Routine in the Empty Studio

me (on right) in the big studio - the city as my landscape background of art

One of the most restful parts of my summer, as pathetic as it might seem, comes every Sunday morning before ballet class. Because of the special extended weekend classes we get to be in the oversized studio, which incorporates two of the facility’s largest rooms into a single vast space, with mirrors on one wall, barres on two others, and an incredible view of the city as the background.

Since class is so early (well, it seems quite early for a Sunday - even though it actually starts at 1pm!) Sundays are the only days when I have nothing to do right before class. It is my one chance each week to allow for a proper stretch and warm-up time before hopping straight into plies. I always try to get there so I have a good hour to get organized and such, but seeing as, for whatever reason, I tend to move slower on Sunday mornings, I usually get to the studio around 12:20pm.

After swiping my card and waiting too long for the elevator, staring at crowds of baby ballerinas or teenage hip-hoppers, I finally get upstairs to the room by 12:25. Once I glimpse the studio I know all is well. Empty, with the tinted sunlight shed from the see-through blinds, it is rather chilly and quiet. I immediately drop my bag in its usual spot near the front and hurry to get a barre.

Though there is nobody in sight, I rush to drag the portable barre from the corner to my spot in the center as if the whole class was clamoring to beat me to my place. It’s funny how, as dancers, we become attached to our habitual place at the barre - the place of our internal work, the angle from which we always see ourselves in the mirror, the fixation that remains constant each morning, as welcoming (or unwelcoming) as that first cup of coffee. It is our personal space and our home base that we become so possessive of. Even though no one challenges me, I find myself at the urge to protect my place.

Once I leave my flip-flop there to mark my territory safe from invisible dancers I go back to get my bag. Overflowing with pointe shoes, Tiger Balm, and warm ups, it spills across the floor beneath the cool silver barre. It’s the same every week: change into sweatpants. Empty the pointe shoes and decide which to wear. Replace toe pads in appropriate shoes. Lather the Achilles tendon in anti-inflammatories. Pop an Advil if it’s been a bad week. Set out skirt and flat shoes for the start of barre. Then return everything else to the side.

After all is settled I can relax. By this point it’s about 12:30. I take a deep breath, encouraging myself to begin my necessary stretching, strengthening, and joint-cracking ritual. Both hips are popped (in several directions), as are the metatarsals and the back. I am fully aware of the risks of “cracking” myself so often, but I truly feel like I’m in a stiff costume of armor unless I free up the bones. The percussion of my vertebrae clicking into place is the only sound besides the whizzing air conditioner above. I hardy notice either.

With a renewed freedom about my body I spread wide into a split face down to hug the floor. Though I’ve been all the way down to the ground in my center split for years, I still feel a twinge the first time I do it every day, and Sundays seem to be the most tight.

I breathe in the emptiness of the room and close my eyes, savoring the quiet. To be alone in that great space is liberating. In the confines of Manhattan’s steel valleys it seems impossible to find just a single square foot of personal space. Even in lovely Central Park, with manmade nature abounding, there are constantly crowds of people - always moving. But here in the studio, I am truly alone.

I always feel so lucky to have a brief time to myself in this incredible facility. If I was warmed up and fully awake I would love to break out into some long lost choreography that simmers inside me, never with an opportunity to surface. But by the time my pre-class routine gets me to my feet to stretch my calves I hear the beeping of the elevator in the hallway. Other dancers come in and glance around before entering, as if afraid to disturb my silence. I smile at them. 12:40 on the dot, as always, and they begin their routine.

I think we're all in awe of the studio even with its familiarity. It's like a blank canvas waiting to be danced across with color. Of course one color is never enough for a masterpiece. I can see the buildings of midtown almost at arms length. The clouds are close enough to tickle with my breath. So open and free - yet so enclosed, encompassed, and veiled by the city outside. The juxtaposition of the vastness enveloped in the shadows of buildings is so ironic. Perhaps it’s like art itself: solitary and free, yet overpowered by the capitalist crowds.