“You are a big fan of Misha's, aren't you?” Alexis Kostalas had asked me. I must have muttered some sort of affirmative answer, blushing due to two reasons: first, I was being addressed in the politeness form, which meant I was approaching the world of the grownups (a dreadful realization). Secondly, no matter how much I wished, out of embarrassment, that the earth would open up and suck me in, at the same time, I also wanted to correct my famous interlocutor: I am not simply a big fan of Misha's – I am in love with him.
Back to back, another assault:
“Do you take dance classes?”
Another cause to be upset:
“No.”
Normally, I would have wanted to explain to the man whose voice I have associated with the Herodeon (Odeon of Herodes Atticus) and with ERT (Greek National Television) and with whatever ballet documentary I have ever seen, that although I do not “take dance classes,” still my heart beats both for the world of dance and for Misha. But I let our one-on-one exchange transpire and my father continue the conversation.
I was in seventh grade and had fallen in love with Mikhail Baryshnikov. My dad, in the advertising business, had contacts in all media. So, in an effort to open up a crack of hope in his daughter's aching heart (besides renting again and again “White Nights” from the neighborhood video club), he had come up with the idea, during one of his visits to ERT, to ask Alexis Kostalas (with whom, of course, he was acquainted) whether the star dancer was scheduled to visit Greece in the foreseeable future. Unfortunately no, American Ballet Theatre (where the defected-to-the-West former Soviet star was at his zenith) was not in the Athens Festival program – at least not for the upcoming year. So, when, during our routine Friday evening strolling in downtown Athens, we bumped into Mr Kostalas (on Voukourestiou Street, I believe), naturally, the conversation turned to Misha.
Double bummer: not only was Baryshnikov not going to come close to us (me), but it was also as if I were being called out by the person closest to ballet in all of Greece—exposing my lack of business whatsoever in trying to approach Misha, since I didn't even belong to the world of dance.
But now, Mr Kostalas, have I got news for you: I am finally able to answer YES to your question. At the age of fifty, I have taken up ballet.
As for you, Dear Misha, I am in the position to speak to you directly:
To begin with, you might care to know that we've already crossed paths – I sneaked into your world through another route. The first show I directed in NYC as soon as I got out of Columbia's MFA was at the Baryshnikov Arts Center: Anna Forsythe's Opus D'Amour, a new play about the avant-garde Russian composer Aleksandr Scriabin. Don't tell me you missed it!? Okay, I forgive you – you may own the venue, but I understand that you might not be able to see every single thing that is performed there. And last summer, I happened to visit Riga, your birthplace, and you slipped right through my fingers: you were scheduled to come there with a production of yours a couple of days after my departure. By the way, I may not have ended up marrying you, after all, but you might want to know that I didn't land very far off: I married a Russian with equally blue eyes. Okay, maybe he doesn't sport your bangs, nor does he do eleven pirouettes in a row, but he's got two PhDs (and he's one head taller than you).
In case you're wondering why on earth I started ballet now, well, there are several reasons: first of all, it's never too late (look at you, for example: all these decades in America, and yet you never fully got rid of your accent); secondly, isn't 50 such a splendidly round number to start something you've been craving for years?
The virtual audition
In an early manifestation of casting skills, at my nine-year-old self's virtual audition, I had rejected me as a ballerina: I was always the tallest girl (or among the tallest) in my class, and while for my whole life I had always been something between normal and slim weight-wise, I was never the skinny stick that every respectable ballerina ought to be.
My poor parents, seeing my desires clearly spelled out and my inclinations distinctly manifested in piano, theatre and foreign languages, had made sure I took extracurricular classes from an early age in all of the above fields. Since I never courageously asked to take up ballet, how would they know? Pull it out of thin air?
In any event, I never started ballet during my school years. Only once I got to sit in on a class at the neighborhood gymnastics school (as a convenient, closest alternative), where I got pitifully disappointed and the thing ended there. The feel, sound and smell of the place and of the whole experience were the complete opposite of what, in my perception, the world of ballet was all about: a bunch of hyperactive kids were screaming, jumping and running around frantically as if possessed; the instructor was yelling and whistling, in a chaotic space strewn with mattresses and random gym machines – a far cry from the minimalistic, crystalline, harmonious ballet world I had in mind from documentaries, magazines and books, a world embodying discipline and focus, with a piano as the sole underscoring and consisting only of wood and mirrors.
The gateway of imagination
It was precisely the marvelous book “Introduction to Ballet” that I chose – as opposed to the repulsive gym odor – in order to penetrate into your world, Dear Misha. My art-loving mom had, of course, also bought me the other three volumes (Music, Painting and Theatre) of the exquisite series, all of which I adored and knew by heart. Isn't imagination too a way of introduction – perhaps the most fundamental one – to everything? If you can't imagine it, how are you going to materialize it? (Even our instructor at the ballet-for-adult-beginners program, forty years later, referenced Einstein's famous quote, about imagination being more important than knowledge.) Basic ballet slippers, I had; a leotard, I had; a tape-recorder, I had; imagination, I had; therefore, I was able to do ballet on my own in my bedroom in Ambelokipi, our downtown Athens neighborhood! Even you, I had, Dear Misha – you were, of course, featured in my precious guidebook's pages.
Suspended above Third Avenue
So, if you care to know, our “Intro to Ballet” class is a safe, judgement-free zone. I may have failed to get a callback (by my self) at the fourth-grade virtual audition due to my looks before even trying, but at the Upper East Side ballet school's adult program, my classmates are the mix one would expect from 2025 NYC: aged 18-88, all body types, races and genders, we are religiously unified several times a week in order to sweat while perfecting our arabesques and grand pliés. Suspended above Third Avenue, we can't believe that, yes, we, the absolute beginners, are crossing on our artless relevés the room that brings to mind “Fame” (or the Kirov, for your eyes only), while the pianist is underscoring our raw développés with highlights from the classics or with strokes from the Great American Songbook like “Stormy Weather.” We shoot into heavens – though ever so briefly, since Lara, our Cerberus instructor, restores us abruptly from daydreaming onto our hardwood parquet (and to our piqués), if she suspects that, floating toward the pink reflections of the sun setting beyond Central Park, we have messed up our en dehors and our en dedans.
My favorite classmates are the Japanese Yuki and the Indonesian Elina, because they were very supportive to me on the day of my first class ever, but I gaze most of all at Heather, because she reminds me of the heroine in the comic series “The Diary of the Ballerina” (in the Greek '80s teenage magazine Manina, I think). Carrie Bradshaw's ear-to-ear smile in the “Sex & the City” opening credits pales against the expression on my face every time I survive yet another class and walk – or rather stagger, as if drunk – in the hilly little cross streets of Carnegie Hill. Beyond the understandable terror of exposure, I feel as if the ridicule is even greater for me in particular, since I'm convinced that everybody is looking at me messing up and is saying, for me in particular: “Look at her, she has directed a whole musical about ballet and with ballet scenes (MANIFESTO: The Diaghilev Project, about Sergei Diaghilev, founder of Ballets Russes) but she herself is completely incompetent—she can't even execute a decent pas-de-cheval.”
10 months and 50 classes later, and having turned 51 in the meantime, I'm still alive. I hope in the next school year I'll make less mistakes. And, who knows, some day I might move up to the next level.
Now that there is absolutely no chance I might become a ballerina, I can do all the ballet my heart desires, Dear Misha.
Xxx
N.
PS Oh, and as far as cost goes, it may sound hard to believe, yet in the capital of capitalism, once in a while the sun also shines onto the less privileged. While the government is sucking our blood, draining even the last drop of social welfare (since it believes that America will be great and awesome again if all public health funds are cut), there are a few out there who are still doing their part so that not all of us go completely nuts: private entities offer mental health grants that we, struggling artists, can use freely towards a physical activity of our choosing. The minute I got the life-saving grant, I enrolled in ballet!
This essay first appeared in Greek in the TA NEA newspaper (online) on October 6, 2025.
It was reproduced by HellasJournal.com.
Το κείμενο αυτό πρωτοδημοσιεύτηκε στην εφημερίδα TA NEA (ηλεκτρονική έκδοση) στις 6 Οκτωβρίου 2025.
Αναδημοσιεύτηκε από το HellasJournal.com.
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