I dream that I am dancing in an audition. I lift my knee in passé, extend and unfold my leg so my foot reaches upwards into développé, and my pointed toe arcs high above my head. I jump and cross my legs quickly in an entrechat and my legs cross high and clean so there is no ankle banging. I do a series of pique turns, rolling through my turning foot soundlessly between each one.
There is a watching judge, or a panel of them, and they whisper to one another, nodding their heads in approval. I know that I am winning because other dancers’ legs are lower, some are falling off pointe, some have messy, unclosed fifth positions, or chests that are heaving from exertion.
You might think that fantasies belong only to nighttime dreams. But when I was dancing, I had these dreams while I was awake. I could see my toe in a side extension, for example, at about shoulder height. But also see the phantom développé that is the invisible marker of where the perfect développé should be. The one aimed for would be one that is more like one o’clock (with your standing leg at twelve). And less like two or three o’clock.
I would use the perfect images of ballet ideals as the benchmarks to hit while dancing. But sometimes the image I wanted to surpass was one created by other dancers. If you look closely, when watching dance students, there is one or two dancers that everyone is watching at any given time. These are the special ones, the teacher’s favorites, the ones who may have a chance of making it into a professional ballet company.
I always strove to be the best dancer in whatever domain I was in. If I was the best dancer in any given class, however, I knew this wasn’t the school or training program I should be in. I wanted to be in the lowest third — not the rock bottom worst one, where I could be cut, but in a group that kept the pressure on me to improve. Maximal improvement is what I sought and “improving” rather than having to rehabilitate an injury or hitting a plateau is where I wanted to be.
Now that I’m no longer in dance training, it’s not always easy to see how I’m doing. To know that I am improving rather than plateauing or degenerating, to know that I am winning. In ballet, at least in terms of technique, it’s very clear. Everyone watching can see whose extension reaches highest. Everyone can see who is straight and strong and who is wobbling. Everyone calculate the space between your body and the floor in jumps. All victories are public. So are all failures.
When you are the best dancer, you know it and so does everyone else who knows what to look for. Victory is undeniable, unquestionable, and it means that there is a world in which you can be loved and admired for your achievement. You don’t have to be friends with anyone, you don’t have to be nice (being nice can be a distraction). In fact, you don’t have to remember anyone’s birthday or ask about their families.
You don’t have to do these things because when you are the best, virtues are ascribed to you automatically. It is assumed that you are exceptionally gifted from birth, that you have employed the best training strategy, and that you have worked the hardest. Nothing else matters.