Years ago, when I was in my teens, I wanted to be a ballet dancer.
I took jazz and modern dance in elementary school and I was good at it. Really good, and I loved it. I found ballet late when I was 15, but excelled quickly. A couple of years later at the Boston School of Ballet, a series of nasty shin splints and a pair of mobile patellas (bad knees) ended any hopes I had of being a professional. I was devastated.
I was instantly struck by how at home I felt even though so many years had passed. (And no, I’m not going to say how many years). Watching the dancers prepare, I remembered how it felt to wrap the ribbons of my toe shoes, one, two, three times around my ankle and then tie it off, making sure to tuck the ends into the wrap so that nothing was hanging. I remembered the rush I’d feel when class would begin and the pianist began to play. I remembered the joy of dancing, feeling the music, crushing the choreography. There was nothing better. Nothing.
We were there to photograph the dancers, which was no easy feat when you’re dodging 8 other photographers, dim lighting, fast-moving subjects and a wall full of mirrors. I looked around trying to figure out how to tackle the space and not get in the way of the other photographers, the dancers or the teachers.
Then I saw her.
Standing at the barre, glowing from the light that was streaming in through a nearby window, stood dancer Mercy Piedra.
Yep, got it.
~Taken while an invited guest of the Santa Fe Photographic Workshops’: Seeing Cuba: Discovering the Culture and People of Cuba: Words and sentiment are my own.
To see more pics and read about my adventure in Cuba