She Wrote Her Name Upon My Heart

(This is the last remaining piece from my since-discontinued essay blog.)

It's never been said before, so I’ll come right out and say it: Ballet is the ultimate marriage of high culture and sex. Well, that’s how it's always appeared to me. The sight of a ballerina moving across the stage has as much sex appeal as it has beauty and elegance. And as ethereal as I find ballet to be, I am just as easily drawn to a ballerina’s womanliness. Though I’m a latecomer to the art, I’ve quickly settled on a favorite among the many lovely women who grace the ballet stage.

Paloma Herrera is a dancer I've come to idolize. The American Ballet Theatre star from Buenos Aires became a sensation when she debuted as a principal for the company in 1995, stunning the dance world with her combination of strength and grace. Dance reviewers praised her for her thrilling athleticism and her passionate, glamorous stage presence. Since then, it’s been impossible to say anything about Miss Herrera that hasn’t already been said. When I first saw her at a gala performance at New York’s City Center in November 2005, she certainly left an impression on me.

It would be eight months before I saw Miss Herrera perform again, this time at the Metropolitan Opera House at New York’s Lincoln Center, in a matinee production of Romeo and Juliet. Miss Herrera, of course, danced the role of Juliet, and she was dazzling in a part many consider to be her best. I enjoyed the production very much – so much, in fact, that when it was over, I decided to try and seek Miss Herrera’s autograph. But first, I had to find the Met’s stage door.

Beyond and beneath its marble mausoleums encompassing its main plaza, Lincoln Center, before an extensive remodeling of the place, was a confusing, frustratingly incoherent network of theaters, tunnels, parking garages, and assorted dead spaces. I found out how bad it was as I encircled the Met on foot trying to find the stage door, assuming it was in the rear and finding a mostly blank wall along Amsterdam Avenue. Where I expected a stage door, I saw only a dingy, dirty service entrance that would disgust even a rat. Having reached West 65th Street, I followed the perimeter of the complex halfway up a flight of stairs, along the wing housing the Vivian Beaumont and Mitzi Newhouse theaters. I then realized it returned to the main plaza and connected to a second "plaza" – actually a pedestrian overpass (since dismantled) – that led to the Julliard School. I was about to give up when I thought I’d take a chance and see what was under the overpass. It was a two-lane driveway that led to an auxiliary parking area where a small crowd gathered in a corner, some bearing flowers. Sure enough, it was the stage door – or, rather, the end of a long corridor leading to the stage entrance. I had taken the long way. Another flight of stairs from the main plaza would have gotten me down there in a couple of minutes. I nonetheless took a place among the others, hoping I hadn’t missed Paloma Herrera’s exit.

It had now been more than ten minutes since the performance had ended. The small group of fans mainly comprised of smartly dressed middle-aged men and women, several with young daughters in tow. A trickle of ABT employees and volunteers emerged, followed by several dancers. The dancers were happy to sign programs, and the little girls seemed intent on collecting as many signatures as possible. I was interested in collecting only one.

It became clear that the bigger names hadn’t come out yet. One girl, in fact, said out loud that she was waiting for "Juliet," and she appeared to have been waiting longer than I had. Just then, ABT principal Julie Kent, who hadn't even danced that afternoon, stepped out of the corridor to everyone's surprise. "Julie Kent!" they murmured. "That’s Julie Kent!" Definitely one of the company’s brightest stars. But that wasn’t whom I was waiting for, and the wait was growing longer than I expected.

Twenty minutes had now passed, and the stifling July humidity in this driveway area added discomfort to my anxiety. Would I really see Paloma Herrera? If so, could I get her autograph? What would I say to her? I pondered my options. "Beautiful performance, Miss Herrera. May I have your autograph?" "Lovely dancing. Please sign my program." Ugh, I didn’t know what I’d say. I was naturally afraid I'd blow it and say something dumb. Meanwhile, the little girls, who had more right than I had to be anxious, were giddy with excitement.

Still no sign of Juliet, but just then Romeo appeared. David Hallberg, who had danced the role that afternoon, emerged to a smattering of applause. Tall, blond, and athletic, the young South Dakotan had been promoted to principal only two months earlier. He gladly posed for pictures with the fans, and he even chatted with some of them. More dancers soon emerged, and more signatures were collected. David Hallberg remained for awhile, still charming the fans. Miss Herrera still hadn’t appeared; as I grew more anxious, I wondered if this was really worth it. It was still entertaining, though, to watch the dancers walk out  - many of them on the edges of their feet. One fan observed that they seemed to walk as if they were still performing. Me, I was on needles and pins.

Thirty minutes. Forty. Every figure that emerged from the far end of the corridor quickened my anxiety as I waited for Paloma Herrera to appear. I grew weary from the stale air. The girls remained tenacious in their vigil for the prize autograph. "I gotta get Juliet! I need Juliet!" said a girl holding a ballet slipper. Wearing a lavender dress and a matching spangled headband, she seemed to resemble a future Juliet herself. As everyone waited, an ABT volunteer regaled the adults with stories about the numerous romantic pairings within the company. I grew more nervous, still wondering how I'd approach Miss Herrera when she came out.

Fifty minutes had passed. A little girl announced to her mother that "Juliet" was due out soon. I didn’t know how she would have known, but I doubted it would be soon enough. A few minutes later, a statuesque woman bearing a large bouquet of flowers was seen coming down the corridor. It was indeed Paloma Herrera. As she emerged, fans gathered around her like kittens before a saucer of milk. She looked gorgeous with her long black hair and her glittering snowflake-shaped earrings. She signed autographs and posed for pictures, thanking the fans in her sweetly accented English and receiving more flowers. I gladly let others go before me, not out of the goodness of my heart (except in the case of the little girls) but rather to allow myself a moment or two to gain something resembling composure.

As Miss Herrera signed Future Juliet's ballet slipper – standing two feet away from me – her cellular phone suddenly rang. She struggled to answer it as she held on to her bouquets – “Hello?” – but she still missed the call. Apologizing to Future Juliet for her apparent abruptness, she said she was due at a reception. The moment had arrived. I meekly held out my program and quietly asked her for her autograph. Taking my pen, she quickly signed her name as she clung tightly to her bouquets. I thanked her, and she reciprocated me gratitude with a smile. I walked away barely able to contain my ecstasy. I had Paloma Herrera’s signature – something of a scribble, but still very legible – written in my program and across my heart.

She never said a word to me. She didn't need to.

(For purely economic reasons, I haven't been able to attend an American Ballet Theatre performance since this piece was first written in 2006.)