Read Online Lose Yourself (The Desires Unlocked Trilogy Part Two) by Evie Blake - Free Book Online
Authors: Evie Blake
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in years and years of tradition. We at Ballets Jooss are trying to do something different. For instance, if you look at the subject matter of our ballets, how would you describe them?’
‘Revolutionary,’ says the short, dark-haired lady, standing next to Maria.
Lempert whips around. ‘Indeed,’ he says, ‘they are political, social, humanist . . . They combine the intellect and the heart. That is what we are trying to do here: combine spirit, mind and body. People, we want to communicate .’
Maria’s head is beginning to pound. This is all too much theory. She just wants to dance.
She has a flicker of memory: she is in the deserted ground floor of the palazzo with her mother, Pina and Jacqueline. Jacqueline is playing a tinny old piano that Belle had somehow unearthed, and Maria is dancing for them. It is like a golden loop of memory. The Venetian winter sun is streaming through the half boarded windows as dust motes spin up into the air around her bare feet. And her mother and Pina are watching her; yet, despite their looks of appreciation, it is not for them she dances, but for a ghost sitting beside them – her father, Santos Devine: adventurer and sailor.
To her relief, Lempert claps his hands, signalling for the group to come together again.
‘Now,’ he says. ‘Enough talk. Let us begin.’
To her surprise, Lempert makes them take off their dance shoes. The wooden boards are cool beneath her bare soles.
‘No dance,’ he instructs them. ‘I just want movement.’
He nods towards the pianist, up on a rostrum under a small gallery at the end of the studio.
‘On the count of four, I want you to start to walk around the room. No eye contact – eyes to the floor, please. One, two, three, four . . .’
Maria begins to walk, not looking at her fellow dancers, wondering what they are all thinking. Part of her is terrified of making a fool of herself, and yet another part of her is excited. She is beginning to grasp what her teacher is saying.
‘I want you to walk with the emotion of hesitation,’ he calls out.
The piano slows down and, in response, Maria begins to shuffle around the studio.
‘Walk with contentment.’
She ambles along; for some reason, she has an image of herself as a large man with a big belly, well fed, heavy with satisfaction. She pushes out her stomach, puts her hand on it.
‘And with joy.’
Now she is a black cat of Venice, jumping between rooftops, prancing in the spinning light, pausing to lick the cream off the tip of her nose.
‘With freedom.’
She is gliding on an icy river. She imagines what it must feel like, for she has never skated in her life, yet the image is magical to her – that sense of moving on ice – all grace, speed and perfect balance.
As she is sliding around the room, she can’t help noticing her blonde friend, who is tiptoeing around the studio. How different their versions of freedom are!
Despite the fact it is the first day of class, Lempert works them hard. After two hours of breaking down their bodies, everyone in the group is breathless and steaming. Maria’s black leotard is stuck to her body with sweat.
‘Enough!’ Lempert suddenly announces. ‘Every morning, we will have technical class and each afternoon we will study other related subjects such as dance notation, theory, stage practice, make-up and life drawing. This is a rounded education in dance – an organic approach.’
There is a rustle of surprise among the dancers.
‘We will take a break now for lunch. Be back here at two for theoretical class.’
The girls crowd into the tiny changing room. There is no window in here and the dank room is lit by a single bulb. Despite the bustle around her, Maria takes her time. She has a packet of sandwiches with her that Jacqueline made for her that morning: some kind of grey meat paste between two precious slices of the coarse rationed bread. She has no idea where to go for her lunch, and she is too shy to ask anyone
‘Revolutionary,’ says the short, dark-haired lady, standing next to Maria.
Lempert whips around. ‘Indeed,’ he says, ‘they are political, social, humanist . . . They combine the intellect and the heart. That is what we are trying to do here: combine spirit, mind and body. People, we want to communicate .’
Maria’s head is beginning to pound. This is all too much theory. She just wants to dance.
She has a flicker of memory: she is in the deserted ground floor of the palazzo with her mother, Pina and Jacqueline. Jacqueline is playing a tinny old piano that Belle had somehow unearthed, and Maria is dancing for them. It is like a golden loop of memory. The Venetian winter sun is streaming through the half boarded windows as dust motes spin up into the air around her bare feet. And her mother and Pina are watching her; yet, despite their looks of appreciation, it is not for them she dances, but for a ghost sitting beside them – her father, Santos Devine: adventurer and sailor.
To her relief, Lempert claps his hands, signalling for the group to come together again.
‘Now,’ he says. ‘Enough talk. Let us begin.’
To her surprise, Lempert makes them take off their dance shoes. The wooden boards are cool beneath her bare soles.
‘No dance,’ he instructs them. ‘I just want movement.’
He nods towards the pianist, up on a rostrum under a small gallery at the end of the studio.
‘On the count of four, I want you to start to walk around the room. No eye contact – eyes to the floor, please. One, two, three, four . . .’
Maria begins to walk, not looking at her fellow dancers, wondering what they are all thinking. Part of her is terrified of making a fool of herself, and yet another part of her is excited. She is beginning to grasp what her teacher is saying.
‘I want you to walk with the emotion of hesitation,’ he calls out.
The piano slows down and, in response, Maria begins to shuffle around the studio.
‘Walk with contentment.’
She ambles along; for some reason, she has an image of herself as a large man with a big belly, well fed, heavy with satisfaction. She pushes out her stomach, puts her hand on it.
‘And with joy.’
Now she is a black cat of Venice, jumping between rooftops, prancing in the spinning light, pausing to lick the cream off the tip of her nose.
‘With freedom.’
She is gliding on an icy river. She imagines what it must feel like, for she has never skated in her life, yet the image is magical to her – that sense of moving on ice – all grace, speed and perfect balance.
As she is sliding around the room, she can’t help noticing her blonde friend, who is tiptoeing around the studio. How different their versions of freedom are!
Despite the fact it is the first day of class, Lempert works them hard. After two hours of breaking down their bodies, everyone in the group is breathless and steaming. Maria’s black leotard is stuck to her body with sweat.
‘Enough!’ Lempert suddenly announces. ‘Every morning, we will have technical class and each afternoon we will study other related subjects such as dance notation, theory, stage practice, make-up and life drawing. This is a rounded education in dance – an organic approach.’
There is a rustle of surprise among the dancers.
‘We will take a break now for lunch. Be back here at two for theoretical class.’
The girls crowd into the tiny changing room. There is no window in here and the dank room is lit by a single bulb. Despite the bustle around her, Maria takes her time. She has a packet of sandwiches with her that Jacqueline made for her that morning: some kind of grey meat paste between two precious slices of the coarse rationed bread. She has no idea where to go for her lunch, and she is too shy to ask anyone
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