Scènes de Ballet

A little draft extract

A while ago, I shared on here my treatment for a book about ballet… I am finishing another book at the moment, which has been SOMEWHAT PROBLEMATIC (say no more is probably wisest) although it is now back on course.

But in between times, and trying to use my version of what Muriel Spark called her ‘best brains’, I have been writing the ballet book. Much like my The Last Landlady - a homage to my publican grandmother, but also the story of the pub itself: why it exists, why it is loved, what will become of it - the ballet book is a memoir-cum-history. I went to a performing arts school, I tried and failed to become a ballet dancer, I still do class and determine to do it better, I love ballet (not all of it) very deeply, but now I also ask myself: what is this that I am watching, what is it for, what does it mean? What is its future? Why did I want to do it? I was at Covent Garden last week for a Balanchine triple bill, and all those thoughts came fluttering into my mind like busy little sylphides. At one moment, I would feel that I was watching an art form to rival any in its depth and expressiveness and power to move. The next moment, the faintest sense of banality. Yes, that is a very high arabesque. And?

As readers were kind enough to say that they found the ballet book an interesting idea, I thought I would share a short extract, very much first draft. It is behind the paywall but there is a free trial option.

It describes an evening at the Royal Opera House, some years ago now. My first visit after almost a couple of decades away, and the uncertain spark that it lit.