ann on "one simple joy."

Some of my most memorable moments of joy have occurred when I’ve been standing still in the dark in complete silence. The first time I can remember this feeling was in December 1989, the last was in May 2006. These moments all occurred backstage in a theater right before a live ballet performance began. There. Is. Nothing. Like. It. For me, anyway.

I have always loved everything about that time, whether it’s been as a performer (1989) or as a publicist escorting a photographer shooting the performance from the wings (2006). Fifteen minutes prior to the performance there is so much activity – the swishing sound of dancers walking around half in costume/half in massive puffy warm-up pants and down booties, child performers excitedly coming up from their dressing rooms and picking up props, the sounds of the orchestra tuning, ballet masters onstage giving last minute notes, the thud (sorry, guys) of male dancers working out those BIG jumps onstage, and stagehands and electricians shooting the shit and heading to their posts by the pulleys.

This is all very exciting, but for me it’s the ten seconds right before the curtain goes up that blows my face off and makes me feel really alive. The reason for this is that everything stops. It gets very dark, no one really moves, and all you can feel is adrenaline from absolutely everyone. The orchestra starts, but you can’t really hear it because (in most cases) the curtain is still down so it’s coming through the speakers and sounds grainy and kind of terrible and canned. And then the curtain goes up and all at once it’s bright lights in your eyes, there’s gorgeous loud live music swelling in front of you, and between 700 and 2000 people are in the room and there’s this feeling of, “Whoa. Ok. I guess we’re really doing this thing.” Joy!

--Ann of Runaway Shopgirl (who I cannot wait to dance in the streets of Boston with in less than one week!)