Keeping the "Nuts" in Nutcracker

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Porcelain dancers, in icy white tulle, chaînés from scarlet wings under a downpour of snow, swirling across the stage as the Tchaikovsky crescendos climb.  A trill of the harp, a pregnant pause, a crash of cymbals. 

An expletive?

If you're one of the millions of Americans who venture to the ballet each December to see little Clara (or Marie, depending on the version) slip into the land of sweets with her pearly prince, you might think you know the Nutcracker.

 

(Students at the Westside Ballet in Santa Monica rehearse The Nutcracker.)



You don't.

Each December, in a magical land of dancing candy, professional ballet companies cast off their high-art airs and fall into orbit with American pop-culture consumerism for runs of the holiday classic.  It's an alternate reality of "profit" and "ticket sales"--foreign concepts to companies slogging through the recession--that burns fast and bright in the Christmas frenzy: This year, New York City Ballet is packing 47 performances into a five-week season.  San Francisco Ballet is putting on 30 shows in four weeks.  

But what's good for profit in the ballet world (let's call it performance density) is hard on the body and mind.  And for the women who fill the ranks of snowflakes and flowers, something has to give for the sake of sanity.

Courtney Elizabeth, a dancer at San Francisco Ballet, says corps "special days" help keep the peace.

"My personal favorite," Elizabeth says, "is the ultra secret and spontaneous 'F--- You Snow' during which you let those pearly whites loose and cheerfully tell everyone onstage with you, 'F--- you!'"

"For a tamer coping strategy," she says, "I add a different adjective in front of my party scene characters every day and try to act that way for those performances: the maid becomes the sinister maid, the fastidious maid, the somber maid, the senile maid, etc." 

"Add some ice, the hot tub, warm backstage booties and a fair amount of chocolate, and I'll stay relatively sane."

For other dancers, staying healthy means staying away from that cold-blooded Marzipan.  "As far as rituals go," says Alison Basford, a corps member with Boston Ballet, "knowing when to keep your space from other people... The theater can be really small."   

And drinking, that timeless tranquilizer, is also an option.  Megan Fairchild, a principal with New York City Ballet, fondly remembers the time a Cavalier (who will go unnamed) had a few too many pre-performance drinks with artistic director Peter Martins.

"When the Second Act arrived, he had a goofy smile on his face, and Marie was so weirded out" Fairchild says.  "He didn't tell her he was drunk until after the show."

Sometimes, even when it's not a "special night," but the 25th goddamn run-through of the same choreography you've been doing since you were 12, and you already heard the Waltz of the Flowers music when you were at the grocery store buying grapefruits this morning, and company class was useless, and the costume ladies looked at you like were fat during your fitting, and your family is at some fireside across the country celebrating Christmas without you, and your toes are bloody and your stress fracture is aching, life throws you its own little coping mechanism.

Heather Aagard, a former Joffrey corps member and new addition to Ballet San Jose, remembers the time the power went out in the middle of a show.  "I was Clara, sitting on the throne with Drosselmeyer, when suddenly the lights all went out, the music stopped, and the audience and dancers gasped," Aagard says. "The dancers scattered offstage as quickly as they could, though Drosselmeyer and I stayed put on the throne. Just as suddenly, the lights returned, leaving me and Dr. D. alone onstage, our eyes as big as saucers."

Then there was the time Andrew Veyette, now a principal dancer with New York City Ballet, was still a student at Westside Ballet in Santa Monica, Calif., and the Cavalier's dog escaped his dressing room to terrorize the Dewdrop on stage.   

The stories go on: a fallen angel; a denuded flower; a chinese dancer stuck in her box; a snowflake hooked to the wings by her spiky crown. 

And yet, for all the disasters, all the sleepy matinees and makeup remover, it's many a dancer will admit that--deep down--a love of Nutcracker abides. 

"I'm one of those weird dancers that actually likes Nutcracker," says Benjamin Griffiths, a soloist at Pacific Northwest Ballet.  "The corps boys at PNB used to go all out decorating their dressing room to make it more homey during the Nutcracker run.  We used to put up lights and tinsel, and Josh [Spell] would bring in area rugs and throw pillows and we would steal a couch and end table from the green room."

"We tried to bring all the comfort and holiday spirit of home," Griffiths says.

Ah, yes.  In the tiny world of the theater, where nightly performances mush into decade-long memories of Nutcracker, it's the little comforts that count: a crisp new pair of tights, a warm cappuccino from the basement vending machine; a flammable holiday ornament hung playfully close to the incandescent bulbs that flank your dressing-room mirror. 

At Westside Ballet in Santa Monica, where the Nutcracker is just becoming tradition for a new crop of students, 14-year-old Madelyn Shaughnessy echoes Griffiths' sentimentality. 

"It's so magical," Shaughnessy says.  "My favorite part is the ending, with all the confetti coming down, and we're all together.  It describes what the holidays are all about."

As does an occasional expletive. 

 

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 Students rehearse The Nutcracker at the Westside Ballet in Santa Monica, CA:

 

Profile: Tyler Hester

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On a Saturday afternoon in early September, 26-year-old English teacher Tyler Hester finds himself in a familiar situation: building castles in the sky in outbuilding No. 2 at Blair International Baccalaureate Magnet School.  The room is ordered, with tall windows stretching to a high ceiling--the kind of space that invites a wandering gaze.  But Hester fixates on a single item low to the ground, almost as a point of meditation: the long and vacant gray bookshelf skirting his Pasadena classroom.


L.A. Metro

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Metro is a Los Angeles club ultimate team with a roster of 27 players. Sixteen are men, 11 are women.  At one of their last practices before heading to Florida for nationals, players Franklin Rho and Michelle Anderson talk about the challenges of playing a "mixed" sport.

                                                    

Eliza Rickman

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Eliza Rickman was a chance encounter at the South Pasadena Farmers' Market.  She's the kind of person you could meet in a dream: a mash-up of Eliza Doolittle, Mary Poppins and that hipster friend you lost touch with a few years back.  Then again, she makes a lot of sense for an apparition.  Here's the slideshow that came from our quick chat:         

Living Local in Corvallis, Oregon

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Among the dozen women and men gathered at Kelly Madison's South Pasadena house on Wednesday night, two feelings seemed to compete for dominance: anger, welling from personal health care horror stories, and hope, that old familiar friend from the campaign days.

"They're always trying to create this conflict!" Madison exclaimed as she rifled through the television channels in search of President Barack Obama's health care address, dissatisfied with the event coverage on FOX and CNN.  

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The group of mostly women positioned around the living room on chairs and sofas unanimously concurred, affirming one another in the spirit of a daytime talk show or book club gathering.

"It's like the first party I had as a freshman, and the needle on the record player broke," Madison riffed as she struggled with the remote control, finally settling on Keith Olbermann and Rachel Maddow of MSNBC.

Despite the spontaneous vibe, the group was in fact a collection of mostly strangers, a capacity crowd assembled to support Obama's health care agenda at one of many area Organizing for America events.

Many, like self-employed web designer and entrepreneur Kate Dee, came with a quiet fury toward a health insurance system that has failed them.

Dee is a quick study in contradiction: slender and muscular, quiet but brimming with passion, somber and blonde.  She was diagnosed in February with cervical cancer after a visit to a low-income clinic turned up a bad pap smear. 

Her hysterectomy, which cost $67,000, was covered under Medicaid, but any follow-up represents an out-of-pocket cost to wring from a tight budget.  

"I tried to go buy health insurance on the open market and found that any cancer that I'd get from now on in is a pre-existing condition," she said, eyes welling with tears, "So what do I buy health care for?"

She waits for the result of her most recent test, praying for a clear result and fearing additional medical bills.

"I've explored going to work for Trader Joe's.  I'm a web designer.  I designed the first Yellow Pages site.  I designed the first website for Fox Television.  My gifts are in web design, but I should go work checkout at Trader Joe's just for health coverage?"

She smiled.

"It's a lovely place to buy groceries, I'm just not sure it's driving our economy the way it should."

Kadijah Moss, a pediatric nurse and long-time grassroots activist for Obama, brought her husband and three young girls to the event. 

Moss, who says she has paid into health insurance for 16 years, was dropped from her family plan when doctors discovered she had fibroids. 

Her provider, Health Net, found she had failed to report a visit to a doctor made during her teenage years.  The omission was considered to be a lie on her health insurance application.

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Moss, who said she feels secure financially, is less concerned with her personal story than with the way the media is covering the health care debate.

"We've had hundreds of rallies in the past month here in L.A. alone and you don't see any of them on TV.  None of them are being publicized." 

Nonetheless, she is optimistic that health care reform will happen on Obama's watch.

"It's been a slow progression to this," she said, looking around at the women and men packed into Madison's bungalow, trading stories and sharing refreshments.

Madison, the event hostess and a professor of media studies and cultural politics at California State University, Los Angeles, finds the president's rhetoric a refreshing change from what she considers to be "demonizing, cynical, irresponsible" talk from conservatives.

"When the other side is [talking like] that, it's like a contagion and it makes you so angry that you want to..." She trailed off.  "It's so poisonous what they're doing."

"Media here is so biased but it's in such a subtle way.  When the left came out and they were against the war in Iraq, you could barely hear a peep of their voice in the mainstream corporate media.  Here they are playing these people talking about death panels on a loop."

But like Moss, Madison is also hopeful.

"I'm the kind of person that really feels like we can do it if you can just reach a critical mass of people with the truth." 

She points to her students as an indication of what's to come.

"They're not just relying on what's going on right now, which is this hyper-capitalist corporate popular culture industry.  They're reaching way back.  They seem to be looking for that thing that has the hopeful message, that's not cynical."

Dee expresses a more cynical vision of hope.

"I mean, what else can you have?" she asked.

The question seemed to echo through the room, as Obama's most faithful foot soldiers were busy in conversation, picking a new battle, a new enemy.   



The Ants Go Blogging One By One

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Lately I've been thinking a lot about ants. 

For one thing, a colony at 337 Museum Drive has established a major thoroughfare running from the great outdoors into the very heart of my bedroom.  (Turns out they like sweaty cleats.)  

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More to the point, Andrew Lih gave a talk on Tuesday about convergence in which people--humans--took on oddly ant-like characteristics.  

Lih made the fairly simple point that digital resolution, or honesty, is discrete (in the mathematical sense)--that is, composed of bits that individually resolve a single binary uncertainty.  (Such as, "Excuse me, is this the graduate program in print journalism?")  So, making the jump to "citizen journalism," here's what I want to know:

1. Can journalistic honesty be thought of as a type of resolution, in which a greater number of contributors means greater approximation of reality? 

2. Is citizen journalism, as a body, more truthful than any single piece of journalism, simply because it has more "bits"?

3. Does an aggregate truth--a truth made up of many individual judgments--serve the highest purpose of journalism?

Obviously I'm in way too deep, and very little of this makes any sense.  But here's what I've been able to come up with: Yes, maybe, no.  And here's why: Scale. 

Citizen journalism spans the spectrum of human intelligence, experience, and education and forms a body that is infinitely complex and revealing of the human experience.  But no matter how accurate the body as a whole might be, truth, as it pertains to the functioning of human society, exists only as it can be determined at the individual level: bit by bit, or blog by blog. 

Consider these two snapshots of citizen journalism, both addressing alternative energy:

-From Margot Gerristen, a blogger, podcaster, and professor of Energy Resources and Engineering at Stanford: "Biofuels and the danger of exploiting the tropics for our liquid fuel thirst."

-From poster Obozn on the Google Groups discussion board alt.energy.renewable: "New Poll: Are the people who think CO2 warms the Earth at war with us?  My vote is a definite YES!"

My point is that "citizen journalists" are not bits, nor ants; each is unique, and the quality of content ranges widely.  While Shirky here would point to the potential of "corrective argument," I would simply ask, why?  When we could throw a journalist a living wage and some health insurance, maybe even a few vacation days, to titrate for us?