Ballet Shoes Quotes

And even this heart of mine has something artificial. The dancers have sewn it into a bag of pink satin, pink satin slightly faded, like their dancing shoes.

And in a small house five miles away was a man who held my mud-encrusted charm bracelet out to his wife. Look what I found at the old industrial park," he said. "A construction guy said they were bulldozing the whole lot. They're afraid of sink holes like that one that swallowed the cars." His wife poured him some water from the sink as he fingered the tiny bike and the ballet shoe, the flower basket and the thimble. He held out the muddy bracelet as she set down his glass. This little girl's grown up by now," she said. Almost. Not quite. I wish you all a long and happy life.

It might have all the same; you never can tell what's magic.

Sometimes in life confusion tends to arise and only dialogue of dance seems to make sense.

Dance less in motion and more in spirit; awaken the dreamer within.

There is no doubt a new dress is a help under all circumstances.

Caution not spirit, let it roam wild; for in that natural state dance embraces divine frequency.

If movements were a spark every dancer would desire to light up in flames.

Dance as the narration of a magical story; that recites on lips, illuminates imaginations and embraces the most sacred depths of souls.

If spirit is the seed, dance is the water of its evolution.

Dance is the timeless interpretation of life.

Show me a person who found love in his life and did not celebrate it with a dance.

If you opened the dictionary and searched for the meaning of a Goddess, you would find the reflection of a dancing lady.

Don't breathe to survive; dance and feel alive.

Life is an affair of mystery; shared with companions of music, dance and poetry.

Music does not need language of words for it has movements of dance to do its translation.

Dance to inspire, dance to freedom, life is about experiences so dance and let yourself become free.

Through synergy of intellect, artistry and grace came into existence the blessing of a dancer.

DANCE – Defeat All Negativity (via) Creative Expression.

It was all very well to be ambitious, but ambition should not kill the nice qualities in you.

Soar like an eagle beyond skies of heavens reach; as wings of dreams dance with winds of reality.

Dance resides within us all. Some find it when joy conquers sorrow, others express it through celebration of movements; and then there are those... whose existence is dance,

She who is a dancer can only sway the silk of her hair like the summer breeze.

Dearest creature in creation, Study English pronunciation. I will teach you in my verse Sounds like corpse, corps, horse, and worse. I will keep you, Suzy, busy, Make your head with heat grow dizzy. Tear in eye, your dress will tear. So shall I! Oh hear my prayer. Just compare heart, beard, and heard, Dies and diet, lord and word, Sword and sward, retain and Britain. (Mind the latter, how it’s written.) Now I surely will not plague you With such words as plaque and ague. But be careful how you speak: Say break and steak, but bleak and streak; Cloven, oven, how and low, Script, receipt, show, poem, and toe. Hear me say, devoid of trickery, Daughter, laughter, and Terpsichore, Typhoid, measles, topsails, aisles, Exiles, similes, and reviles; Scholar, vicar, and cigar, Solar, mica, war and far; One, anemone, Balmoral, Kitchen, lichen, laundry, laurel; Gertrude, German, wind and mind, Scene, Melpomene, mankind. Billet does not rhyme with ballet, Bouquet, wallet, mallet, chalet. Blood and flood are not like food, Nor is mould like should and would. Viscous, viscount, load and broad, Toward, to forward, to reward. And your pronunciation’s OK When you correctly say croquet, Rounded, wounded, grieve and sieve, Friend and fiend, alive and live. Ivy, privy, famous; clamour And enamour rhyme with hammer. River, rival, tomb, bomb, comb, Doll and roll and some and home. Stranger does not rhyme with anger, Neither does devour with clangour. Souls but foul, haunt but aunt, Font, front, wont, want, grand, and grant, Shoes, goes, does. Now first say finger, And then singer, ginger, linger, Real, zeal, mauve, gauze, gouge and gauge, Marriage, foliage, mirage, and age. Query does not rhyme with very, Nor does fury sound like bury. Dost, lost, post and doth, cloth, loth. Job, nob, bosom, transom, oath. Though the differences seem little, We say actual but victual. Refer does not rhyme with deafer. Foeffer does, and zephyr, heifer. Mint, pint, senate and sedate; Dull, bull, and George ate late. Scenic, Arabic, Pacific, Science, conscience, scientific. Liberty, library, heave and heaven, Rachel, ache, moustache, eleven. We say hallowed, but allowed, People, leopard, towed, but vowed. Mark the differences, moreover, Between mover, cover, clover; Leeches, breeches, wise, precise, Chalice, but police and lice; Camel, constable, unstable, Principle, disciple, label. Petal, panel, and canal, Wait, surprise, plait, promise, pal. Worm and storm, chaise, chaos, chair, Senator, spectator, mayor. Tour, but our and succour, four. Gas, alas, and Arkansas. Sea, idea, Korea, area, Psalm, Maria, but malaria. Youth, south, southern, cleanse and clean. Doctrine, turpentine, marine. Compare alien with Italian, Dandelion and battalion. Sally with ally, yea, ye, Eye, I, ay, aye, whey, and key. Say aver, but ever, fever, Neither, leisure, skein, deceiver. Heron, granary, canary. Crevice and device and aerie. Face, but preface, not efface. Phlegm, phlegmatic, ass, glass, bass. Large, but target, gin, give, verging, Ought, out, joust and scour, scourging. Ear, but earn and wear and tear Do not rhyme with here but ere. Seven is right, but so is even, Hyphen, roughen, nephew Stephen, Monkey, donkey, Turk and jerk, Ask, grasp, wasp, and cork and work. Pronunciation (think of Psyche!) Is a paling stout and spikey? Won’t it make you lose your wits, Writing groats and saying grits? It’s a dark abyss or tunnel: Strewn with stones, stowed, solace, gunwale, Islington and Isle of Wight, Housewife, verdict and indict. Finally, which rhymes with enough, Though, through, plough, or dough, or cough? Hiccough has the sound of cup. My advice is to give up!!!

When the melody plays, footsteps move, heart sings and spirit begin to dance.

Dance is the ritual of immortality.

One step, two steps, three steps; like winds of time experience joy of centuries, when movements become revelations of the dance of destinies.

Burdened no more is soul for whom life flows through dance and not breath.

Dance is that delicacy of life radiating every particle of our existence with happiness.

Transcend the terrestrial; surpass the celestial, from nature’s hands when you receive the sublime pleasures of dance.

I watch the beautiful performance with an ache in my chest. Then, just when I can’t stand the sadness anymore, a dancer floats out from the side of the stage. A dancer in ragged clothes, filthy and half starved. He’s not even in ballet shoes. He’s just barefoot as he glides out to take his place in the dance. The other dancers turn to him, and it’s clear that he is one of them. One of the lost ones. By the look on their faces, they weren’t expecting him. This is not part of the practiced show. He must have seen them onstage and joined in. Amazingly, the dance continues without a missed beat. The newcomer simply glides into place, and the final dancer who should have danced solo with her missing partner dances with the newcomer. It is full of joy, and the ballerina actually laughs. Her voice is clear and high, and it lifts us all.

World seems like a void of silence every time footsteps are deprived of dancing shoes.

When a dancer performs, melody transforms into a carriage, expressions turn into fuel and spirit experiences a journey to a world where passion attains fulfillment.

Ballet was full of dark fairy tales, and how a dancer prepared her pointe shoes was a ritual as mysterious and private as how she might pleasure herself. It was often indistinguishable.

Miss Dearheart gave him a very brief look, and shook her head. There was movement under the table, a small fleshy kind of noise and the drunk suddenly bent forward, colour draining from his face. Probably only he and Moist heard Miss Dearheart purr: ‘What is sticking in your foot is a Mitzy “Pretty Lucretia” four-inch heel, the most dangerous footwear in the world. Considered as pounds per square inch, it’s like being trodden on by a very pointy elephant. Now, I know what you’re thinking: you’re thinking, “Could she press it all the way through to the floor?” And, you know, I’m not sure about that myself. The sole of your boot might give me a bit of trouble, but nothing else will. But that’s not the worrying part. The worrying part is that I was forced practically at knifepoint to take ballet lessons as a child, which means I can kick like a mule; you are sitting in front of me; and I have another shoe . Good, I can see you have worked that out. I’m going to withdraw the heel now.’ There was a small ‘pop’ from under the table. With great care the man stood up, turned and, without a backward glance, lurched unsteadily away. ‘Can I bother you?’ said Moist. Miss Dearheart nodded, and he sat down, with his legs crossed. ‘He was only a drunk,’ he ventured. ‘Yes, men say that sort of thing,’ said Miss Dearheart.

Dignity is trained into royal children before they can toddle, graciousness, consideration for others, an unshakable belief in the greatness of their position.

Burdened no more is soul for whom life flows through dance like breath.

Make dance the mission every moment seeks to accomplish.

Spirit is a child, the tune of dancing feet its lullaby.

Ballet shoes... I cannot play with them like they're toys. But when the music is playing they get deep on my toes.

Classic Ballet, Keep away, keep building your creaky fairy castles, keep cloning clones and meaningless manners, hang on to your beanstalk ballerinas and their midget male shadows, run yourself out of business with your tons of froufrou and costly clattery toe shoes that ruin all chances for illusions of lightness, keep on crowding the minds of blind balletomanes who prefer dainty poses to the eloquent strength of momentum, who have forgotten or never known the manings of gesture, who would nod their noses to barefoot embargos ("so grab me" spelt backwards). Continue to repolish your stiff technique and to ignore a public that hungers for something other than a bag of tricks and the empty-headedness of surface patterns. Just keep it up, keep imitating yourself, and, , go grow your own dance makers. Come on, don't keep trying to filter modern ones through your so-safe extablishment. We're to be seen undiluted, undistorted, not absorbed by your hollow world like blood into a sponge. Yours truly, A Different Leaf on Our Family Tree

Look at me, Regina.” She glanced up at him, appearing tiny. He stood almost a foot taller than her in his boots while she wore flats, which looked like ballet shoes. His palms heated and his heartbeat raced. Her scent that had teased him from afar now tormented him up close. God, he wanted to wrap himself in that scent, bury himself deep inside her.

Limit not to only five, when the divine gifts the supreme sixth; the sense of dance

I’m terrible at being one of those moms who can sit in the bleachers or dance studios and make forced small talk with parents who all seem to know (and secretly hate) each other and who never seem to show up in pajamas or mismatched shoes. I’m continually saying something awkward and inappropriate, like “I thought this was just for fun” or “No, actually I don’t think that toddler is too fat for ballet.

For her, being an American was loathing America, but loving America was something he could not let go of any more than he could let go of loving his father and his mother, any more than he could have let go of his decency. How could she "hate" this country when she had no conception of this country? How could a child of his be so blind as to revile the "rotten system" that had given her own family every opportunity to succeed? To revile her "capitalist" parents as though their wealth were the product of anything other than the unstinting industry of three generations. The men of three generations, including even himself, slogging through the slime and stink of a tannery. The family that started out in a tannery, at one with, side by side with, the lowest of the low - now to her "capitalist dogs." There wasn't much difference and she knew it, between hating America and hating them. He loved the America she hated and blamed for everything that was imperfect in life and wanted violently to overturn, he loved the "bourgeois values" she hated and ridiculed and wanted to subvert, he loved the mother she hated and had all but murdered by doing what she did. Ignorant fucking bitch! The price they had paid! Why shouldn't he tear up this Rita Cohen letter? They were back! The sadistic mischief-makers with their bottomless talent for antagonism who had extorted from him the Audrey Hepburn scrapbook, the stuttering diary, and the ballet shoes, these delinquent young brutes calling themselves "revolutionaries" who had so viciously played with his hopes five years back had decided the time had again rolled around to laugh at Swede Levov.

Up rose the scent of green-apple shampoo. Of river stones once the flood has gone. The taste of winter sky laced with sulfur fumes. A kiss beneath a white-hearted tree. A hot still day holding its breath. We removed the contents one by one. There were two blue plastic hair combs. A tough girl's black rubber-band bracelet. A newspaper advertisement for a secretarial school folded in half. A blond braid wrapped in gladwrap. A silver necklace with a half-a-broken-heart pendant. An address, written in a leftward-slanting hand, on a scrap of paper. Ballet shoes wrapped in laces. From the box came the sound of bicycle tires humming on hot pavement. Of bare feet running through crackling grass. Of frantic fingers unstitching an embroidered flower. Of paper wings rising on a sudden wind. Of the lake breathing against the shore. I didn't say anything. I kept very still.

Audience of angels descend in the ambiance reciting praises in your glory, when you wear your dance shoes, when you arrive at the stage and with every step you take beneath your feet heaven moves. That is the power of dance.

Tiring of his questioning, I tell him adamantly that nothing's ever going to happen between Kahn and I. "But you want it to." "It doesn't matter what I want. It's never gonna happen." "Does he know that you wear ballet shoes to bed?" "I do NOT-" He laughed, "That you're GAY-" "Oh. Yeah- he knows THAT." He asks if Kahn is okay with me being gay. "HE LOVES IT." "LOVES THAT YOU'RE GAY?" "YEAH." "Sounds PROMISING." "That's what I thought. But Nadda." "Nadda... YET.

Peter smiled as Concheetah sashayed across the ballroom floor Concheetah sashayed towards him, wriggling her hips, full lips in a pout, followed obediently by the tentative, Tapping Ted dressed in tight shorts and singlet. Tapping? Tapping because he always wore conspicuous, tap-dancing shoes in the club. Was Ted going to rip up the stage as a mincing Irish dancer or maybe perform a Gene Kelly routine or the Swan Lake ballet in taps? It was terrible to imagine. Peter bit his lip at that thought, hoping he wouldn’t burst into howls of laughter. He had noted after coming to several shows, that Ted usually stood at the side of the stage ready with a drink of champagne and an encouraging word and a dry towel to mop Her Highness’s face. And he always cried during the show’s finale, Abba’s Dancing Queen. Poor Tapping Ted.

I can’t bear to wear flats, and it’s not a height thing. The rounded toe of the ballet slipper-style shoes do not appeal to me. Let’s face it, none of us over thirty, forty, fifty and on, are ballerinas. No, girls, Pilates is not ballet. I’ve been told I am built like a ballerina, but I’ve also been told I dance like a stripper. Did you ever ask someone how they thought you dance? You may be in shock, or maybe they will be.

As we were chatting in the back room, her gaze suddenly fell on the ballet flats I was wearing. "Oh, those shoes are from that shop in Omotesando, aren't they? I like that place too. I have some boots from there." In the back room she speaks in a languid drawl, the end of her words slightly drawn out. I bought these flats after checking the brand name of the shoes she wears for work while she was in the toilet. "Oh really? Wait, do you mean those dark blue ones you wore to the shop before? Those were cute!" I answered, copying Sugawara's speech pattern but using a slightly more adult tone.

It was a book that started all the trouble. “Read, read, read! That’s all grown-ups ever say to me,” said Bean, “but when I finally do read, I get in trouble.” She slumped in her chair. “And then the grown-ups take the book away.” Ivy nodded. “It’s totally not fair,” she agreed. “And they shouldn’t blame us anyway. It’s all Grandma’s fault.” Ivy’s grandma had sent her the book. It was called The Royal Book of the Ballet. Each chapter told the story of a different ballet, with pictures of fancy girls in feathery tutus and satin toe shoes. Bean was at Ivy’s house on the day it arrived. They were supposed to be subtracting, but

You did not do my homework assignment for me,” he said, grabbing the collage again and looking it over. “I had insomnia,” I said. “I needed a creative activity.” Marlboro Man looked at me, seemingly unsure of whether to kiss me, thank me…or just tickle me some more. I didn’t give him a chance. Instead I picked up the collage and took Marlboro Man on a tour so he’d be prepared for our appointment. “Here’s a pack of cigarettes,” I said. “Because I used to smoke in college.” “Uh-huh,” he answered. “I knew that.” “And here’s a glass of white wine,” I continued. “Because…I love white wine.” “Yes, I’ve noticed,” Marlboro Man answered. “But…won’t Father Johnson have a problem with that being on there?” “Nah…,” I said. “He’s Episcopalian.” “Got it,” he said. I continued with my collage orientation, pointing out the swatch of my favorite shade of turquoise…the pug…the ballet shoe…the Hershey’s Kiss. He watched and listened intently, prepping himself for Father Johnson’s upcoming grilling. Gradually the earliness of the morning and the cozy warmth of my bedroom got the better of us, and before we knew it we’d sunk into the irresistible softness of my bed, our arms and legs caught in a tangled maze. “I think I love you,” his raspy voice whispered, his lips nearly touching my ear. His arms wrapped even more tightly around my body, swallowing me almost completely.

I jumped then. It seemed I heard a child laugh. My imagination, of course. And then, when I should have known better, I headed for the closet and the high and narrow door at the very back end and the steep and narrow dark stairs. A million times I’d ascended these stairs. A million times in the dark, without a candle, or a flashlight. Up into the dark, eerie, gigantic attic, and only when I was there did I feel around for the place where Chris and I had hidden our candles and matches. Still there. Time did stand still in this place. We’d had several candle holders, all of pewter with small handles to grasp. Holders we’d found in an old trunk along with boxes and boxes of short, stubby, clumsily made candles. We’d always presumed them to be homemade candles, for they had smelled so rank and old when they burned. My breath caught! Oh! It was the same! The paper flowers still dangled down, mobiles to sway in the drafts, and the giant flowers were still on the walls. Only all the colors had faded to indistinct gray—ghost flowers. The sparkling gem centers we’d glued on had loosened, and now only a few daisies had sequins, or gleaming stones, for centers. Carrie’s purple worm was there only now he too was a nothing color. Cory’s epileptic snail didn’t appear a bright, lopsided beach ball now, it was more a tepid, half-rotten squashy orange. The BEWARE signs Chris and I had painted in red were still on the walls, and the swings still dangled down from the attic rafters. Over near the record player was the barre Chris had fashioned, then nailed to the wall so I could practice my ballet positions. Even my outgrown costumes hung limply from nails, dozens of them with matching leotards and worn out pointe shoes, all faded and dusty, rotten smelling. As in an unhappy dream I was committed to, I drifted aimlessly toward the distant schoolroom, with the candelight flickering. Ghosts were unsettled, memories and specters followed me as things began to wake up, yawn and whisper. No, I told myself, it was only the floating panels of my long chiffon wings . . . that was all. The spotted rocking-horse loomed up, scary and threatening, and my hand rose to my throat as I held back a scream. The rusty red wagon seemed to move by unseen hands pushing it, so my eyes took flight to the blackboard where I’d printed my enigmatic farewell message to those who came in the future. How was I to know it would be me? We lived in the attic, Christopher, Cory, Carrie and me— Now there are only three. Behind the small desk that had been Cory’s I scrunched down, and tried to fit my legs under. I wanted to put myself into a deep reverie that would call up Cory’s spirit that would tell me where he lay.

Barringer, Janice, and Sarah Schlesinger. The Pointe Book: Shoes, Training & Technique . Hightstown, NJ: Princeton Book Company, 1998, 2004.

O wayfarer! Yearn finds quench, not in meadows, seashores or altitude of mountain peaks; but when being becomes dance.

O wayfarer! Yearn finds quench, not in meadows, seashores or altitude of mountain peaks; but when being and dance are one.

The Witch stood on an isthmus connecting two rocky lands, and on either side of her stretch patches of cerulean blue sea, with white-lipped waves of astonishing vigor and particularity. The Witch held in her hands a beast of unrecognizable species, though it was clearly drowned, or nearly drowns. She cradled it in an arm that, without attention to actual skeletal flexibility, lovingly encircled the beast's wet, spiky-furred back. With her other hand she was freeing a breast from her robe, offering suck to the creature. Her expression was hard to read, or had the monk's hand smudged, or age and grime bestowed a sfumato sympathy? She was nearly motherly, with miserable child. Her look was inward, or sad, or something. But her feet didn't match her expression, for they were planted on the narrow strand with prehensile grip, apparent even through the silver-colored shoes, whose coin-of-the-realm brilliance had first caught Boq's eyes. Furthermore, the feet were turned out at ninety-degree angles to the shins. They showed in profile as mirror images, heels clicked together and toes pointing in opposite directions, like a stance in ballet. The gown was a hazy dawn blue.

Sometimes at night I try on her shoes. Her strappy sandals and leather ballet flats. The shoes she never would've let me borrow if she were still alive.

Her face was blank. Her eyes were a shade of blue I hadn’t seen outside psychedelic paintings. Pale and arctic, like a snowflake. I had a feeling she allowed herself to look because she wasn’t used to anyone noticing her. Well, I did. I noticed she was fucking glaring. My eyes asked, Did you get the ballet shoes? Hers answered, Drop dead, asshole.

Mrs Massoud was always crying – for her son who had been taken by government troops in Damascus, and for her daughter, who had been killed by the bombs shortly after. She told Aya that a mother’s fountain of tears flows forever. But tonight there was also music coming from somewhere down the hall – a man’s voice singing a song in a language that Aya didn’t understand. It made her think of the girls in the dance class. The girl called Dotty who had grinned at her like she was just a normal kid. And Ciara, with the blonde hair and the haughty expression, and the mousey-haired girl – Lilli-Ella – who stuck her tongue out when she was concentrating. Aya’s limbs itched as she remembered. Just thinking about it made her want to dance. “Not really enough room for that kind of thing in here, eh, Moos!

I have been waiting for my entire life.” I whispered, letting the words I had tried so hard to run from finally come forth. “Every second, every moment, even if I didn’t know it, I have been yearning for your love. Since I was a gangly teenage misfit and then a hated strange wife, I have been looking to the horizon, trying to see you. I waited for my partner, my opponent, I waited for someone to love me and accept me just as I am. And then I saw you for the first time. Standing in my garden, beautiful and deadly. The creature of nightmares…and dreams. I tried to stay away at first, tried to hate you. Even when you gave me a lab and took me to the ballet, even when you shared your family and life with me. But then…” Tears were spilling down both our cheeks. “You spoke to me in a tree. You didn’t ask me to come down or put shoes on. You didn’t demand me to change or act civilized. Instead, you spoke to me from the ground with such casualness, like you were content to look up at me for the rest of your life.” I pressed my nose to his, breathing him in. “I love you, Konstantin. You are my equal and my soul, my opponent and my heart. There has never been another and there never will be.” I met his eyes, revealing every horrible and beautiful part of myself. “I love you.

Without pain, how do we know we are working hard enough? I said that to Clara once and she laughed at me. She didn’t understand what I meant.

Hark. Isn't that the Professor's voice?" Sylvia harked, and...

Both Madame and Miss Jay said that an author wrote down what he or she wanted said, and no actor, amateur or professional, had a right to alter the words in any way whatsoever.

Bethany draws herself up. The effect is that of a queen. She could be wearing rags and chains around her ankles. Actually, the leotard and ballet shoes serve the same purpose. They don’t diminish her. They only emphasize her inherent dignity. It can’t be touched, not even by two assholes fighting over her.

I acknowledge the lithe body wrapped in leotard and tights, my gaze meandering all the way down to her worn ballet shoes. On the outside they look merely frayed. On the inside, it’s another story. I imagine she’s bruised, maybe bleeding. No doubt there’s tape to hold her feet together. The life of a professional athlete isn’t pretty. Much like that of a professional soldier.

came through my front door with all the finesse of a bull in ballet shoes.

She was made up as if she would be dancing Ballet Folklórico, but the free hair was a game changer. Instead of a tight knot on the crown of her head, her hair cascaded down her back. Who knew she had so much volume? "Gracias, Mamá." Mamá embraced her and then went to the kitchen. Carolina put on her clothes, a modest green dress--- formfitting and flattering. The soft fabric caressed her skin instead of scratching it. Gone were the dirty pants and muddy shoes. She felt beautiful, a feeling she wasn't used to experiencing.

When I hurt, and I hurt often, I raced for the music, the costumes, the ballet shoes on which I could spin and twirl and dance away my troubles. And somewhere in that crimson-colored never-never land where I pirouetted madly, in a wild and crazy effort to exhaust myself into insensibility, I saw that man, shadowy and distant, half-hidden behind towering white columns that rose clear up to a purple sky. In a passionate pas de deux he danced with me, forever apart, no matter how hard I sought to draw nearer and leap into his arms, where I could feel them protective about me, supporting me . . . and with him I’d find, at last, a safe place to live and love.

Giiiirl," Benny said, fanning himself with the appointment book. "I'm as gay as Todrick's ballet shoes and even I have a semi from that." I exhaled a long, deep breath. "Oh, honey, you got a case of the blue tubes right now, don't you?" he asked, looking sympathetic. "If it's any consolation, it's only one more day until that man can be all up in your lady cave.

Charlie in the back office listening to parents bemoan their child’s lack of discipline, the exorbitant cost of pointe shoes, the holiday schedule, Charlie nodding patiently as mothers spoke in hushed tones about their own long-ago ballet aspirations, of the mad fantasy of tutus and rosin, satin and tulle, floodlights and beaming faces, leaping endlessly into a lover’s waiting arms.

If you’re Black or brown, cover them in pancake makeup to match your skin; racially, ballet is an incredibly problematic milieu, and even now, almost no companies make shoes in a “skin tone” that ranges beyond pale pink.

I’m sorry, I didn’t realize they made shoes for emo ballerinas!

A lonely photo sits on the middle shelf, about eye-level with him if he were to gaze over his shoulder. A girl. Young. Long hair tied back in a tight bun on the top of her head. Petite and fit. She wears a skin-tight, pink leotard and ballet shoes with one pointed foot raised high against a beam. Graceful, elegant. Familiar.

When Nina first read Ballet Shoes, as a child, she’d realized her mother was Great-Uncle Matthew.

I never gave up my career as a ballerina. I may have not always been on point, but I still do have a pointe here!!