Seen on Manhattan streets: walking the walk
I saw her walking ahead of me on a sidewalk in New York, and I knew immediately.
She had the long hair, slicked back into a slightly damp ponytail. The large soft bag, slung over the shoulder. The small stature and the narrow slimness. The straight spine and the long, erect neck. The impression that a plumb line had been dropped from the middle of the top of her head straight down through her torso and solar plexus, from which her body was somehow regally and calmly suspended.
And underneath it all, the feet. Larger than one might think for the underpinnings of this otherwise diminutive person, with toes facing outwards. Her feet would have made her walk seem awkward and ducklike were it not for the style and grace of the rest of her stride.
No doubt about it: she was a dancer. Ballet dancer, most likely. New York is highly populated with them. I know the contents of her large shoulder bag, too: sopping wet leotards and tights, several pairs of shoes, lambs’ wool and tape and bunion pads, a towel to wipe off the sweat, hairpins galore, and an assortment of plastic and woolen leg and body warmers to induce even more sweat and the loss of the last few ounces of fat that might still cling to that pared-down body.
Maybe a yogurt. A bottle of water. Some lettuce leaves in a small plastic container.
And an iron will, a soaring ambition, a denial of the odds, and a love of the thing itself: the sheer pleasure of forcing the body into attempting mastery of something very difficult, very beautiful, and very satisfying.
All you need is a plot and your first book can be a novel.
You can tell a dancer’s posture, even if she hasn’t acquired the waddle. What would happen if she worked, too, against the waddle?
Saw a female singer recently in a long gown. It was cut somewhat off the floor in front, to allow walking without stepping on the hem, I suppose.
Her step involved putting, for example, the left foot ahead of and four to six inches to the right of the right foot, but pointing slightly left.
It was a perfect stride for a slow version of “Scarborough Fair” In addition to singing, she had to learn to walk funny–so to speak–in a fashion that made it both graceful and natural. There’s a lot to showbiz.
Now, suppose a ballerina could take some modified version of that for walking down the street….
BTW. That was on Youtube. Look for “Celtic Woman” videos.
A very dear friend of mine was (still is, in her heart and soul) a ballet dancer, before tendonitis of the hip forced her early retirement (at the ripe “old” age of 19). Your description of the woman you saw, fits my friend to a “T”. She is lovely, and I wish that I had been fortunate enough to have been in her circle of friends back then, who were able to see her dance.
Beautiful post, Neo. I don’t say that often given my being dense concerning art.
Next time you come to NYC, drop me a line – I’d love to invite you to lunch or dinner to discuss all thing neo-neoconservative.
Great tutorial.B