Dear Dreya,
So I am on stage in the air in a lyra you sold me doing a solo that you consulted on. And low key choreographed really. I am thrilled because I remembered to unbutton and unzip my slacks before this third pass on the ring.
I’m in the air and everything is working out. My narrative game is tight, to hell with whether the audience have any idea what this solo is about (because I didn’t send Even When You’re Not Here by the print deadline). And now it’s time to use my toes to pull off the pants. And make it look like a civilian in his bedroom undressing.
But I can’t grab anything.
The nylon socks grin at me, slide on the slacks when I try to pull the pant leg down. Even if I drop down to the planned crucifix my options are limited.
And I’m not Shannon Beach (who is also at fault for lending me time on her backyard lyra) or Elena Gatilova, both of whom could simply take the leg behind in a sensible deep arch and grab the sock or pant leg with their hands.
This would be really pretty, actually…
Anyway, I work at this longer and realize I must go to Plan B before a loss of spin allows that audience to see my struggle.
So I muscle myself back up to sitting, the pull up off all pull ups.
This Plan B is possible because of years of you putting me in the air. You had zero doubts I would thrive there, even when I told you that black people don’t do cold, water or heights. You put yourself in my hands and told the motor op to take us 30 feet up. My current Plan B is sketched from years of rehearsals on new pieces of apparatus that you designed. It’s from that crystal that you designed and had us do a 6 o’clock penche as the lock position on Cher, Colosseum Caesar’s Palace (rude, Dreya, rude). It’s from learning an aerial duet you made on us in 20 minutes when our boss threw it back in this same Vegas show.
Because back in the day you made me free climb from seated on the floor with my legs extended in front of me.
Dreya Weber in her one-woman show, Hexen
More than once.
The way you stood and shifted on Alicia’s flexed abs and made her sing Just Like a Pill__this kind of love, consistent with my dance training, stays in the body forever.
The fact that it’s still in yours means that everyone should take you seriously when you ask audiences__from in the air and on the floor__to investigate the word hexen (I believe you and there are receipts).
I manually top of each side of the pant down under my butt. They slide off more easily.
The rest of the solo is just management, negotiating the lyra wobbling, hugging my objective narrative arc as best I can, things like this, things we talked about when you picked my music (thank you).
When it is time to bow, the audience is ecstatic. My colleague’s daughter and her partner, both beautiful dancers from the ABT yard scheduled for after intermission, said they thought my adjustment was intentional.
“It’s halfway through the intermission and they are still talking about you,” the stage manager tells me, returning from the house.
But the biggest affirmation comes from a youngster- who is standing in the hallway to the dressing room.
“You ate!” she says.
I am ecstatic, not just that I ate, but that part of the reason is that you still leave no crumbs yourself, Dreya.
Thank you a million times..
Love,
Jamal