Must make reparations to that score asap.
White Christmas again today. Apparently, I tapped well enough that other dancers whom I had never met expressed surprise and offered commiseration that I did not make the final cut. I appreciated their kindness, though I would have been equally grateful to have a job dancing in an Irving Berlin musical.
BUT as usual, c'est la vie. There is no knowing why casting teams do and think what they do, and I most assuredly would not want to be in their shoes. (Dancers tend to be a loud, volatile, and mercurial lot).
This life is such a gamble. I find I rarely know the odds well enough to hedge my bets. To a certain extent, this auditioning journey has been like throwing myself willingly into a chasm and fighting blind to re-surface for air. Yet with each day - each dance class, each voice lesson, each 6am Pilates session, each audition - the way that lies ahead of me grows less daunting to navigate.
Over the course of this weekend, I've also managed to stumble upon mixed media art a means of working through what has been an impenetrable fog of confusion in love. This aspect of art, music, and dance is perhaps what I love most; the ability to find in someone else's vision the answers to questions you did not know you were asking.
Along those lines, I found the Alexander McQueen special exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum of Art to be a particularly stunning platform upon which to rediscover wonder as I stood surrounded by the grace of genius. It's true what they say; when you are close to his clothes you can feel his inner torment. I even began to grasp why so skilled an artist and beloved a man could have taken his own life. Integrity to the craft consumes. Woe sinks the unbalanced scales that turn life against us, especially when we neglect to allow space in our hearts and minds for nourishment from more than one source.
What a rare and rhapsodic privilege it must have been to live in his head, watching as such terribly gorgeous things were fully realized. It is no easy task to break well established boundaries in a world of structure and rules. Yet McQueen aggressively questioned what constitutes beauty with such hunger that my brain could not help but relish it's role as the intellectual beneficiary of such raw emotion distilled into brilliance. I found myself irrevocably inspired; my commitment to constantly striving to be better revitalized by the experience. If you catch my drift and you are in New York, I strongly urge you to visit the Met Museum and immerse yourself in his world before it is dismantled July 31st.
One of my best friends mourned McQueen's death almost as she would have a close friend or relative. Now, having witnessed what masterpieces he was capable of creating with my own eyes, I can understand why.
Widows of Culloden, Fall/Winter 2006
http://www.alexandermcqueen.com/int/en/corporate/archive2006_aw_womens.aspx
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