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448 pages, Paperback
First published December 7, 2021

I'd never actually say it, but the part I love most about being a choreographer is pushing the dancers to their limits. Being the one with power for once.
Only dancers really know what it's like to lift, to float, to grind through the infinite combinations of the same positions, day after day, underneath the ticking, appraising eyes of a choreographer or ballet mistress or artistic director.
Every time i work, I watch their pink satin feet and I know. Underneath those shoes, the flesh is exposed, has been rubbed down into multilayered wounds.
Beneath the glossy pink tights, they ache to the marrow of their bones.
Below the crowns and the tutus and the perfection, they're all just quivering messes.
And it's all for me.
Until, of course, they step onto the stage—becoming my agents, my brushstrokes, my tools. Then it's all for the audience. It's all for you.
"Don't they realize," I'd hissed to Margaux during a curtain call after a particularly grisly performance of Swan Lake fifteen years ago, "that we're all covered in the most disgusting sores under our shoes?"
She'd plastered her pink grin wide, grabbing my hand as the curtain went up, exposing us once more.
"Of course they know," she said between her teeth. "That's why they like to watch."
And that was what I liked. To hide the suffering with my own brand of perfection.
A ballerina is a perfect woman. Thin. Beautiful. Invisibly strong.
There are no evolutionary reasons we should look the way we do. If what you want is a good procreator, look anywhere but a ballet company, where you're unlikely to find a period that comes more regularly than one month out of three. What you want is someone round, with wide hips and pendulous breasts; someone ready to take a few months of war or famine in stride and still guarantee the future of the human race. Arms ready to plow a field, knead some bread, comfort a child. Good peasant stock.
Yet somehow, delicate and breakable, we have become the height of feminine perfection.
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