In 7th grade I kept an oversized scrapbook on the top shelf of my closet, the same place I kept a bag with all of my “important papers” – report cards from every grade, drawings I had made for my mother, my adoption paperwork.
The scrapbook was a gift my brother received for his Bar Mitzvah that I co-opted. The pages a mismatched collection of images and daydreams affixed with Scotch tape. The musings and considerations of a not-quite woman beginning to define herself.
Pictures of Miss Piggy. An interest I borrowed from my cousin Wendy Schechter and her obsession with all things pig. A review of the book, I, Me, Mine by George Harrison – clipped from the Detroit Free Press. An homage to my best friend Nicole, who had recently introduced me to John, Paul, George and Ringo. An attempt to blur the lines between us, like we did with our matching Tretorn sneakers and Bermuda Bags.
But some of it was purely mine. A coin that my mad crush Kenny picked up off of the floor and handed to me, marked “Lucky penny from Kenny.” A newspaper photograph of Mikhail Baryshnikov. All muscle and tights. Breathtaking.
Neither a pig nor a Preppy Handbook has crossed my threshold in more than 30 years. I do still see Kenny on occasion. And while he has been married to the same man for more than 25 years, I still have a crush on him – a source of joy and amusement for us both.
And last Sunday I saw Baryshnikov for the first time – Artist Date 76.
I receive a text from my friend Stephanie on Friday, asking if I have $50 and want to see Baryshnikov. Oddly, I hesitate. It will mean missing dance class. Irony. I mention this to my friend Pam, who responds, “Are you crazy?” She has a point. This is an icon. A legend. Sarah Jessica Parker’s boyfriend on Sex and the City.
I text back with a definitive “Yes.”
Intellectually I understand this is once again NOT an Artist Date as I am not venturing alone. (I am, however, getting better at breaking the rules.)
But it does fill the criteria of filling my creative coffers. And, perhaps more significant, it reminds me of the juicy, sexy, charmed life I lead. The one I am beginning to reclaim – and by that I mean once again notice – now that there is little distraction in the boy department.
But this evening I am distracted. I Google Baryshnikov. He is 66. And stands 5’6.”
Does he still dance, I wonder, recalling the email I received earlier in the week from Hubbard Street Dance. The subject line “Guess Who Dropped In?” with a photograph of him smiling, observing rehearsals.
I have no idea.
In fact, I don’t actually know where I am going or exactly what I am seeing – I didn’t ask – just that I am going and that I will see him.
And I do. And he does…dance, that is. Just not as I imagined.
His slippers traded for jazz shoes, his tights for pleated trousers. His dance, a part of the story but not the story. The story. Two actually. Adapted from the writings of Anton Chekhov and performed as Man in a Case at the Museum of Contemporary Art.
He glides across the floor softly, alone – his arms holding the lover in his mind, in his heart. Jazz on the radio, his guests dozing after dinner. It feels spontaneous – but of course isn’t – like my mother and I swing dancing on the kitchen linoleum.
My heart leaps.
So convincing in his roles, I have forgotten who he is.
But now I remember, and his every movement is a dance. The gesture of his hand. The roll of his hips. His torso leaning forward and back, flirting but never touching. Sexy.
When it is over, I join the throngs from my fifth row seat, rising in applause. My eyes wet. Looking to him as if I might catch his glance when the lights go up.
I do not.
I do not tell Stephanie about it — my folly, my fantasy — either. Or about my scrapbook. Baryshnikov, the pigs or the penny.
I hold them to myself instead – the lines un-blurred. Mine alone, still.