There was always a rosin box in one corner of the dance studios I took classes in as a child. Ballet dancers rely on white, powdery rosin on their shoes to keep from slipping and sliding on the floor. Getting the amount right amount is part of the art. Too much is too sticky and causes your turns to be catch and spin too slowly. Too little and you’re in danger of spinning out of control or of sliding and falling. This is particularly needed if the floors have been recently washed or if you’re dancing on a stage in a new location that has a polish or sheen on it.
What could be less romantic and more prosaic than rosin? And yet it is as essential to a ballet dancer’s life as salt in cooking. I loved the first dusting of rosin on a new pair of satiny pointe shoes, the feel of the white powder on the pads of my fingers when I touched it and rubbed by fingers together.
I heard a tale, perhaps an urban myth, about a wealthy patron of the ballet whose final request was that his ashes be placed in the company rosin box so that the dancers could dance with him on their feet. As the legend goes, his wish was honored but no dancers went near the box. It seemed that no one wanted human remains on their shoes.
I can understand why the dancers avoided the rosin box. Besides the revulsion of the idea of human ashes on one’s feet there is the grossness factor of a donor trying to exert his bizarre preferences over ballet dancers with money. This is nothing new – there are donors who ask for the soiled clothing that dancers have worn, photos of their feet, a date with a particular dancer – the list goes on and on.
And yet. I understand the impulse the mythical donor had to want to be part of the dancing. To be the rosin on a dancer’s toes is to be part of the magic. Not just part of the dance but part of the facilitating of the beauty that is ballet.
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