When I was a child, one of the many things that I loved about ballet class was standing in place at the barre. Each student stood a respectful distance away from one another, occupying their own panel of mirror. The barre was so smooth and solid under my fingers. It supported my full weight – I could lean into it and it remained solid. I could throw one leg up onto it and it assisted me in a stretch. As I grew stronger, I learned to hold onto the barre lightly, then to just put a couple of finger-tips upon it, there for reassurance if I faltered, but not for hanging onto.
I understood that the barre was there as a prop and assistant but not as something that would appear on stage with me. The barre was a security blanket; the mirrors a tool that would also be dispensed with in performance. At the final level, the performance level, I would be barreless, and mirrorless, lights in my eyes, facing the dimly lit faces of eager, hopeful audience members waiting to be entertained.
When I started taking private lessons, with Dolores Kehr in the living room of her apartment, I was surprised that she wanted me to “do a barre without the barre.” Perhaps she didn’t have one, I thought, looking around for a chair or back of a couch to lean on.
“I don’t want you to use a barre,” Mrs. Kehr explained. “I want you to get stronger.”
I descended into my first-ever grand plié without holding onto anything at all and it was quite a wobbly affair. I lost my turnout, my knees wavered, and I was unable to get down into the full knee-bend and up again – my legs were not strong enough.
“You see?” Mrs. Kehr said. “You are not yet strong. But this practice will make you strong.”
Mrs. Kehr was right. Learning to do grand pliés without a barre made me stronger in mind and balance as well as in my leg muscles. Later, when I did this with the narrower soles beneath me of pointe shoes, the exercise was even more difficult. Beyond grand pliés, doing the barre without a barre forced me to find my center over my standing leg and for that leg to remain strong enough to hold its place while my working let did its work, through tendus, frappés, rond de jambes, développés, battements.
For a long time, I believed that strength was about learning to stand on one’s own in center, alone and unsupported, with all eyes on me and nothing and no-one to catch me if I fell. Now when my husband gives me a ride to the airport, helps me with groceries, and provides emotional and moral support when I need to do something difficult, I worry that it’s a kind of cheating. I worry that relying on him in these little ways is a sign of immaturity – an adult person who is still using a pacifier.
And then I remember that life is not ballet. Acknowledging this has been the source of sadness for me, but it has also opened up a new way for me to live. Now I feel not only strong in my ability to stand alone and untethered, but strong in my courage to allow others to love me by providing assistance and support. I have learned to see this not as a failure or as a weakness but as a gift, both for me and for them. Even so, I still try not to hang on my loved ones. That much I still keep from ballet.
Copyright © Aili Whalen 2025. All rights reserved.
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