The Heart of the City That Once Was

I was once a girl like that. I danced, got dressed up, and posed for photos, convinced of my great talent and charm. I performed on makeshift stages. In socks which out of necessity doubled as ballet shoes. I dreamed of being a ballerina, but there was no ballet school in my town. Nor was there a theatre. There was, however, a dance school. It did not have a room with mirrors and a barre, but it did have the floor of the sports hall adjacent to the local primary school. A basketball court by day, it transformed into a Viennese ballroom by night. It was good enough for me. As it was for them, I’m sure. 

I remember that it was all a great improvisation – dresses sewn by my mum and our neighbours from chiffon and taffeta they managed to obtain from here or there. Ripped off from old wedding dresses and ball gowns. It was all good as long as it had a tulle slip and spun beautifully. Precious sequins and rhinestones – resewn from one dress to another until they were bent completely out of shape or faded and lost their spark. Jute hards, brushed and dyed in the bathroom sink, imitating hair to add volume to our measly pigtails done up into elaborate Hairstyles. Elements of set design made of cardstock and crepe paper (sometimes with a bicycle or a radio receiver peeking from the back, too). Dressing up, borrowing clothes, dolling up, poncing around. Anything to shine. To be watched. To be admired. After all, we were dancers. 

But above all, it was about the JOY of dancing. The thrill coming as the music started, again, and again, and again. Curious and patient testing of our own bodies – the muscle memory, the resilience of the joints, the readiness of the skin to experience closeness and touch from other bodies, bodies which would start to feel familiar when they were dancing by our side. Conquering more and more ground within the body. Conquering the space which would then give way and open itself up. To movement. To my movement. To my arms and legs, and ruffles, and moving hair. Messing up steps. Spinning, spinning a lot. Until I got dizzy. Bows, applause, happiness. Accomplishment.  

I never became a ballerina and danced in Swan Lake, but I did fulfil my dream of putting on pointe shoes. Already as an adult, way past my thirtieth birthday, I found my own room with mirrors and a barre, and I learnt, one by one, to do arabesque, passé, and relevé. I would wonder who it was I saw in the mirror. Was it the same girl from the past looking at me? After all these years, she still had muscular calves and a posture as upright as a stake – people always ask where she got them from. There is also the ponytail – she still ties her hair up high to have it out of the way when dancing. Her body has grown and learnt what it is capable of – it has birthed and reared a child, survived several illnesses, injuries, and surgeries, it climbed many mountains and sailed many seas. However, it still felt the same thrill when I stood on the stage and heard the music start. It still reckoned itself the body of a dancer – strong, proud, beautiful, charming. A body to be admired. And be amazed by. 

In our digital repository, the object can be viewed in the highest quality.

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Supported by Norway and EEA Grants from Iceland, Liechtenstein and Norway and the national budget #EEAGrants #Funduszenorweskie #EOG #EEANorwayGrants