The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
b-side
Thursday, January 30, 2020 — 5B
In 2011, a 12 year-old girl
sat in her desk chair facing
away from a computer in a
dimly lit California bedroom.
A film crew recorded as she
worked on math homework.
Later, the same girl stood in a
dance studio, her small frame
covered in only a blue leotard
and pink tights and her right
leg lifted at a 180-degree angle.
Her arms rested delicately in
ballet’s fourth position, and
she balanced her lifted body on
only the ball of her left foot.
The girl was Miko Fogarty,
a featured dancer in the 2012
documentary “First Position”
by
Bess
Kargman,
which
covered the lives of seven
children, ranging in age from
10 to 17, in their pursuit of
success at the Youth America
Grand Prix ballet competition.
The award-winning film shed
light into the unknown world
of blistered toes and broken
dreams that is a ballet student’s
reality.
Though
the
90-minute
documentary
offered
many
gems
of
insight
into
the
pressure placed on children
in pursuit of success in ballet,
Miko’s story might be the most
interesting. By the time “First
Position” was filmed, she had
already begun homeschooling
in order to allow more time
for ballet classes. Her family
had moved houses to be closer
to the dance studio and her
mother had hired a stretching
coach
to
build
on
Miko’s
existing elasticity. Her young
body was well on its way to
being molded into an idealized
vision of the perfect ballerina:
thin, stretchy, and strong.
Beyond the physique, though,
she was truly an exceptional
dancer. She could balance and
turn
with
mouth-watering
precision and her arms moved
through the air like graceful
droplets of water in the gentle
wind.
She
performed
with
unprecedented strength and
grace beyond her years, and in
doing so caught the attention
of millions of fans. Videos of
her competition appearances
garnered
international
attention and her Instagram
account accrued hundreds of
thousands of followers. In every
sense of the word, she was one
of ballet’s first “influencers.”
She was also, in every sense of
the word, a child.
But young Fogarty didn’t
seem to mind. In the movie, she
told filmmakers, “I think I’ve
just had the right amount of
childhood and the right amount
of ballet.” She was content with
the long hours, sore muscles
and lack of sleepovers. She
loved it that much. This isn’t a
foreign concept to dancers —
smile while you lift your head,
point your toes, turn out your
feet and you’ll be on your way
to finding a job.
That’s what Fogarty did — in
2015, she joined the corps de
ballet of England’s prestigious
Birmingham Royal Ballet. The
world sat back and waited. We
figured it’d be a year, maybe
two, before she climbed her
way to prima ballerina. But
12 months later, Fogarty was
nowhere to be found. Her
instagram sat untouched and
her stage appearances were
nonexistent. She stayed in the
dark for several years before
reappearing as a junior at
the University of California,
Berkely, studying biology. She’d
completely started over.
Most of the ballet world,
shocked
as
they
were,
supported her drastic shift.
Many still follow her pre-med
journey with as much fanfare
as they did her ballet, invested
in her success no matter where
she finds it. This has been
heartwarming to watch, and
Fogarty spoke openly about her
appreciation for the positive
reactions.
Nevertheless,
her
story remains an interesting
perspective on the darker side
of children in dance.
Ballet
favors
the
young.
Whether this is good or bad
is often beside the point —
above
all,
it
is
necessary.
As choreographers push for
increasingly
diverse
and
athletic
movement,
dancers
push for more strength, more
flexibility, more speed, more
grace. They ask as much (and
even more) of their bodies as
NFL players, and one can only
do that for so long. An athlete
only has so many seasons
before their body is too tired or
broken to keep going. With that
limit in sight, the inspiration
to start as soon as possible is
strong.
Dancers
will
typically
join a company
toward the end
of
high
school;
often, promising
candidates will be
offered contracts
at 16. To get to a
professional level
by
then,
most
ballet
students
start
training
before the age of
five, usually as
early as three.
This dedication
is often glorified
through
depictions
like
“First
Position,”
in
which audiences
oggle
the
lives
of
performative
glory
led
by
children decades
younger
than
them, but behind
the stage curtain
there
is
often
more
to
the
story.
When
Miko
Fogarty
reappeared after
her
hiatus,
she
told
stories
of
serious eating disorders, sexual
abuse from her childhood ballet
teacher and a distinct lack of
joy that started long before she
quit.
Ballet’s
reliance
on
the
historically thin lines of a
human
body
unfortunately
makes eating disorders common
(though we have recently seen
an
increase
in
prevention
education), and the skewed
power dynamics borne out of
over-traditionalized non-verbal
classroom atmospheres leads
to a heartbreaking number
of stories in the #MeToo era.
Plenty of people write about
this.
Among
these
issues,
as
important
as
they
are,
I
notice one that is harder to
discern: the construction of
a child’s reality. For dancers
like Fogarty, ballet becomes
synonymous with life at a very
young age. Rehearsal quickly
becomes more important than
school and social lives are
replaced with technique class.
In “First Position,” 12-year-
old Fogarty told the world that
“most kids my age, they’re not
100 percent sure what they’re
going to do, but I know I’m
going to do ballet for the rest
of my life.” In the context of
the film, this statement was
inspirational. She was working
hard — most likely harder than
you. She was dedicated, driven
and focused. But she was also
not even a teenager yet. She
had never consciously lived in a
state of not knowing what one
wants to do.
As a woman who lives in
constant fearful excitement of
my life’s unknown opportunity,
hearing young Fogarty speak
with such confident tunnel
vision makes me deeply sad.
The dance industry does this
a lot. Teachers push students
to stretch more and balance
longer all with the end goal
of becoming a professional.
In doing so, ballet dancers
are never given the chance
to find themselves at a time
when identity formation is at
its peak: adolescence. In doing
so,
we
create
exhilarating
athletes with gorgeous physical
capabilities, but we do not create
artists. We do not give students
time to develop the one concept
that
makes
dance
dance.
As a result, we’re left with
thousands of students onstage
at
competitions
performing
pieces wrought with emotions
that they themselves have never
experienced. It’s misguided,
hollow
and
annoying
to
watch.
I don’t intend
to
reflect
on
Fogarty’s
life
for her. Perhaps
this path was
exactly
what
she needed, and
there is nothing
wrong
with
having changed
careers. To see
anyone
taking
control of their
happiness is a
success
story
to
me.
That
said, I believe
there
is
and
always
should
be
room
for
life
alongside
dance.
In
a
YouTube series
on New York
City
Ballet,
principal
dancer
Sara
Mearns
once
said it took a
debilitating
back
injury
to
give
her
the
chance
to become an
adult. There should be room
for
mental
balance
outside
of
physical
injury.
Balance,
as
Mearns
acknowledges,
is
a prerequisite for artistry. By
forgetting to encourage artistry,
we disable dance students in ballet
and life. Just as we construct and
reward a world of dedication,
then, we must construct a world of
freedom, too.
Young Fogarty didn’t seem to
mind. In the movie, she told
filmmakers, “I think I’ve just had
the right amount of childhood
and the right amount of ballet.”
She was content with the long
hours, sore muscles and lack of
sleepovers. She loved it that much.
This isn’t a foreign concept to
dancers — smile while you lift
your head, point your toes, turn
out your feet and you’ll be on your
way to finding a job.
ZOE PHILLIPS
Senior Arts Editor
Sacrifice and your sanity:
A look at children in dance
THE JOFFREY BALLET
B-SIDE COMMUNITY CULTURE NOTEBOOK
B-SIDE COMMUNITY CULTURE NOTEBOOK
Compared to the standard
lively
chatter
and
packed
tables of a typical afternoon,
there was a hushed silence as I
climbed the stairs of the popular
Ann Arbor coffee shop above
Literati Bookstore just before
7:00 pm. Instead of the sunlight
illuminating study groups and
friends
working
side-by-side,
five empty rows of chairs faced
a podium in front of a dark
window. Slowly, about a dozen
tentative
audience
members
filtered in — some in pairs but
many of them alone — careful
to leave several empty seats
between each of them. They
ranged in age, some carrying
heavy college backpacks and
some with graying hair. It was
clear that this was not a sellout
event, but a quiet and comforting
appreciation for each other’s
presence passed from person to
person.
This strange crew gathered at
Literati on an overcast Thursday
evening to listen to author
Luke Geddes speak about his
new book “Heart of Junk” as
part of the bookstore’s “Fiction
at
Literati”
series.
Geddes
himself fit right into the shy yet
distinctly eccentric atmosphere
of the coffee shop. With his
round glasses, brightly striped
sweater and white tennis shoes,
he could easily be mistaken for a
college freshman. However, his
genuine, steady passion for the
world he created in his book was
undeniable, even if a little timid.
The novel, while technically
a comedic mystery involving
a kidnapping and a pageant
queen, centers around antique
malls and extreme collectors
in the middle of America. The
conversation at Literati lingered
on the “junker mindset” and the
unique community found while
haunting vintage shops. When
asked by moderator and fellow
novelist
Michael
Zadoorian
about his knowledge of these
subjects, Geddes spoke from
personal experience; stifling a
laugh, he described his awkward
encounters at second-hand stores
and antique malls. At one point
he explained that he rarely talks
to people on his research trips
and instead prefers to eavesdrop
on the veteran collectors or let
his wife haggle with the cashiers.
These comments seemed so
insanely in line with his quiet
and slightly offbeat demeanor it
was almost comical.
Geddes’
writing
style
further
contributed
to
his
unconventional image. His book
opens with an advertisement
for a roommate on craigslist. In
his characteristic understated
humor, he writes: “I cannot have
anybody touching or moving
my stuff because it would set
off a chain reaction of emotions
and feelings towards you and
towards my things. Hoarding
is not a mental illness, it is
something
environmentally
responsible because I don’t like
to throw things away. But the
Department of Public Health
said my living conditions were
unsafe and came in and forcibly
removed my things I have been
collecting for over 40 years. It
traumatized me and I have been
rebuilding my collection ever
since.”
Another topic touched on
was what Zadoorian termed
the depressing nature of estate
sales. Here Geddes started to
get at his central argument that
material objects can represent
or even replace life experiences.
He described the bizarre feeling
of picking through an entire
life compressed into a room or
a house and explained how he
tried to translate this idea to his
book. With this thought in mind,
he presented the audience with
the question of what it means
to take someone’s objects after
they’re gone.
While
Geddes
provided
his nervous charm, the cast
of characters in the audience
brought its own entertaining
personalities. Sitting alone on
the side was a young man with a
small collection: a stack of books,
some written by the author
and some by the interviewer.
Whether an aspiring new writer
or just a fellow connoisseur of
strange objects, it was clear
this guy had done his research.
Prepared with his books and
a pen for signing, the boy on
the side chuckled in agreement
when Zadoorian mentioned a
specific hard-to-come-by album
apparently only found in the
dustiest, most secret record
stores and the dreams of die-
hard collectors.
In the front row sat two older
women clad in wool and polka-
dots, both clutching their brand-
new copies of Geddes’ book.
When Geddes was asked about
his research on the more obscure
collector’s items, such as antique
glass and postcards, these two
perked up. They nodded along
at Geddes’ description of the
mature crowds that he found at
antique conventions, exchanging
knowing looks and seasoned
smiles.
After the event ended with
several questions and a line for
Geddes’ signature, the audience
members drifted down the stairs
to the cash register to purchase
“Heart of Junk.” I left with the
warm thought that for that last
hour I’d been allowed take part
of in such a small collection of
intriguing and peculiar people.
Luke Geddes talks ‘junker mindset’ at Literati reading
COMMUNITY CULTURE REVIEW
CAROLINE ATKINSON
For The Daily
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