Everything Was Beautiful at the Ballet

Boxing Day Treat-  Matthew Bourne's Swan Lake, at the Sadler's Wells with loved ones!

We invited K.  She got there early and got us a bottle of white wine.  At intermission, we shared another.

Conclusion:  The ballet was incredibly non-thinking, funny, easily understood and just good fun.  Choreographically, it was encouraging to watch something non- earth shattering, filled with repetitive, uninventive movement, that touches so many in the audience, won real awards, and is a box office success.  The music was wonderful, the lead swan tired, the prince a flawless dancer.  My favorite moments were the unveiling of a naked statue (even I was caught, surprised, and laughed loudly!), and when some cell phone went off ringing (more laughter from yours truly!!!).  The last scene possibly inspired by Hitchcock's Birds, showed some sophistication in crafting.  I left the theatre with a big smile on my face and thinking, if I had it my way, I would have finished the dance with a royal hunt and a killing.

And as 2013 draws to a close, we made a pilgrimage (start by paying penance ie climbing up all 193 steep stairs leading from the bowels of the Covent Gardens Tube Station to the very top of Long Acres...) to the Royal Opera House this afternoon.

In action, the Royal Ballet dancing George Balanchine's Jewels (choreographed in 1967) set to music by Faure, Stravinsky and Tchaikovsky.

The first ballet, Emeralds was brooding and hinted at the Romantics.  I sat there and felt my mind begin to wander.  On occasion, I even spied on my husband, and caught him clearing his throat politely.  Rubies that followed had bite, thrusting of hips, jazz hands (Balanchine falls in love with his adopted home, America!), and was thankfully executed with that sense of speed, precision and charismatic confidence Balanchine technique demands.  Diamonds the last of the ballets, with South Americans Marianela Nunez and her husband Thiao Soares steering the company, offered food for thought.

photo credit:  The Royal Opera House

Nunez is the true jewel of this afternoon's performance, for she simply became, the music.  The conflict in the Tchaikovsky score, the echoes, the attack, the victory- we heard and saw every note in each gesture she offered and in every one of her limbs stretched, coiled, spun.

Watching Balanchine danced well, you see his musical genius and comprehension.  You see his absolute obsession of the woman, the ballerina.  He is relentless in his demands of her, hardly ever allowing her off pointe.  At "rest", the ballerina is aching her back, inclining her torso, or suspended with legs split high in the air.

One lesson I learnt watching today's dance was the use of retreating.  Emeralds was easily forgettable especially because the dancers seemed too unconvinced themselves.  But the finale arrested with the use of a retreating corps, and in this, a sense of passing was felt.  Time or memory, or time and memory, recede.

Memory...

I remain unconvinced by the Royal Ballet as a company, but ever, a Balanchine fan.  I saw a great ballerina dance today.  A dancer slipped and fell on stage at the start of Diamonds- perhaps forgivable as the stage floor and pointe shoes can be very slippery.  But then towards the end, another dancer committed the true crime of stumbling in his second pirouette, and landing, not on his knee in line behind his mate, but tumbling out of line, nearly even putting his hand down to catch himself!  

Then again, perhaps that's what's most beautiful about ballet as a living art form.  Like life, we dream, we soar.  And then the Icarus curse.  We fall.

Where the Sun Also Rises

Because Venice turned out to be shockingly exorbitant, and Lapland (icy cold tourist trap) is not my husband's idea of a vacation, Summie suggested, Spain.

Ah, Spain.  Where the Sun Also Rises!

We've never been to Spain before.  Things that come instantly to mind are Ferdinand and Isabella, the Habsburg Empire, tapas, Guggenheim Bilbao, Hemingway, Goya, and flamenco.

From London, there is a choice of budget airlines that services the Iberian Peninsular.  I wanted an authentic Spanish experience, so as to give my daughter a chance at experiencing the language as living culture.

We arrived in Madrid, wide-eyed, eager.  The hotel we decided upon proved to be an excellent find, centrally located right across from the Opera House (Teatro Real), and thoughtfully decorated in the old-world style I so love.  There was careful attention to details- pressed-fabric covering all surfaces, breakfast served on antique trays, white linen arranged artfully, fresh flowers, and beautiful art displayed everywhere.

The entrance to Casa de Madrid (Arrieta, 2) was concealed on the second level, away from the street.  The building was constructed in the 18th century, and I fell hard for its interiors, patterned wooden floors, tall windows, and the juliet balconies.  

It felt very much like having one's own sensitively furnished apartment right in the heart of the old town, with kind concierge services thrown in (muchos gracias, Paula!).

We found the locals very helpful, and warm.  Say, Hola, Gracias, Adios,  Un momento par favor, and one is immediately met with smiles and nods.  Once she got over being tongue-tied in a Spanish-speaking environment, Summie proved her mettle, rapidly translating.

At a crazy jamon y cuesos y jamon y vino store off Calle Arenal frequented by locals, she helped her father buy some vino.  Later, she helped me with some home-made ice-cream.

 The notoriously late hours Madrid keeps also worked in our favor, as Jon was jet lagged.

  

The leisurely pace of dining, and arriving at sights also suited my extremely relaxed family.

3pm and the lunch crowd begins to stream in... awesome!

Another factor that made our trip even more enjoyable was that winter is not the preferred time by tourists- so we did not have to deal with throngs of people at the sights, and enjoyed the city from a more local perspective.

There is excellent food easily available, but Paula suggested a local favourite- El Pimiento Verde off Plaza Mayor.

We found out that water is delicious in Madrid.  If you prefer it from a tap, ask nicely- Un agua de grifo par favor, and smile.

We saw flamenco at Casa Patas, where you walked past the restaurant up front, into a tiny room and listened to the most heart-breaking of music strummed and sung.  We were silenced by Picasso's Guernica at the modern art museum (Museo Nacional Centro de Arte Sofia), sat for coffee on the top floor of the Caixaforum, then stood in line for free admission at the Prado.

It was a very relaxing, enjoyable holiday for us.  Madrid offered something precious to each of us, as well as collectively as a family.  I think the last time we had as much fun together on holiday, was when we vacationed at Uncle G's house in Bali.

It Came Upon a Midnight Clear

Jet lagged and awake, I obsess about the third draft.

At daylight, Bruno and I grab something to eat, 

 then head off.

First stop- my favorite shabby chic store just off Portobello Road, where service is top-notch, and I know I will find something I absolutely need.

I'm taking the bench- it's perfect!  I'm going to re-purpose it as a coffee table.

Ho ho ho!  I'm taking the cushion as well.  And some candles, and a few baubles for my fireplace.  I even asked if they had any feathers- they do!  Excellent.  I'm taking feathers too.

We passed an enticing-looking biscuit store.

We got some cupcakes for the staff who helped us.

I get on with my third draft.

fa la la, la la la, la la la!

I just think feathers add instant glamour!  

I ran out of space on the mantle so I threw the rest into my table piece.  

The cushion was just as I had imagined.

The next morning, I find that in 500-sf ft, I now finally have, a living room!

(It would be lovely to have some of the art from the Singapore flat transferred here.  And I know my daughter is itching for a Christmas tree...)

I tell my husband I'll work on decorating the kitchen and windows, next Christmas.  He sighs audibly, with relief.

At 15:09, she's home.  I almost didn't recognize her at the station!  She has a hat framing her face and her hair in loose curls.  Who is this beguiling creature flinging limbs around me so tightly?

She enters the flat and tells me I'm pretty good at spray painting (!).  She has a look around and declares that I am very creative (!).

I am a little in awe watching her move about, hearing her speak.  

I've brought you a present, Mama.

Oh, you didn't have to do that!  Don't buy Mom anything!

  I'm not sure if you'll like it, cuz you are so fussy!  

Yah, I am...

I hope you like it!  Open it!  It's for you!  It matches your couch!

I've no idea how she chanced upon the picture, nor the frame.  But here we are, caught together, in sunshine.

Oh.

My grown up daughter, once held in my body, kicking, breathing, feasting.

It's us, I say.  Mom looks like you.

It was very frightening being 25, 26, heavily pregnant, unemployed, non-dancing, displaced in Singapore, sheltered by my husband's family.  I have never felt so alone, nor so miserable.

When she came, things didn't get easier.  But she ignited within me,"that glorious song of old".

She brought me, courage.

"...the world in solemn stillness lay/ to hear the angels sing."

Fa la la la la, la, la, la, la.

First morning back, I awake with absolute clarity.  

I don't want to live apart from my husband anymore.  

Then Bruno goes off to daycare in the morning, while I head south, south, south to Wimbledon.

photo credit-  Wimbledon Village Stables

At the Village Florist, I can't resist pausing and perusing.

HMMM!

The SA asks if I have far to go, how am I going to carry a 6-foot garland and wreath on the tube.

Ta Da!  

Before I left London, I was obsessing about letters...

"First & Second Drafts..."

The garland turned out to be too heavy and too wide.  My original plan to place it in front of the mirror failed.  The only way forward was to remove the mirror, which then created an interesting situation for me.  The mirror is freaking heavy.  I can't lift it on my own.  I tried and tried.

Solution:  I dragged my mattress in front of the fireplace.   I've seen this concept used in Jackie Chan's stunt work, at the end of his movies, when the credits roll.

Gingerly, engaging all arm/back/core muscles, I slid the mirror down...  then I heaved it aside.

Bruno the Buddha waits patiently...

Using the ladder the previous resident had left behind, I climbed as high as I could, balanced as lightly as I could, with one foot on the mantle, to hang the wreath.

By the time I got done, it was dark outside.

My husband calls me.  I relate excitedly, my ingenuity!  I talk about a second draft and a third.  I interrupt him with the need for fairy lights.  Then I say I need him to help carry the mirror back up after Christmas.

(Fuck.  Wrong move.)

For his voice is like a door slamming in my face.  

Why do you always insists on doing such acrobatic acts?  Do you know how heavy the mirror is?  What if it fell on you?  What if it falls on Bruno?  Why do you have to climb everywhere? What if you hurt yourself when I am not there with you?  How did you carry the garland back all by yourself?  Do you understand that I worry about you?

In the end, to quiet his anger, I cowardly, cried.

I also sent him a visual of my second draft.

Then I realise, that in a long-distance marriage, distance is the mirror, daily reflecting all that the both of us are.  The image thrown back is not a static one. Rather it's constantly shifting.  Sometimes I don't like what I see.  Sometimes I get mad.  Or he gets madder at me.

On Skype, I can press "delete", or the "end call" button.  Over the phone, I can hang up.  Either way, I don't have to worry about him being physically in my space (talk to me, talk to me, don't just ignore me), pushing for a resolution, insisting on peace.

He's not upset with me anymore.  He is saying, he'll try and bring some scrolls for me.  He's making amends.  He is now saying, he'll help me with the mirror.

So I inhale and tell him, Baby?  I hit my head.

Praying, Pre-Departure

'Tis the season to be jaunting to Little India, to buy them buah keluak nuts.  But it was TJ in London, who alerted me.

I return to London tonight.  My heart is hopeful.  My heart is heavy.

Hopeful, because for once I don't have that debilitating sadness that comes with saying goodbye, goodbye to my husband.  I see him next Tuesday.  Hallelujah!  He will be with me through Christmas and the New Year.

Heavy, because I think of the children we all treasure, and wonder, what sort of future does a Singaporean child really have, here on this island?

photo credit- Simon Wong

My Mil posed that very same question once, 4X-years ago to my Fil, lying in bed, in their beautiful new Daman Sara Heights home.  I think their lives at that point, had finally settled into a cohesive rhythm.  A new baby was born, the elder son happy at school, both parents engaged in work they found meaningful and exciting.  There was also the physical house- perhaps the expression of their hopes for their young family, to delight in.

The baby was saved by his Malay nanny when the rioters finally arrived.  His nanny risked her own life, thinking and acting quickly.  My Mil then began the rapid escape back to Singapore with her two young sons.  She was stopped along the way.  What happened next made her so furious, she vowed to raise her sons, Singaporean, and never, ever, give up her citizenship.

At lunch, M asked me what is it about Singapore I struggle with.  Too many ethnic Chinese people, I said, even as I myself, am one.  The lack of change.  The city is just too small.  Omg, the weather- too hot.

Riots do that to you- create pause.

A fiery night sky in 1992, Los Angeles.  I looked out of my car and saw the city engulfed in flames, a conflagration.  When I got off the 405 and turned towards my street, I was forced to slow down as the roads were teeming with angry crowds shoving, shouting, throwing things.  In the morning, I stood in a snaking line, waiting to purchase tinned food, processed food.  Food that would allow me to stay hidden, for a while.

They called in the National Guards then.  On Sunday, they called the Police, the Special Operation Forces.  The latter reportedly behaved with such elegant restraint, that in the aftermath, I am still marveling at their choreography.

How long more are you going to do this, M asked.  What do you do every day, alone?

What will the children dream and long for?  Who will help soothe all that anger and is it ever possible to reverse the fortunes of the less lucky?

Is the Singapore way always up, up, up, and do we only rise by climbing and crushing those with so much less?

Riots do that- create pause.

All I want for Christmas is peace on earth, goodwill toward men.  Impossible, I know.  I'm getting on my plane.  I'm praying, Singapore- be safe, keep calm, attempt compassion, sensitive thought.