There's the dance bag, and the other dance bag. One's for the studio, the other for the theater. One's been gathering dust for a myriad of reasons. The other has been hanging, neglected, since the theaters went dark at the start of the pandemic.
Just as there are certain things that live in the dance bag that goes to the studio, there are also certain things that live in the dance bag that goes to the theater. A small pair of binoculars. A notebook and pen. Cough drops. Other things are added at the last minute. Wallet, cash, keys – the usual suspects. A water bottle, especially when the weather is warm. The all important ticket, double and triple checked, to make sure it's the right one. To make sure this is the right night, the right curtain time.
There are new things these days that have to be remembered, be triple checked before heading out the door. The all-important proof of Covid-19 vaccination, and the mask. One cannot attend the long awaited event without a mask! And why not? We've spent the better part of a year making masks into fashion statements. Now, at last, we can take them out on the town and really show them off.
(I can hear certain acquaintances in Texas grumbling about personal freedoms. I am free to protect my life and the lives of everyone around me. Y'all are free to go crawl off and die.)
I have lived ten years in New York City without succumbing to the temptation of the fifteen dollar ticket price for Fall for Dance, the annual bash at City Center. That's because, for any company listed, the deliberate programming mashups guarantee having to sit through something in which I have no interest, just to see something in which I may, possibly, have a slight interest.
Maybe it was having missed most of 2019 because of surgeries, then all of 2020 because of the plague, but this year I joined the scrum for tickets, lured by the prospect of seeing Philadelphia Ballet live for the first time in ages. I had tickets to go down to Philly in the spring of 2020. The first inkling of doom was when my bus reservations got canceled, and couldn't be re-booked.
Then the performances got canceled.
Then the entire season.
It does seem reasonable that I would be out of practice, does it not? Scrambling to find the right pair of boots. Making sure of the ticket, and the proof of vaccination, only to realize I've gotten out of the house without the cough drops or a water bottle. The latter could be done without, but the former? Impossible! (Because none of us want to be that person, especially since Covid-19 has taken up residence.)
So I get off the train and pop into a drug store for sugar-free (doctor's orders) cough drops, and have to settle for sugar-free mints to ease my dry throat. And I'm still very early for the line. I have been warned via several emails from City Center that everyone must present proof of vaccination and a photo ID, and time must be allowed for this additional inspection. So the lines snake down the sidewalk in all directions, and it behooves one to ask if one is in the correct line, for Manhattan Theater Club is also in performance at City Center.
But the newly created proof checkers pass me on to the bag checkers, whose jobs were created post-9/11. (Does anyone remember the days when you entered the theater for a show just by walking in off the pavement?) But there's more! The ticket scanners
pass you into the lobby, to the front of house crew who point you toward your section. The crowd gathers, the noise level rises, and finally, finally, the house opens.
I get into my seat and all is well till just about curtain time. Then the inevitable happens. A tall person takes the seat in front of mine. Whether it is the idiosyncrasy of the old building, or a glitch in the remodel to do with the curvature of the row – always the bane of not snagging those precious center seats – the two rows are not offset at this point. My seat is directly behind the one in the next row down.
Fortunately, I bought tickets for both nights of the program. Also fortunately, my view for the second night was unobstructed. Most fortunate of all, though, was that Philadelphia Ballet was up first, and I wouldn't have to sit through the other stuff twice.
Trust me, I have no problem making a run for the exit as soon as the lights go up. Not that the other companies on the program weren't good. They were, in fact, excellent for what they were. I just have no particular interest in their particular interests.
Micaela Taylor's The TL Collective presented Drift, a piece Taylor choreographed to her own mix of music and spoken word recordings. I'm not a fan of that sort of thing, but the piece was brilliantly executed, so I'd say this company has definitely earned the rave reviews they've been getting.
Step Afrika! The name says it all. A step crew on steroids, loud, precise, and making all the right noises for the cultural climate du jour. Alas, not my cup of tea, but again, brilliantly executed and definitely worthy of attention if you're into it.
I came for Philadelphia Ballet, and they were well worth the long wait for live performances to resume. Always classical, even when performing a contemporary work by Juliano Nunes, Angel Corella's dancers didn't waste time during lockdown. If anything, they seem to have worked even harder, honing themselves in preparation for a dynamic return to a packed theater. They took the stage as their own, knowing they belonged there, knowing they'd earned it through their hard work. Unlike the companies which followed them, there were no in-your-face curtain calls, as if the audience were an entity they'd come to conquer. They danced brilliantly, with grace and precision. Above all, they danced with joy, which broke out on their faces as the lights came up for their bows. If the first night's crowd was there for Step Afrika!, the second night belonged to Philadelphia Ballet, with the audience giving them the standing ovation they deserved.
With any luck, the next time I get the chance to see them on their home turf, I'll actually make it there.
Just as there are certain things that live in the dance bag that goes to the studio, there are also certain things that live in the dance bag that goes to the theater. A small pair of binoculars. A notebook and pen. Cough drops. Other things are added at the last minute. Wallet, cash, keys – the usual suspects. A water bottle, especially when the weather is warm. The all important ticket, double and triple checked, to make sure it's the right one. To make sure this is the right night, the right curtain time.
There are new things these days that have to be remembered, be triple checked before heading out the door. The all-important proof of Covid-19 vaccination, and the mask. One cannot attend the long awaited event without a mask! And why not? We've spent the better part of a year making masks into fashion statements. Now, at last, we can take them out on the town and really show them off.
(I can hear certain acquaintances in Texas grumbling about personal freedoms. I am free to protect my life and the lives of everyone around me. Y'all are free to go crawl off and die.)
I have lived ten years in New York City without succumbing to the temptation of the fifteen dollar ticket price for Fall for Dance, the annual bash at City Center. That's because, for any company listed, the deliberate programming mashups guarantee having to sit through something in which I have no interest, just to see something in which I may, possibly, have a slight interest.
Maybe it was having missed most of 2019 because of surgeries, then all of 2020 because of the plague, but this year I joined the scrum for tickets, lured by the prospect of seeing Philadelphia Ballet live for the first time in ages. I had tickets to go down to Philly in the spring of 2020. The first inkling of doom was when my bus reservations got canceled, and couldn't be re-booked.
Then the performances got canceled.
Then the entire season.
It does seem reasonable that I would be out of practice, does it not? Scrambling to find the right pair of boots. Making sure of the ticket, and the proof of vaccination, only to realize I've gotten out of the house without the cough drops or a water bottle. The latter could be done without, but the former? Impossible! (Because none of us want to be that person, especially since Covid-19 has taken up residence.)
So I get off the train and pop into a drug store for sugar-free (doctor's orders) cough drops, and have to settle for sugar-free mints to ease my dry throat. And I'm still very early for the line. I have been warned via several emails from City Center that everyone must present proof of vaccination and a photo ID, and time must be allowed for this additional inspection. So the lines snake down the sidewalk in all directions, and it behooves one to ask if one is in the correct line, for Manhattan Theater Club is also in performance at City Center.
But the newly created proof checkers pass me on to the bag checkers, whose jobs were created post-9/11. (Does anyone remember the days when you entered the theater for a show just by walking in off the pavement?) But there's more! The ticket scanners
pass you into the lobby, to the front of house crew who point you toward your section. The crowd gathers, the noise level rises, and finally, finally, the house opens.
I get into my seat and all is well till just about curtain time. Then the inevitable happens. A tall person takes the seat in front of mine. Whether it is the idiosyncrasy of the old building, or a glitch in the remodel to do with the curvature of the row – always the bane of not snagging those precious center seats – the two rows are not offset at this point. My seat is directly behind the one in the next row down.
Fortunately, I bought tickets for both nights of the program. Also fortunately, my view for the second night was unobstructed. Most fortunate of all, though, was that Philadelphia Ballet was up first, and I wouldn't have to sit through the other stuff twice.
Trust me, I have no problem making a run for the exit as soon as the lights go up. Not that the other companies on the program weren't good. They were, in fact, excellent for what they were. I just have no particular interest in their particular interests.
Micaela Taylor's The TL Collective presented Drift, a piece Taylor choreographed to her own mix of music and spoken word recordings. I'm not a fan of that sort of thing, but the piece was brilliantly executed, so I'd say this company has definitely earned the rave reviews they've been getting.
Step Afrika! The name says it all. A step crew on steroids, loud, precise, and making all the right noises for the cultural climate du jour. Alas, not my cup of tea, but again, brilliantly executed and definitely worthy of attention if you're into it.
I came for Philadelphia Ballet, and they were well worth the long wait for live performances to resume. Always classical, even when performing a contemporary work by Juliano Nunes, Angel Corella's dancers didn't waste time during lockdown. If anything, they seem to have worked even harder, honing themselves in preparation for a dynamic return to a packed theater. They took the stage as their own, knowing they belonged there, knowing they'd earned it through their hard work. Unlike the companies which followed them, there were no in-your-face curtain calls, as if the audience were an entity they'd come to conquer. They danced brilliantly, with grace and precision. Above all, they danced with joy, which broke out on their faces as the lights came up for their bows. If the first night's crowd was there for Step Afrika!, the second night belonged to Philadelphia Ballet, with the audience giving them the standing ovation they deserved.
With any luck, the next time I get the chance to see them on their home turf, I'll actually make it there.