From Being a Ballerina: The Rib-Cracking Episode
By Gavin Larsen
My inspiration for The Rib-Cracking Episode, a chapter in Being a Ballerina: The Power and Perfection of a Dancing Life, came from my friend and fellow dance writer, Martha Ullman West. Martha and I had an ongoing email conversation as I was working on my book in which I shared with her my progress, blockages, and ideas, and frequently asked for guidance. Often, our messages rambled delightfully into anecdotes and memories that were, for me at least, comforting moments of respite from the pressures of the present. When I recounted this particular tale to Martha, she replied with a quip that I needed to expand upon the “rib-cracking episode.”
I realized then that my memories of the incident had the right blend of technical detail, internal dialogue, and physical and emotional repercussion to bring a reader right into the feeling of being a dancer — which was one of my aims in writing this book. It was fun to put myself back into that rehearsal with Patrick, reliving an otherwise routine hour that captured the ordinary extraordinariness of a dancer’s life. While every person in my book is real, I changed many names or used descriptive monikers. Patrick, however, is and was Patrick. I felt his large personality would want to own his role in my book.
The Rib-Cracking Episode
I was lucky enough to sustain only two fractures during my career, but oddly, both were to my ribs.
Patrick had very large hands and a very, very strong grip. With one hand positioned on my rib cage, the other on my thigh in arabesque, he bent his knees into a deep plié, inhaled, and delivered me to the height of the lift. I braced my stomach muscles so I would stay sturdy, pressed down with my leg so I wouldn’t flop out of position and, barely breathing, pointed my bottom foot (now off the floor and easy to forget about) as hard as I could, as if to distract myself from the pressure on the rest of my body. It worked perfectly. Holding me aloft, directly over his head and with completely straight arms, Patrick took the choreographed four or five steps diagonally across the floor as the music hit its crescendo, and I gazed intently at the high corner of the studio, waiting to be gently lowered to the floor at the end of the phrase.
Being lifted overhead is really cool. Even though it’s the man doing the lifting, when the two of you are coordinated and your takeoff is timed right, the woman feels as though she’s propelled herself up there. Like a perfect balance, if the dancers have worked out their positions and grips just so, a lift can be, mostly, easeful and strain-free. The lifter has got to be strong, yes, but also has to know, not approximately but precisely, where his partner’s center of balance is. He has to “listen” through his hands for the split-second timing of her push. And she, in turn, can’t rush into it before she can tell he’s ready.
Once she’s successfully aloft, both dancers feel powerful. He’s the pedestal, sturdy and valiant, and she’s the icon, proud and free. Until, and unless, communication breaks down.
This time, that is just what happened. My signals went unnoticed or ignored. I was waiting to be brought back to earth on time with the music, but Patrick was happy. He was proud of having nailed the lift and didn’t want to end it when he was supposed to. Perhaps he wanted to show off a bit. He kept me up there — I knew we were late, and being held in arabesque with two hands pressing like kickstands into my ribs and leg is not comfortable. I fought to keep my position strong, though I wanted desperately to feel the floor beneath my feet. But moving at all would compromise the safety of both of us.
Patrick held his grip and tightened it with his fingers as he finally, slowly — too slowly, unnecessarily so — brought me down. As he released his hands from my ribs, something felt funny. I didn’t hear a crack, but I felt it, sort of. A muscle spasm? There was a feeling of tightness, suddenly, in my side.
Rehearsal was over. I walked downstairs to the dressing room, gingerly peeled off my dance clothes, and stepped into a pair of sweatpants for my short drive home. Carrying my dance bag in both arms like a sack of groceries instead of hanging it on my shoulder, I went out to the parking lot, opened my car door, and gasped as I hinged at the waist to get into the driver’s seat. Shooting pain stabbed me in the side.
Patrick had fractured my rib with his bare hands.
An excerpt from Being a Ballerina: The Power and Perfection of a Dancing Life by Gavin Larsen. Gainesville: University Press of Florida, 2021. Reprinted with permission of the University Press of Florida.
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