One little dancer, one big impression

I just found out that one of my dearest friends from my ballet days, Hiromi, is retiring from the dance world this summer. If memory serves, she'll be 29 (or is it 30?). When I got her note, I couldn't help uttering a little gasp of sadness: This marks the end of an era for Hiromi, an incredibly bittersweet moment -- one in which the door closes on an old world of ritual and certainty, and another opens onto a life of possibility but also the unknown.

In Hiromi's case, she tells me, that door will open to what she hopes will be a life of less physical pain (like all dancers, she's had her share), and to one of completeness: She will finally get to live in the same city as her longtime boyfriend (now fiance), and be married. A new life indeed.

Hiromi was always one of my favorite dancers to watch, and of all my classmates, she inspired the most admiration, because she had to work that much harder than the rest of us. All us bunheads struggled daily with the same things, trying to attain the seemingly unattainable: physical perfection, artistic excellence. But although Hiromi was blessed with brilliant technique and a gift for musical interpretation, she was also the shortest among us. Ballet dancers are in general petite creatures, but even so, Hiromi tended to stand out for not standing quite as tall as her peers.

What she lacked in height, however, she more than made up for with her dazzling jumps, turns and phrasing, and her infectious sparkle from the stage.

I went to San Francisco Ballet a year ahead of Hiromi. At S.F.B. there was a Russian teacher -- let's call her X. -- who was known for being exacting, which was not unusual, but also exceedingly cruel (as in, more so than your average ballet taskmistress). It was not unusual for dancers to be found in the hallways after her classes, wiping away tears. In fact, of all the things whittling away at my confidence at that stage of my life, having to endure classes with X. was at the top of the list.

But Hiromi didn't seem to have that problem. X. loved her, whether Hiromi was aware of it or not. X. latched onto her and drove her, worked her as hard as she did everyone else, yet Hiromi was not deterred. She thrived under the relentless criticizing and coaching, and, of course, was rewarded. For our spring workshop, X. bestowed a rare honor, casting Hiromi as the lead in "Diana and Acteon." The ballet is a showcase for spectacular dancing, and requires absolute virtuosity. I know I couldn't have pulled it off the year Hiromi performed it, but X. knew Hiromi could. I distinctly remember watching a rehearsal once, peering in the door as Hiromi practiced a sequence of jumps and turns over and over. X. kept yelling, smacking her hands together and barking orders: More! Higher! Sharper! More! Hiromi, I'm sure, was a little too busy dancing to see the look on X.'s face. But I watched. And although X.'s voice was loud and harsh, she had this twinkle in her eye, a hint of a smile, a look of excitement. As Hiromi made it to the corner and stopped, breathing hard, X. looked toward the door where I stood, made eye contact and winked. She knew I knew: She was extremely proud.

Hiromi ended up being "too short" for S.F.B. But she soon found her way to a career at BalletMet in Ohio, where she inspired numerous choreographers and danced principal roles in many of the great classics -- always, it seemed, to rave reviews (I kept up with her through my old pal Google). More recently she left Ohio to join Houston Ballet, prompting Dance Magazine, the dancers' bible, to write an article: "Hiromi Ushino: Trading Big Roles for a Bigger Company." Obviously I'm far from the only one Hiromi left an impression on.

So yes, I'm sad to hear that Hiromi's career is ending, but I'm excited for her new beginnings. More than ten years after I hung up my pointe shoes in -- I'll admit it -- defeat, she will finally get to give her body the rest it has earned. She can start sleeping in and eating dinner at a regular hour (unless she goes into the news business). :) If she doesn't want to, she'll never have to put on a leotard and tights again. She can try out crazy new activities without having to worry about how they'll affect her body the next day. And she'll retire knowing that she got to spend a solid couple of decades pursuing a passion that most regular humans will never understand.

The dancer's life can be a thankless life -- a tough job on the fringe, and a low-paying one at that. But Hiromi can rest easy in the fact that she has had a great career, and on her own terms. She has succeeded at something that many, many people once told her that, because of her size, she would never get to do. And in refusing to give up, she has brought joy to thousands of people who have both had the pleasure of working with her and watched her light up a stage.

In her bio on the Houston Ballet Web site, she describes a defining moment: "When I first asked myself how I could contribute to this world through dance, I realized that it's to show the true essence of art, which transcends all that is purely physical. It is more than what the naked eye can see…it’s a mind and a heart that encompasses a love that gives."

Hiromi has poured her mind and her heart into her art, and those who have watched her are richer for it. So it's the least I can do to pay modest tribute to her here. Hiromi, congratulations. And thank you, my friend.

Comments

[ashok]

That's a beautiful tribute. I wish I knew more about dance to be able to more fully appreciate what you have written.