It is Love

The grand, burgundy drapes waver slowly, like ribbons of seaweed swaying gently in the passing currents. Little women in black read the tickets and guide the audience to their places, swimming through the crowds of chattering people. The theater is hushed and dark, as if underwater. Above, the domed ceiling is alight and blue, a magnificent recreation of classical architecture. My grandfather reads his program, glasses resting on the tip of his nose. Years ago my parents urged me to go to the ballets with my grandfather, though I was reluctant at that time. 

"You will like Balanchine, he is my favorite choreographer," says my grandfather, as he struggles to read the fine print, "I have seen his work many times."

He looks down at me from behind his glasses and smiles. I imagine ballet brings him back to Russia, back to the Imperial Bolshoi Theatre with the curtain that is a work of art itself, back to his natural element, like a bleeding salmon caught on the deadly hook, thrown back to the healing waters. And I know that is why he comes here. He smiles and his eyes become young and deep. And that is why I come here. Because I know that he loves to share the precious memories of his life with me. The theater, an aquarium of the past, protects us from the waves of time, vain and vulgar, roaring outside the glass.  

I think that at some moment during one of my many outings to the ballet, I understood why older generations detested pop-culture. There was just a sliver of a moment when I realized the quiet and gentle beauty of ballet. When I stopped trying to find entertainment or amusement, and surrendered all expectations. When I let the soft waves of movement wash over my soul and pull at the strings of my heart. I believe that is when I understood my grandfather's love for classical art. It is wild and bold, though never lustful. It is poignant and sweet, and never overdone or sour. There is something true and real in the crimson blossom of dance. It is not the thirsty, explosive, instant gratification entertainment of television or pop songs. It is love.  

This is why I come here with my grandfather, not to become the cultured lady that he has hoped I would be, but to remember. To appreciate a sweet and simple time, and to preserve old traditions in a New World.    

The yellow glow lulls to dark anticipation. The orchestra, tentatively, delicately comes to life. My grandfather closes his eyes and releases his grip on the program. The music sways and in a tense second the curtains swish open. A beam of light shines down through the proscenium, capturing the particles drifting in the air. The music soars and the ocean billows, alive and bright. My grandfather opens his eyes. The ballerinas glitter reflections in his glasses like little white lanterns. We sink back and absorb the scenic tides, letting them swell in our hearts. This is why I come here. It is love.