After The Rehearsal of the Ballet Onstage by Edgar Degas
No one pays attention
to you anymore
when you paint backstage standing
in the dark wings
or sketch from the orchestra stalls.
I see you
in the shadows
defining a silhouette
as I try to follow your brushstrokes,
my canvas comes to life,
—you laugh at my hesitant steps.
With eyes closed,
you know where
a cabriole would land,
capture
the arc of a pirouette,
the play of light over fingers
tying grosgrain lace,
the trembling of a tutu
held inside your palm,
its white tulle flowing in mid-air
—an eerie parachute.
You sense the stiffness
of a dancer’s shoulders
stretching on the wooden floor
as she rearranges
the black velvet ribbon
at the nape of her neck,
another, arms crossed
behind her back
—sighs deeply.
Some press their toes down
to ensure the grip of the shoe.
In the backdrop,
emerging in chiaroscuro,
faces & busts
lean against
giant cardboard ferns
—tired butterflies at dusk.
With the tip of your brush,
you slow their heartbeat
till the conductor’s wand
signals the movement,
steps espouse
the musical phrase.
Your gaze lingers
over the vivid colors
on your palette as though
the ballerinas on stage were
a simulacra
—an echo of your own vision
At night, you follow them
on their way home,
each humming a tune, hurrying
on the slippery pavement
under Parisian drizzle, awkward
on leather bottines--swans on dry land
carrying satin shoes on their backs
—like spare wings.
You enter their dream
pas de deux, de quatre . . .
their legs scissor
back and forth
. . . notes climb ladders formed
by the lines of a score,
crowding spaces
in counterpoint,
hopping en pointe,
on one foot
—like winged ants.
__
From Under Brushstrokes (Press 53 2015). First published by Pirene's Fountain
Metropolitan Museum 1 -2-3-4-5-6
Read the Museums | Read the Art | Read the Contributors | Contributor Bios