Fifth is daunting.
Two years ago this was a thought running through my head in reference to a ballet position that was as regular a part of my day as brushing my teeth. Right now it is a thought as I cross one of many avenues on the way to my first job as a freelance photographer for The New York Times. So much has changed.
No time to look back. Tonight is the only thing on my mind.
The bus never came. My perfectly timed commute, ruined because the M23 is nowhere in sight. I should be running, but seeing as I haven’t run since sixth grade, when I convinced my Physical Education teacher that the mile was detrimental to my lean dancer physique, it would be a shame to start now.
I can’t seem to weave my way quickly enough through fellow pedestrians. And while avenues always stretch on forever, tonight I feel I’m moving backwards the closer I get. How many frozen yogurt places do I have to pass before I reach my destination?! Perhaps I should bat people out of the way with the tripod I’m holding. That could get me a police escort.
My Converse sneakers are so flat that my calves and arches are cramping; the accelerated speed is too much for these poor rubber soles to take. It probably doesn’t help that I’m barely bending my knees while I walk, instead I just shuffle along, stilt like, while music buzzes in my ears, drowning out cabs rushing past. A large orange hand greets me at the crosswalk; I stretch my legs like a runner preparing for a marathon, so full of nervous energy that I contemplate darting through traffic and treating the cars like hurdles. But I’d rather deliver my pictures to The Times than have my body delivered to a hospital.
All afternoon, this job has been bouncing around in my head, distracting me from reading or watching TV: two menial activities I employed to occupy the time between getting my assignment at noon and walking to the theater right now. Even though I’ve had a camera in my hands in the middle of a dark theater many times over the past year, tonight will be different. I can remind myself over and over again that it’s just another photo shoot, but I am well aware of the added pressure.
The bag strapped across my chest—filled with three lenses, a camera body, a water bottle, and a book—is pulling on muscles in my neck. Yet no matter how heavy it is, I can’t help but feel comforted by the contents, which have become some of my most trusted companions over the past year.
Still, there are many factors beyond my control that might provide difficulty once I get to theater. The last time I went to this performance space, a black box called The Kitchen, it was to see my friend Nico, who performed in near darkness; I feel dim light is probably a staple of the Chelsea space. I’ve run through endless scenarios in my head about what could go wrong: batteries die; lenses crack; someone steals my bag; I leave it on the subway; basically anything short of a giraffe peeing on my equipment is plausible.
The air outside keeps my mind focused on the moment. I can feel a few beads of sweat—brought on by my hurried pace—beneath my knit hat. It is so cold that my headphone cables are freezing; they are more like pipe cleaners right now than supple cords that I could bunch up in my bag. There are times to be thankful for minor annoyances, and right now is one of those moments.
Ninth. Tenth. Not positions in the ballet idiom. Time to take a left and head down to Nineteenth Street, which coincidentally is where ABT’s studios are. The Avenue is deserted—convivial groups of people fill the windows of restaurants as I pass by, but none are on the streets. At least I’m almost to the theater.
As I open the heavy silver door to the lobby, I feel a wave of hot air pour over me. Even though I’m wearing gloves, I’ll need a few minutes to crack my knuckles and warm my hands up, as to allow for the quick reflexes and contorted positions I tend to find myself in while maneuvering to get a shot.
Dancers are scattered about the performance space on their hands and knees—some are warming up, while others are cleaning mirrored panels that make up the bulk of the floor they will perform on.
Even after quadruple checking to make sure I left the apartment with everything I need, there is still a pit in my stomach telling me an item will be missing when I unzip the bag. To my relief, it’s all here.
The minutes pass and I line up various lenses so I can have easy access to the interchangeable parts throughout the fifty-minute piece. People are taking their seats. I walk up the stairs in the audience until I am perched at the top row of the grey bleachers, and look down on the stage that will be filled with imagery I am responsible for capturing. I bend down to unlace my shoes; even though my shutter will be making noise, I still want to be as quiet as possible.
A woman with a notepad, probably an artistic director, takes a seat in front of me; the dress rehearsal is about to begin. There is complete silence as the lights go down. I take a deep breath, lift my camera to my eye, and start a new chapter.
