Gods and goddesses

“He is the grandson of one of Cuba’s most famous ballet dancers, the whole family does ballet, but he is having problems today. I am expecting a tantrum from him at any minute.”

The eyes of everyone in our small group moved past the iron-spined teacher in teal to the young dancer behind her, who showed no reaction to words nor gazes. “Does he not speak English, or is he just that poised, in mind and body?” we wondered.

Whatever the case, when the music started it was clear: we were no longer looking at a teenager both spoiled and bearing a crushing pressure, we were looking at an Afro-Cuban god of war, and his partner was no longer a beautiful Cuban girl, she was the matching sylvan goddess of love.

He was talented, she was stunning, immaculate.

As I mentioned in my other ballet post, I don’t have much experience with ballet, but I’m pretty sure it’s not normally like this. The technical elements of movement and physical prowess were there, yes, but so was an overriding sensuality and ripe humanity that I don’t associate with the stiff-faced dancers of broad cultural lore.

The goddess entreated him forward with cupped hands, which then lifted and slid down the curves of her body, over chest ribs hips, while his movements seemed designed to pursue, catch, possess their goal.

But the power clearly belonged to her. She pulled him forward, then pushed him aside, or set him to wait. He was on his knees, stretched on the ground, then lifting her high overhead, and always the sheer balance and grace of control was hers.

In the end she stood over him, calmly victorious, and we all remembered to breathe.

The teacher, guide of both the dance and the personalities, came forward, eyebrows sharp, something terribly falcon-like in her merciless eyes. She stood in front of him, dominating him from her shorter stature, and held up first one finger, then two, explaining in minute detail what he needed to improve.

So they did it again. Another round of enticing, approaching, diverting and controlling. Another series of movements painfully precise, carefully controlled and deliberately designed. Her feet on point, a feat I am starting to comprehend, and their spines so supple I suspect cartilage (if not rubber) has replaced bone.

It was just as hard to breathe the second time.

We applauded. Heartily. The raptor teacher turned to us “Thank you for that applause, it will help him. He has a performance on Saturday, and thinks he cannot do it. But I will not let him run away.” He stood behind her, spoiled, talented, dedicated, under intense pressure, and in precisely the right place, on this unique island of art and passion.

Cubans are magical

Did you know Cubans can fly? I knew about the salsa dancing and the talking fast, but the flying, that surprised me.

I didn't think much of the ballet during my first three decades of life. Didn't think about it at all, in fact. It was an archetype assigned to a gender not my own, a cliché for generic jewelry boxes and little sisters' Halloween costumes, nothing of interest to me.

Then I met a real-life ballerina. Instead of mincing around talking like Glinda from the Wizard of Oz, she showed me the practice and persistence required to get the foot to tap at just the right place at just the right time, and somehow a dance that had been prancing, became art.

So I walked into Prodanza, one of the schools in Cuba’s world-renowned ballet tradition, with cautious optimism that I might see something cool. That was when the teenagers started flying. The first was a boy built from rebar and hickory, sailing through warm air soaked with sweat and dedication. After he eventually consented to gravity, the other boy followed his flight path, leaving a twin con trail through the room’s stratosphere.

Four girls followed, their legs unhooked like snakes’ jaws, so that their knees tended to float around at ear level. They spun in impossible circles, arched in implausible directions, and their faces reflected a devotion and poise beyond their years.

And it was only warm-ups.