Walking up to Lincoln Center for ABT’s gala a few nights ago, I was filled with thoughts of my eighteen-year-old self on my first day of work. There was a fountain then. Now there is scaffolding devouring the majority of the plaza. Construction workers danced their machines around the disarray on Monday night, drilling new foundation as patrons scattered and searched for a place to wait for their dates. Fortunately I had the lovely Sterling Hyltin as mine.
After wrestling with myself over whether or not to attend the annual opening of the season celebration, I found myself staring in the mirror, meticulously tying my new silver tie at 5:40 on the afternoon of the show; apparently I was going. First the tie was too long, then it was too short, then finally, exasperated, I managed to get it just right and journeyed uptown for what I knew would be a bittersweet evening; in many ways this gala signals the beginning of the end of my time in the company.
One of the most difficult aspects of leaving ABT has been losing the day-to-day life I’d grown accustomed to. As a young dancer right out of high school I found comfort not only in doing what I love with one of the best companies in the world, but also in the family that company created.
Years passed and I developed relationships spanning the ranks. Some continue to be fraught with tension, while others started as surface friendships that later revealed themselves to be trusted companions. In many ways my work life was my social life. Even though I always knew the difficulties of mixing work and play, I also felt lucky to find so much in one place. Those comforts began to fade away when I was diagnosed with EBV.
(I almost wore that (you know, to avoid any tie drama), but then I heard she was and that would have been a DISASTER. I would have looked so much better...obviously.)
Dealing with this illness has prompted a reorganization of my life on every level. It simply isn’t possible for me to populate my life with only dancers when it acts as a constant reminder of what I’m unable to do right now. But stripping away my work life meant taking away much of my New York family. Therefore the gala ended up being a family reunion of sorts.
After an overly long program (as is the case with galas) full of season highlights (and a few random selections, including the “Onegin” pas de deux danced by Marcelo Gomes and the incomparable Julie Kent), Sterling and I swirled down the stairs from the top tier of the Met where we’d been seated. We pushed our way through the meandering patrons and finally reached fresh air, and a bundle of dancers, outside. I took a deep breath and gave Sterling a hug as we parted ways; I would brave the party on my own.
(Sterling and I pose for the paparazzi after the show.)
Each year the festivities are held in a large tent resting in the shadow of the Met Opera House. What looks like a haz-mat tent on the outside, all white tarp and rope, makes way to a cavernous space filled with round tables, two dance floors and a band. A majority of the dancers are seated in the rear half of the room, and all I hoped for was to be at a table with a group of people I knew.
I scanned the seating chart, a piece of paper that resembled a disheveled game of tic-tac-toe, and found my name by table 25. It was practically falling off the paper, as it was situated in the furthest corner from the entryway. Another deep breath and I made my way through the crowd.
It wasn’t long before I arrived at my table and felt a wave of relief as familiar faces welcomed me. Sean Stewart, Daniel Keene, Kenny Easter, Eric Tamm; it was going to be okay. Before I knew it we were catching up about the goings on in the company while I did my best to avoid talking about being sick. In short, it’s draining to catch up with 80 of your family members about health struggles. Yet somehow I thought a shirt detailing the most recent updates wouldn’t look flattering with my suit.
Being on the periphery of the tables gave me an opportunity to sit back and relax as dancers made their rounds once dinner was over. The two dance floors filled up with couture-clad patrons and the occasional celebrity (Kelly Ripa, Donald Trump and Sigourney Weaver were in attendance) while I savored my dessert. All the while I couldn’t help but reminisce about my first Met party when I danced the night away. New company members flitted through the room with the same abandon that we all possessed at one point.
The night wore on and I began to feel tired from just watching the dancers eat up the dance floor. Coats were hooked around seatbacks, and ties began to come undone while the cover band continued their assault of elevator remixes of today’s pop hits. I wove my way through the crowd and said my goodbyes before slipping out as quietly as possible.
Once I made my way out of the tent I was confronted with the sight of a fountain-less plaza, once again. It occured to me that I had stopped to sit at the fountain after every one of the previous Met galas. The hope is that the new fountain will be better than the old, but it’s hard not to miss it while it’s gone.
(Goddess Anne Milewski and I look sibling-y.)
(Marcelo and Anne cozy up with...Grant.)
(Eric steals some dessert.)
