Dance Touches Renaissance Man
Initially I had little interest in dance, even though my mother was a ballet teacher. It was girl stuff, and girls could keep it. Boys, skinny, nearsighted ones included, played with toy trucks and caught frogs.
There was another reason why I wasn't a dance enthusiast in my early years. When I was four something happened to my left foot. The tendon that stretches to the top of the big toe, which in an ordinary foot does most of the work of flexing the foot, had quit working. No doctor ever said unequivocally what caused this; it might have been polio, or a carelessly-located injection in my hip, or something else. I wore an ankle brace for the rest of my childhood. After years of exercises and some surgery to move an intact tendon to a position with better leverage, I was able to flex my foot enough to walk almost normally and discard the brace. Nevertheless, my foot is easily sprained, and I have a knack for tripping over smooth spots on the sidewalk.
After I finally graduated from Wichita State University and resolved never to sit in a classroom again, I figured that I would miss the company of strange people, so I joined the Society for Creative Anachronism (SCA) -- it was either that or radical politics. This is an organization devoted to the study and re-creation of the European middle ages and incidentally to freaking out 20th-century Americans.
One day I was dragged onto the floor at a medieval dance practice before I could explain about my foot, and, golly, I learned that I *could* dance. In fact, I learned to do pavannes, bransles and country dances very quickly, and the Wednesday evening dance practice quickly became the highlight of my week.
There wasn't any adult beginner class, and I found myself in the intermediate class, the only man among about eight or ten women. All of them had been taking class for years, some of them for most of their lives. All of them were friendly and glad I was there. I had never felt so clumsy and slow in my life, not even when I went out for baseball in sixth grade, but everyone without exception was encouraging. The teacher, June Landrith, told me I had beautiful arches. Never mind that the next day I could identify each of the muscles in my body by its distinctive ache -- I was hooked.
Sooner than I expected, I found myself on stage. The Metropolitan Ballet for their spring performance that year did "The Sleeping Beauty" with the original Royal Ballet costumes and with the assistance of Martin Fredmann and Patricia Renzetti. I was assigned a tiny role as a "man-at-arms" -- I ran on stage during the prelude to announce (in mime) the arrival of Carabosse -- and even though my part lasted less than ten seconds and wasn't really a dancing role, I was listed in the program, and I got to appear on the same stage as real dancers, white tights and all.
I continued taking class with June Landrith (or her daughter Jill, or Nancy Hervey) once or twice a week for a few years. In that time I met a few other men who danced. One was a high school kid who intended to major in dance. Two others were soldiers from the nearby Air Force base. All of them were good athletes; one of the soldiers did push-ups while standing on his hands.
At this time I was in the best shape of my life. I weighed what I did when I graduated from high school and I had nearly infinite endurance. I could stand on a phone book and put my palms flat on the floor. I really could dance the night away, and occasionally I did at SCA events. I wish my story had a happy ending, but the best I can manage is bittersweet.
My right knee, hitherto trouble-free, became painful. My orthopedist prescribed more exercises, which didn't help. The semester eventually came that I didn't sign up for dance. I don't blame ballet for these ailments; rather, dancing strengthened all the muscles and joints involved. I am sure that the cause of my pains is never walking normally most of my life.
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| Tim Hegler, Wichita Ballet (Photo: Don McClane) |
I miss ballet. I have plenty else to keep myself busy -- books, music, botany, photography; worthy pursuits all -- but there is nothing like the tired, exhilarated feeling at the end of a good dance class. About a year and a half ago, I sent the director of ballet at Friends University here in Wichita a small portfolio of my prints and asked if I could photograph rehearsals. He agreed, and I visit the FU studio about once a week during the school year, camera and monopod in hand. Taking pictures is a poor substitute for dancing, but at least I am among dancers, and I have printed many striking images -- dancers are wonderful photographic subjects. There is a possibility that some of my pictures may be exhibited in the hallways of the fine arts building.
In fact, aside from skipping the grand pliés when my knees are acting up, I've been able to do everything asked of me so far (albeit not always very well), and my knees usually feel better at the end of class than at the beginning.
Last December I became the slightly bewildered husband of the pretty Val and the father of the suspiciously well-behaved Gabriel, Clayton, and Kylie in the Friends University Nutcracker -- quite a shock for a wary bachelor. The performances went well and were a lot of fun, and I'll probably do it again. I'm now taking class twice a week. I feel as inept as ever, but even I can tell that I've made some progress. -- Don McClane
