We are all brought into a white room by the sound of a soft violin, beckoning us to dig
deep into our own minds and find where our passions lay. The room smells like curiosity
and anticipation. Sharp breaths are taken by the seven spectators, awkwardly taking their
places by resting their backs on the wall near the entrance, waiting.
The room is as cold as the white walls that appear so white that they may be blue.
I can see my own breath.
We look around the white room, wondering where the music is coming from.
There are no windows or doors, aside from the one we entered. There are no lights,
yet we can see corner of the room as if we held a magnifying glass up to it.
The room is so large, it makes me uncomfortable.
With a loud boom! accompanied by black smoke, a ballerina appears.
She’s beautiful. Everyone holds their breath.
Her long, slender figure is wrapped in a pitch black leotard from neck to ankle,
and her feet and hands are covered with a silver cloth that glistens with her every move.
Her pure, white hair, that seems unfitting due to her young age, is pulled into a tight bun
atop her head.
She looks around the room, curiously. As if she has no clue as to where she is.
Yet, somehow, she knows why.
She begins to stretch. She does so gently, touching her toes, then raising her arms high
with her hands together. Then she looks at the crowd, with no expression that would betray
a look of any type of emotion.
Then, she looks at me.
Watch me.
I cannot tell if it’s my own mind fantasizing that she is telling me this, or if she actually did.
Somehow, I allow myself to invest my emotions into believing that she was indeed speaking
to me. Her eyes tell me that they know my every thought, and I believe them. Still, her face is
blank.
With another boom! and appearance of black smoke, the violin appears, in her hand. It is black
as well. I also notice several black, seemingly strategically placed, squares around the room on
the white floor.
The violin music had never stopped playing, so I assume that she was not the one creating the
melodic sounds, yet, she begins to play the music. Whether or not she is merely perfectly in sync
with the music, of if she is actually playing the music, I will never know.
After a few seconds of her sliding the bow gently and swiftly across the strings,
she begins to dance.
While she plays.
Her turns are swift and delicate as she moves towards one square. It’s absolutely enchanting.
The spectators are still as stone, not even breathing, while they watch in absolute wonder.
She steps on the first square and stays there, spinning gently on it. Her balance is what impresses
me the most.
When she steps off, something truly amazing happens.
A milky substance arises from the single black square, forming what looks like an icicle. It
spins upward and, in an attempt to follow her, freezes into a spiral that nearly touches her. The
icicle shares that dream with everyone in the room. It is as smooth as glass, shining brightly.
She doesn’t seem real. I wonder if she is.
A few more twists and turns and she’s on another square, twirling with absolute freedom and
grace. She is the peak of imagination and elegance at the same time. In the same moment.
She breathes it.
She steps off, allowing another milky icicle to shoot upward, then to come spinning downwards,
complementing her moves. This icicle emits a lavender hue.
Several more times, the ballerina dances on and off the black squares until there are none left. Each icicle is different, with it’s own color and with it’s own choreography. Each icicle causes an eruption of a different type of joy and excitement. Everyone’s chests are swelled with barely contained wonder. Any negatively preconceived notions about the show have been long-since shattered.
She continues to dance even though there are no more squares for her to step on.
Suddenly, she throws the violin, and it begins to play itself.
The violin floats in the air, creating a tune even more enchanting than before. The ballerina
dances even more enthusiastically.... And wildly.
Her hair falls from it’s tightly knotted bun and falls in curled tufts past her shoulders. As she twirls, the white strands take on a dance of their own. Each fiber of her being is it’s own,
with it’s own defined originality.
Not once does she touch the icicles, not even with her hair. She begins to leap over each icicle
that stands in her way, making a beautiful sight in the process. She emits some sort of childlike
joy as she loses her blank facial expression, and allows one big smile to spread across her pale
face.
Watch me dance, aren’t I beautiful?
Her arms swing about in a wild manner, making me believe that at any moment I could let any
form of negative energy out of my own being, for her to crush down and destroy like she crushed
the squares and turned them into the beautiful obstacle course she is now dancing through.
Myself and the other spectators stand with mouths agape. There are no words than can be said
to describe this act.
No, this is not an act....this is a life.
This ballerina chose to live this performance, and somehow created another life in the process.
What once was only a plain white room, is now a gallery showing off exactly what she is.
Imagination. She is imagination.
After what feels like hours of being willingly hypnotized in this beautiful place, she slowly ends
her final twirl and takes a bow. Her hair is dropped down in front of her as she does so.
Then all the icicles disappear, alone with the violin.
And then the ballerina.
