift up. Keep your arms light and pretty. My balance is impeccable and it's almost as if my body doesn't need my brain, it just knows what comes next.

I can feel the jewels around my bun scratch the back of my neck as I begin the first turn sequence, but I ignore it, instead focusing on keeping my chest up and my attitude turned out. The pirouettes could have been better if I had found my spot before I began, but I manage to land a smooth double. Breathe, Zura.

I can only imagine how I look to the audience. Face all done up with pretty pinks. Leotard and tutu littered with diamonds, stage lights reflecting off. Perfectly neat bun without a flyaway or baby hair in sight. Pointe shoes perfectly molded to my feet, and not a single run in my tights. I felt like a princess; I looked like a professional.

The knot in my chest slowly unravels as I float across the stage with precision. My smile becomes more genuine as I approach the climax of the variation: the fouetté sequence.

I begin the set-up, moving diagonally towards stage left. My extensions are almost flawless as I push up on one leg.

I take one more deep breath as I get set, ready to become synchronous with the flute. And one, and two, and a la seconde, and fouetté. Plié one, and two, switch arms, and turn. Coupé, extend; coupé, extend. Now to the side and...I wobble slightly, but recover, preparing for the part of the dance that gets the most applause.

I repeat the section again as the woodwinds and brass ring stronger, their vibrato encouraging me as I developpé higher. Hold your core, don't let them see you sweat. A polite wave of clapping echoes through the audience as I hold écarté on pointe. Now there was only the home stretch.

I move closer to the front as the music because chirpier, like a baby bird getting ready to fly. I hop on my boxes, and as the music crescendos and accelerandos, I pique across the stage, truly feeling free. Every beat of the triangle aligns perfectly with the start of my turn until eventually it slows once more and I land, arms out, chest up. My face glows as the last strum of the violin sounds. I'd done it.