When I was little, mom tried to give the Stewart boys some
culture. Some of it took, and some
fell by the wayside. I went to my
first ballet at about 9 to see beautiful ladies float thru the scenery in
magical dresses - and be manhandled by proud, tights-clad men. Wearing a tutu was not an option, so I
decided I would someday get some tights and get my hands on some beauties.
A few ballets later, mom took me backstage to meet my
current heartthrob and prima ballerina of the day, Maria Tallchief. From the distance of TV or the cheap
seats, she was my idealized fairytale princess of famine grace. From arm’s length, she was a
hawk-nosed, pancake painted, sweat-stained gangly bundle of sinew and
bone. My dream crushed, I soon
signed up for football - much to dad’s delight.
But the magic culture cast by the ballet is still with me. I thrill like a little boy at scoring a box in St. Petersburg’s old Kirov Theater (now called by its pre-Soviet name of Mariinsky). This is the stage of Baryshnikov, Nijinsky and Nureyev - their presence is imbued in the old woodwork and I spring for some bubbly.
They dance
Giselle, a simple story of deceit, betrayal, bewitchment and death - told by
tall thin dreams in toe slippers.
We loved it. Mom would have
loved it too.
- Slippered Stew
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