“Wow, Ava.” Mrs. Anderson put her pen down on her notebook and rose. “I think we’re done. Anymore and everyone will spend the rest of their lives crying.”
I widened my eyes. “Oh, I didn’t want to make anyone sad.”
“It can’t be helped. Your story makes my heart ache. You’re an inspiration. I’m sure others will ache for you too.”
“I’m fine.”
“You sure will be.” Mrs. Anderson walked over to me. “Thank you so much, Ava. You were raw, real, and completely forthcoming.” She gave me a hug. “I am a super fan and have followed you from the very beginning. Trust me. From the very beginning.”
Shocked, I whispered, “Thank you.”
“No, Ava. Thank you.” She hugged me tighter and then let go. “I’ll let you know, when the article comes up. And believe me, I will be in that audience this evening, rooting you on.”
Her support came as a surprise, but I didn’t question it. I thanked Mrs. Anderson and watched her walk away.
Okay. Almost done. Everything will be fine.
The interview had gone well, the photoshoot was another matter. I’d never been the model type. While I felt comfortable on the stage, being directly in front of a camera was another matter.
I can do this. Suck it up. I’ve been dreaming about this forever. Enjoy it.
After I’d changed out of my dress, I put on my ballerina outfit and a few of the company ballerinas joined me. I wore the costume from La Bayadère’s Second Act.
The play’s name meant The Temple Dancer. And my character Nikiya was a lovely temple dancer, who fell in love with a warrior named Solor. Unfortunately, Solor was engaged to their king’s daughter. Even worse, during the betrothal, Nikiya would be forced to dance for the new couple.
For the photo shoot I had on the costume that Nikiya would wear to dance for her lover and his future wife. The stunning outfit displayed most exquisite oriental traditions. It had several layers and was all made of chiffon. The bodice was short-cut. The almost see-through skirt hung on my hips. The bodice, as well as the belt of the wide trousers, was made of semi-stretched fabric. And every part was richly embroidered with gold braid, appliques, sequins, crystals, beads, rhinestones, and gold fringe.
Universally hailed, La Bayadère included some of the most celebrated pieces in all classical ballet. Set in the Royal India of long ago, it was a challenging masterpiece staged in four acts. French choreographer, Marius Petipa came up with the movements which rode the music of Ludwig Minkus.
The ballet was overwhelming in its scale; the “Shades” scene alone required thirty-two dancers, three virtuoso females, and two male soloist dancers. There was a Festival of Fire scene, where people worshiped in a temple along a large cast of characters—maidens, fakirs, and dervishes. In act two, a lavish wedding scene included twelve couples dancing with fans, twelve twirling with parrots, as well as Indians and temple maidens.
Toward the middle of the ballet, the King’s daughter was a bitch. She sent a basket of flowers to Nikiya. A deadly snake slithered within the flowers and bit Nikiya.
Our temple dancer died.
Meanwhile, Solor still had to marry the king’s daughter.
But at the wedding, Solor envisioned Nikiya’s ghost. When it was time to speak his vows, he said them to the vision of Nikiya. It made everyone so sad, and it also infuriated the gods. They destroyed the palace, killing everyone.
Solor and Nikiya came together in spirit among a starlit mountain.
In death and eternal love, they were reunited.
Inspired by the story, I sank into Nikiya, drawing on her hot passion for Solar. Every now and then, Misha’s face came to mind, heating me up even more.
But once the photographer showed up, I lost my feel of Nikiya and turned into a giddy fangirl.
I can’t believe these photos will be in a magazine read all over the world.
Vogue Paris’s photographers wanted action shots—images of me leaping in the air, flying, legs pointed and spread apart. Twirls three feet high above the ground.
Two hours later, perspiration covered my body in layers. Hot and sticky. Slow-dripping down my spine. Getting frizzy, my hair was soaked, but still somewhat remained in the bun atop my head.
For several minutes, we did the impossible, holding arabesques. Bodies supported on one of our legs, while the other legs extended directly behind our bodies with straight knees. Over and over, I executed assembles—one foot sliding along the floor before jumping into the air.
By the third hour, my feet ached in my pointe shoes.
Breathe and get over your complaints.
Conditioned for this type of exertion, I powered through the photo shoot. Cameras flashed. I arched my back, kept my stomach in, and formed what I hoped to be an effortless arabesque. The ballerinas behind me mirrored the pose.
“Excellent!” The photographer whistled. “So beautiful. All of you.”