The ballet school – by Helena Gjone
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This essay contains references to suicide and eating disorders. Help is available: see here.
October, 2013. A fourteen-year-old girl called Irina rushes into her bedroom on the third floor of the Bolshoi Ballet Academy and shuts the door behind her. Her roommate isn’t back yet, but she could burst through the door at any moment, so Irina has to be quick. She spins around and crosses the room with graceful strides – core engaged, toes leading, shoulders pinned back – past posters of hungry-looking models, rickety wooden furniture and two steel-framed beds made with military precision. Through the walls she can hear her neighbours opening and closing their drawers, snapping at each other in heated Russian. She opens the window, letting in a gust of icy Moscow wind and stares out at the bleak view. Across the street several identical beige Soviet bloc apartments loom. The trees, once covered with vibrant green leaves, are sinister and exposed. Bare skeleton branches, the pavement sugar-dusted with snow, signify the start of another long dark winter.
Irina kicks off her fluffy slippers, revealing hardened calluses and raw blisters. Before she loses her resolve, she takes a fortifying breath and uses her hands to catapult herself forwards, over the windowsill. For a split second, she feels as if she is flying, suspended in the air like the ballerina she once dreamed of becoming.
-
Back in Queensland, I am lying on my bedroom floor scrolling mindlessly through Facebook. I know I should get up – brush my teeth, chuck a pile of dirty clothes in the wash – but I’m too lethargic and brain dead to move. Turns out going cold turkey on exercise can wreak havoc on your mood and energy levels. Ever since I quit dancing three months ago, I’ve had the spiritedness of a pot plant. I keep scrolling past memes about dogs and Donald Trump until I see an article written in Cyrillic that makes my blood freeze. Although my Russian is pretty rusty, I understand enough to connect the key words and phrases: a fourteen-year-old girl, studying at the Bolshoi Ballet Academy, has committed suicide.
I do the math. Irina would have been in the third class while I was studying in the sixth. I never knew her, but I would have passed her in the green carpeted corridors. We may have even practised gymnastics together or waited in the same queue for dinner. Feeling sick, I read on. Apparently she struggled with her mental health for a while. First with anxiety and depression, then with bulimia after she gained weight from antidepressants. In September the director had given her an ultimatum: lose weight or you can’t progress to the next level. In October she jumped from her bedroom window.
Obtrusive images flash through my head. I am wearing a leotard and tights, lying in a pool of my own blood, my brain spattered across the pavement. I can’t help identifying with Irina. I never fit the Russian mould, did not possess the perfect proportions: the small torso, bendy back and hyper-extended legs that ballet demands. I too struggled to keep the weight off. I too stood in the worst position on the barre, constantly worried about being kicked out. I too had the grim realisation that no matter how hard I worked, I was not bestowed with the God-given talent and ideal body required to become a star. Irina and I were both outcasts, rejects of the system.
-
I am seventeen years old, nearing the end of my year in Russia. Yelena, the nurse with the flabby arms, shuts the door and tells me to strip down to my underwear. I’ve done these weigh-ins at least four times now, but still can’t get over how dehumanising and objectifying the procedure feels. Thank God it’s the last time before summer break. I slide my jeans down and drape them over the chair, pull off my t-shirt and the singlet-strapped sports bra I’ve worn since I was twelve. I don’t own a proper bra. No point with a flat chest and prepubescent-looking nipples.
Yelena directs me over to the height measure. I press my back against the cold metal pole, transferring my weight to the balls of my feet, lifting my heels ever-so-slightly off the floor. Taller girls can weigh more but only up to a certain point: the cut-off is 50kg. Go over and you’ll be ‘too heavy’ for the boys to lift.
‘Put your heels down. Stand properly,’ Yelena snaps, placing a book on my head and reading out my height. 170 centimetres. According to the Russian ballet’s ‘ideal height-weight chart,’ I should weigh 47kg. Fuck that. I did weigh 47 once, but was so underweight I struggled to jump, was chronically cold and suffered cracked skin on my knuckles. A carrot-based diet tinged my skin jaundice-yellow. My healthy weight is 52 but, due to the restrictions, I try to keep myself closer to 49.
I step onto the scales, trying not to breathe, thinking a few milligrams of air might make a difference. The red pointer swings back and forth, hovering dangerously close to the 50 mark. I close my eyes and pray.
‘52 kilos,’ Yelena declares, jotting down the number in her book. ‘You’ve gained weight.’
She looks at my previous entries, then notices my strange surname. ‘Oh. You’re an inostranka.’ A foreigner. ‘Do you understand what I said?’
‘Ya panimayou.’ I snap, irritated. I’ve been here nearly a year now, of course I understand. Yelena puffs up her cheeks and does an impression of a sumo wrestler.
-
Only four hours left until my alarm goes off. I really need to be awake and alert so I can perform well in my classical exam tomorrow, but I’m so fucking hungry I can’t sleep. My stomach is growling and gurgling, a tortured animal trying to eat itself from the inside out. I’ve been lying under itchy blankets for several hours, staring wide-eyed into the darkness, hoping the gnawing pain will fade. Sometimes it does. Then it returns, more excruciating than before. I can’t ignore it any longer.
I creep out of bed, careful not to disturb my roommate, who’s been breathing deeply since lights-out. I don’t know how she does it, passes out at ten-thirty every evening like a clockwork doll. If I could have any superpower, it would be to fall asleep at will. I could spend all my days off sleeping and it would be super economical. I wouldn’t need to eat.
There’s barely any food left in my cupboard. One tin of slimy sardines and a box of dry buckwheat flakes. I consider raiding the communal fridge down the hall, stealing one of the Japanese girl’s yoghurts. But the dorm supervisor has started sleeping on the lounge opposite the kitchen. High risk of getting caught.
I hear my roommate stir. Fuck it. I make a split-second decision, grabbing the box of buckwheat flakes and closing the door gently behind me. According to the back of the box, these flakes are not supposed to be eaten dry, they’re supposed to be cooked in boiling water for at least ten minutes. You add sauce or sugar for flavouring.
My stomach rumbles. I tear open the packaging, shove a handful of buckwheat in my mouth and chew. Kill me now. I’m eating cardboard. I lean my head under the tap, guzzle some water to help wash it down, grab another fistful and keep eating.
When I finally drift to sleep, I dream. I’m standing side of stage at the opera house, preparing for my principal debut in Swan Lake, wearing a revamped white tutu, my face caked with stage make-up, bold black lines accentuating my eyes. Feeling jittery, I tap one foot at a time into the rosin box, covering platforms and soles of my pointe shoes with sticky off-white powder – enough so I won’t slip, but not too much or the friction will impede my turns. I shake my head side-to-side, triple-checking my feathered headpiece is secure. Then a few prances to keep my body warm, and balance on one foot to find my centre.
A black-uniformed member of the stage-crew rushes past to adjust lighting. Dancers ignore him. He’s part of the scenery. Behind me, a dancer who isn’t required until the third act presses against the wall, playing Candy Crush on his smartphone.
I step into the wings, watching 24 swan girls filing onstage with a series of temps levés and jetés, wispy remains of dry ice ghosts swirling around their feet, and it occurs to me that the people watching have no idea what goes into creating the finished product.
The dancer playing Rothbart runs offstage, immediately doubling over, gasping for air. ‘Jesus Christ, this costume is hot,’ he complains. Straightening, he wipes his forehead with the back of his arm, smudging green face paint. He pats my shoulder and wishes me good luck.
Music builds to a crescendo. My entrance is fast approaching. I focus on my breathing, trying to silence the nagging fears looping inside my head. No matter how many times I perform, it never gets any easier. I never stop worrying if I’m skinny enough or talented enough or pretty enough, constantly supressing thoughts of falling over or going blank and forgetting the choreography.
You’ll be fine. You got this. You deserve this. Before I have time to triple-check my ribbons, I hear my cue and burst onto the stage, skimming the floor with dexterous feet.
It’s funny. Before every show I’m a nervous wreck. My heart thumps in my chest, my hands tremble, I feel nauseous. I wonder why I put myself through the pain and anxiety but onstage, my nerves convert to adrenaline, my burdens are lifted – it’s only me, music, lights. I feel alive, present, utterly and blissfully happy.
-
My whole year in Russia has come down to this moment. I am one of 15 girls in matching lilac leotards, huddled in an academic classroom smelling of cheap hairspray and sweaty feet, awaiting results from our final ballet exam. We’ve segregated ourselves into two groups: Russians and foreigners. Them and us. The Russians sit on wooden desks, distracting themselves with summer holiday plans – chatting about what food they’ll eat and which boys they’ll kiss. One girl has a semi-boyfriend back home in Samara. They’ve been sending each other letters all year. When she graduates, she hopes to get a job with the Samara Opera Ballet so they can be together. ‘That’s nice,’ says another girl. ‘I just want a fucking ice-cream.’ What no one mentions is that after the holidays, some of us might not be coming back.
Fumiko and I perch on the dusty windowsills, staring at our feet. I’m too nervous to talk, and our communication is limited. Her Russian is worse than mine. She spends too much time hanging with other Japanese students, speaking Japanese. Not that I blame her. If anyone here spoke Norwegian or English, I’d probably have done the same.
After the longest hour of my life, Galina, our classical teacher, bursts through the door clutching a sheet of paper. Everyone sits up a little straighter. The room goes silent with anticipation, the wall clock ticking. My Australian dance teachers would have taken this moment to remind us ‘how much progress we’ve made this year,’ and ‘how proud I am to be your teacher’. Results would be handed out individually. But Galina doesn’t waste time with politeness or sentimental speeches, simply unfolding the paper and reading marks aloud for the entire class to hear.
‘Sofiya. Three plus.’
I’m shocked. Sofiya is easily the most talented dancer in our class. She transferred from the Vaganova Ballet Academy two years ago – arguably the best ballet school in the world – and stands in the prime position on the barre. Surely there’s been a mistake? The highest mark is five, nearly impossible to achieve. If she can only get a three plus, there’s really no hope for the rest of us. Apparently I’m not the only one who thinks so. Several of my classmates exchange worried glances. ‘We deducted a mark because you are tolstii’, our teacher explains. I feel a surge of anger. Sofiya isn’t fat. Maybe she could lose three kilos. But that’s it. Any more and she would start to look sick.
Two girls receive a two. Their faces crumble. A two means they have failed and will not be invited to return next year. My heart goes out to them. They have grown up in the ballet world, given up their childhoods, only to be discarded at the tender age of sixteen. Like me, they’ve probably never had time to cultivate any interests outside of dance. I wonder what will become of them, how they will adjust. What would I do, if I had to quit, I wonder. I honestly have no clue. Aside from dancing, my only pleasure is curling up on my windowsill and getting lost in a fantasy novel or writing random passages in my diary.
‘Anna. Three plus. You’ve made huge progress this year.’ Anna claps her hands over her mouth and begins crying with sheer relief, her bony shoulders shuddering up and down.
‘Helena.’ I stop breathing. Galina’s eyes wander the room until she finds me. ‘Three.’ No further explanation.
I let out my breath in bitter disappointment. Sure, I passed, but so did most of our class. I wanted a four. Three is mediocre, a score they give to dancers destined for a career in the corps de ballet, condemned to spend their lives holding the line with other mediocre dancers, never given a chance to shine or the opportunity to sink their teeth into a juicy role. I dig my fingernails into my thighs, wishing I could restart my life. I didn’t move away from my family, take private lessons in secret, practice by myself for hours each evening, just to be fucking mediocre.
-
Last day of term and Galina cancels class because it’s 30 degrees; too hot to dance, apparently. I wonder how these Russians would cope in Queensland summers, with beads of condensation rolling down the mirrors, and leotards sticking to skin like honey. Sweat dripping off noses and fingertips, creating puddles on the linoleum. I wonder whether I’d still cope now I’ve acclimatised to the long winters, the five months of frigid temperatures and blustering winds, frost clinging to my skin.
My classmates cheer and begin chatting excitedly, making plans that involve picnics, sunbaking, friends. I linger in the dirty concrete stairwell, trying to make awkward eye contact, hoping someone might take pity and invite me. Nobody does. A heavy feeling in my chest, I trudge upstairs to the dorms, put on my maroon dress, lather my pale skin in greasy SPF 50 and head out for a lonely stroll.
In the park there are people everywhere, as though the whole city has emerged from hibernation and everyone is trying to claim a patch of green grass before it disappears again, buried beneath thick mounds of hardpacked snow. Young mothers pushing prams. Teens in denim jeans and leather jackets drinking wine from bottles wrapped in damp paper bags. Old babas with scrunched-up skin and perceptive eyes, like they’ve seen all the bad and good there is to see in this world.
An old dear stops me, commenting on my graceful posture. Asks if I’m a ballerina.
I’m so grateful for the attention I grin manically. ‘I’m a ballet student!’
‘Oh!’ Her eyes widen with appreciation. ‘I took my niece to see Swan Lake. It was prekrasna.’ Beautiful. She squeezes my hand. ‘Maybe I’ll see you performing as Odette in Swan Lake someday.’
‘Maybe,’ I say, stomach sinking. I don’t have the heart to tell her that if I ever dance Swan Lake, it will probably be in the back row.
She wishes me good luck and I wave goodbye, continue walking through the grassy park, past stalls selling ice-cream and flowers, down to the concrete embankment. I find a bench and sit down, trying to conjure a vision of my future in the rippling grey river.
I always wanted to study ballet in Russia. It’s been my dream ever since I was ten years old and discovered Russian ballet on YouTube. I would hog the family computer for hours on end watching Osipova with her impossibly high leaps, Vishneva with her fierce fouettés, Lopatkina with her serene control and think, my god, I would give anything to look like that. Somehow, I started believing Russian ballet schools were like conveyor belts, churning out a constant supply of world-class dancers. I naively believed that if I trained there, if I breathed the same air and followed the same routine as Osipova and Vishneva and Lopatkina, then I too could become a celebrated ballerina. But Russian ballet schools are not conveyor belts. They’re more like The Hunger Games. Survival of the thinnest. After a year of suffering, I still look in the mirror and hate what I see.
Sometimes I wonder if I even like dancing anymore, or if I’m just persisting because it’s the only thing I know. When was the last time pulling on a pair of satin pointe shoes brought me a glimmer of joy? When was the last time I looked at a plate of food without counting the calories? I can’t keep killing myself just because eight-year-old me decided she wanted to be a prepubescent fairy princess for the rest of her life. But finding a new passion seems exhausting, impossible even. I wouldn’t even know where to start. Besides, maybe you only get one dream in this life. Just one chance at true happiness. Maybe if I walk away from ballet, I’ll be condemned to spend the rest of my life in an endless purgatory of soul-sucking office jobs and the regret will eat me alive. It would be easier if an injury took me out, made the decision for me, or if I didn’t exist in the first place.
I get up off the bench and wander closer to the lapping edge of the river, imaging what it would be like to drown. Someone on BuzzFeed once said it burns like hot lava. I wonder how they know, and whether they’re just being dramatic. Could it be worse than doing a diagonal of hops on a broken toenail? Or when Galina makes us do allegro for the seventh time even though our lungs are on fire? This is what I’ll be returning to in September. How long can I continue to live like this?
Fuck it, I think, spinning around. I deserve an ice-cream. ▼
Image: Kazuo Ota - Unsplash
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