[Project Two]

Outline

Outline for Narrative Story: Place

Introduction
Body One: Ballet as a baby

- I grew up in ballet classes.
- I remember having my mom put my ballet bun up for classes.
- Running to the bar and checking my positions.
  - First
  - Second
  - Third, etc.

Body Two: Audition, Billy Elliot

- Lining up to have our height measured
- Learning a combination behind one lady
- Number being called, then recalling every step seen in the mirror
- Looking myself up and down checking that my lines matched those of the demonstrator

Body Three: Pointe Shoes

- Easily one of the most important moments in any ballerinas life.
- The moment is put on a pedestal from the moment you put on your first tutu
- Steps
  - Learning to sew the ribbons on
  - Lacing them up for the first time
  - Slowly raising up on top of your toes for the first time, checking to be sure you will not make the wrong move.
  - Never wanting to take them off regardless of the severe amounts of pain you are in.

Body Four: NCTC

- Trading the pointe shoes for character three inch character heels.
- Finding the balance in the same lines from ballet.

Body Five: Florida State

- After trying our various mirrors, finding the one that fits and shows the proper lines and things that need to be fixed.
- Finding homes in the mirrors I have grown up in.

First Draft

DRAFT ONE: PERSONAL NARRATIVE

Typically glass, on the thinner side, flat, in an upright position. The vision of two feet, two eyes, one nose, two hands, one, “me”, looking directly back at me. Whether it be whilst slipping on canvass slippers, LaDuca three inch character heels, or slicking my hair back into a bunch, this figure that has grown into a 5’6” blonde woman has always been starring right back at me, through everything I enjoy doing in life.

——————————————

The bustling of hot, sweaty, lanky girls swallowed the halls of the ballet studio. Bunheads rushed in and out of the dressing rooms and dance studios. In the back right corner, tucked a little ways away from the older, scary high schoolers was a small room, with a barre that leveled off at about three and a half feet. The same nerves and excitement pulsed through my body every day as I slipped on my canvas pink ballet slippers and stepped onto the marley floors. Every class was an opportunity for me to hold myself high and pretend I was just as tall as the “big girls” that I scurried past on my way to class. As I approached the cold, steel bar, I placed my right hand barely on the surface and began our typical routine. At the ripe age of four, the only reason I wanted to look in the reflection that pictured me on the front wall was to admire myself, and sometimes, more often than not, mess with the bun my mom securely fastened to the crown of my head.

——————————————

“Five! Six! Seven Eight!” The beginning to nearly every combination in the history of dance. Each number growing in value (see dancers use math too), each number releasing a swarm full of butterflies in my stomach. After “eight”, you are off to the races, showcasing the meticulous details of the combination shown to you at the top of the audition. As each beat plays in the music, I rack my brain to recall the correct sequence. All the while, I am starring into blue eyes that scan my body up and down, “Am I pointing my toes?, “Are my fingers supposed to be spread a part in this position?” “How should I be carrying my Port de Bras?”, and the one that always get me “Wait! Are you smiling?”

———————————————

I am sitting on the cold, not cleanest floors of a dance studio. With a fresh pink box in front of me that reads, “Russian Pointe”. In this moment, it seems as though all of my dream had come true. Finally, finally, I was able to dance in my first pair of pointe shoes. I had only spent years peaking my head into the classes of the girls who danced on their toes, now it was my turn. My daydreaming continued as my teacher explained how to properly sew on the ribbons to the shoe. Thankfully, my mom stood behind me carefully watching the example (she definitely knew that I would ruin the rather expensive Russian Pointes if I dared to pull and needle and threat through them). Carefully, I slid my foot into the pale pink slippers, and crossed the ribbons around my ankles to mimic the criss-cross pattern of all the Degas paintings. Returning to the all familiar barre, I placed my two hands on the cold surface, standing in first position, with the inside on my feet pictured in front of me, and I rose onto the tops of my toes. Though I was afraid of the pain, I couldn’t feel a pinch, because I was on cloud nine. The line from my toe, up my legs matched the images that I grew up striving to recreate on the glass in from of me.

Draft Two

Typically glass, on the thinner side, flat, in an upright position. The vision of two feet, two eyes, one nose, two hands, one, “me,” looking directly back at me. Whether it be while slipping on canvass slippers, LaDuca three-inch character heels, or slicking my hair back into a bunch, this figure that has grown into a 5’6” blonde woman has always been starring right back at me, through everything I enjoy doing in life.

——————————————

The bustling of hot, sweaty, lanky girls swallowed the halls of the ballet studio. Bunheads rushed in and out of the dressing rooms and dance studios. In the back right corner, tucked a little ways away from the older, scary high schoolers was a small room, with a barre that leveled off at about three and a half feet. The same nerves and excitement pulsed through my body every day as I slipped on my canvas pink ballet slippers and stepped onto the Marley floors. Every class was an opportunity for me to hold myself high and pretend I was just as tall as the “big girls” that I scurried past on my way to class. As I approached the cold, steel bar, I placed my right hand barely on the surface and began our typical routine. At the ripe age of four, the only reason I wanted to look in the reflection that pictured me on the front wall was to admire myself, and sometimes, more often than not, mess with the bun my mom securely fastened to the crown of my head.

——————————————

“Five! Six! Seven Eight!” is the beginning of nearly every combination in the history of dance. Each number growing in value (see dancers use math too), each number releasing a swarm full of butterflies in my stomach. After “eight,” you are off to the races, showcasing the meticulous details of the combination shown to you at the top of the audition. As each beat plays in the music, I rack my brain to recall the correct sequence. All the while, I am starring into blue eyes that scan my body up and down, “Am I pointing my toes?, “Are my fingers supposed to be spread apart in this position?” “How should I be carrying my Port de Bras?” And the one that always gets me “Wait! Are you smiling?”

———————————————

I am sitting on the cold, not cleanest floors of a dance studio. With a fresh pink box in front of me, that reads, “Russian Pointe.” At this moment, it seems as though all of my dreams had come true. Finally, finally, I was able to dance in my first pair of pointe shoes. I had only spent years peaking my head into the classes of the girls who danced on their toes; now it was my turn. My daydreaming continued as my teacher explained how to sew the ribbons on the shoe properly. Thankfully, my mom stood behind me carefully watching the example (she knew that I would ruin the rather expensive Russian Pointes if I dared to pull and needle and threat through them). Carefully, I slid my foot into the pale pink slippers and crossed the ribbons around my ankles to mimic the criss-cross pattern of all the Degas paintings. Returning to the all familiar barre, I placed my two hands on the cold surface, standing in the first position, with the inside on my feet pictured in front of me, and I rose onto the tops of my toes. Though I was afraid of the pain, I couldn’t feel a pinch, because I was on cloud nine. The line from my toe, up my legs, matched the images that I grew up striving to recreate on the glass in from of me.

———————————————

Although dancing in three-inch heels may not sound enjoyable, or even safe for that matter, my years of dancing on my toes made the transition to character heels slightly easier. But trust me, the pain did not go away. The sounds of classical piano riffs were exchanged for the powerful belting of Sutton Foster and Patti LuPone. I saw the same lines in the mirror; the reflection of moves had not changed, only the shoes. After being drilled to, “Spot the mirror on your turns” because “doubles are not acceptable!” Eventually, I got the hang of it. I saw my kicks becoming more stable, and with that, my confidence grew.

———————————————

It was chilly to begin the dance call (especially when you’re only in a leotard and tights). But the room heated up quickly, as it was packed full of dancers on top of each other all attempting to learn the latest choreography thrown at them. Beginning with ballet, we took center for the first combination. Only seven counts of eight, this should be easy- I thought. Looking myself up and down in the mirror, making the smallest adjustment, I attempted to perfect every step. “Now we will be breaking you down into groups of three,” said the man with a clipboard at the front of the room. Three, why three?! I hate three! Groups of three mean one person is bound to end up in the front alone. And that person is always me. These words repeated over and over in my brain as my nerves pulsed from my toes to my bun on my head. “Gabrielle Phillips. Front and center please.” I told you so. I adjusted my leotard navy blue leotard in the mirror, slicked my hair back with my hands, and awaited the music. From there we were off. Ball change kick, walk walk, prepare turn- moves flashed through my memory as I replicated the choreographer's feet, legs, torso, arms, and head. Checking each stance in the mirror, while remembering to “enjoy the dance,” which is honestly harder than it seems when there are at least fifty girls on the side watching your every move, waiting for you to make a mistake. Finishing strong was vital, pop the one leg, throw one arm in the air, and smile at yourself in the foggy glass, and you’ll be grinning right back at yourself.

———————————————

Each Tuesday and Thursday nine in the morning movement begins the same way, “Line up! Are you ready to begin?” Our teacher, Kate, enters the room with her head high, and her expectations even higher. We begin the warm-up laugh to us the first week of classes, a series of stretching, balancing, and strengthening exercises. At nine o’clock AM, I find myself utilizing the reflections of my classmates to ensure that I am following the correct sequence. As the class continues, we explore movement in our bodies, creating abstract, individualized motions through space. Periodically I check back in with my reflection to evaluate the progress I am making. Beads of sweat are dripping down my face and neck, and my cheeks are the shade of a tomato. As we complete our class of turns, kicks, and leaps, we walk out of the frame; returning to campus.

———————————————

Typically, when you think of an essential place in your life, it is a single location. For me, one room didn’t make me into the person I am today; an object consistently in every place truly made a difference. No matter if I was at Rochester Ballet Studio for my first ballet class, in Chicago for a Billy Elliot audition, or the dance studio in the basement of FSU’s Fine Arts Building, there was always a mirror. And in the mirror was the same vision of two feet, two eyes, one nose, two hands, and one “me” looking directly back at me. The consistency was comforting to me as I faced some of the most nerve wrecking experiences growing up.

Dancing will always be my first love, and I am incredibly thankful that I have had the opportunity to watch myself enjoying every step all of these years.

Final Paper

The Glass With Developing Reflections

Typically described as glass, on the thinner side, flat, in an upright position. The vision of two feet, two eyes, two hands, one nose, and one “me” looking directly back at myself. Whether I am putting on canvas slippers, painful Russian Pointes or LaDuca three-inch character heels, I’ve been watching the same reflection in front of me. And that reflection has grown into a 5’6” blonde woman, shaped by moments in glass on a wall.

—————————————————

Beginning of the Bunhead.

The bustling of hot, sweaty, lanky girls swallowed the halls of the ballet studio. Bunheads rushed in and out of the dressing rooms and dance studios. In the back right corner, tucked away from the older, scary high schoolers, was a small room with a barre that leveled off at about three and a half feet. The same nerves and excitement pulsed through my body everyday as I slipped on my canvas pink ballet slippers and stepped onto the Marley floors. Every class was an opportunity for me to hold myself high and pretend I was just as tall as the “big girls” that I scurried past on my way to class. As I approached the cold steel bar, I barely placed my right hand on the surface as we began our typical routine. At the young age of four, the only reason I wanted to look in the reflection that pictured me on the front wall was to admire myself, and sometimes, more often than not, mess with the bun my mom securely fastened to the crown of my head.

The Counts.

“Five! Six! Seven! Eight!” is the beginning of nearly every combination in the history of dance. Each number growing in value (see dancers use math too), each number releasing a swarm full of butterflies in my stomach. After “eight,” you are off to the races, showcasing the meticulous details of the combination shown to you at the top of the audition. As each beat plays in the music, I rack my brain to recall the correct sequence. All the while, I am staring into blue eyes that scan my body up and down, as questions reel through my head, Am I pointing my toes? Are my fingers supposed to be spread apart in this position? How should I be carrying my Port de Bras? And the one that always gets me, Wait! Are you smiling?

Home Development.

What really makes a dancer? Some say the body, the lines, or the face. According to any dance teacher, the bun makes the dancer. Too loose and your hair would be falling out in the middle of your fouettés, hitting you in the face with every turn. Too tight and you would have a headache that distracts you from class. You spend your time picking and pulling to keep it from being slicked back and having your temples pulse painfully. Before every dance class, my mom and I went into her bathroom room. I sat on the white marble counter looking back at my mom through the glass in front of me. She looked down at the top of my head as she brush my hair into a slow bun. She tied it off then proceeded to place bobby-pins around the edges. “Give your head a shake,” said my mom as I wiggled around to check the security. Perfect! Then she finished her masterpiece with my pink crochet bun cover. I hopped off of the counter and raced her out to the car as she chased after me with with hairspray to flatten my pesky flyaways.

Russian Pointe.

I am sitting on the cold, dirty floors of a dance studio. With a fresh pink box in front of me, that reads, “Russian Pointe.” At this moment, it seems as though all of my dreams had come true. Finally, I was able to dance in my first pair of pointe shoes. I had only spent years peaking my head into the classes of the girls who danced on their toes; now it was my turn. My daydreaming continued as my teacher explained how to sew the ribbons on the shoe properly. Thankfully, my mom stood behind me carefully watching the example (she knew that I would ruin the expensive Russian Pointes if I dared to pull the needle and thread through them). Carefully, I slid my foot into the pale pink slippers and crossed the ribbons around my ankles to mimic the criss-cross pattern of the Degas paintings. Returning to the familiar barre, I placed my two hands on the cold surface, standing in the first position, with the inside on my feet pictured in front of me, and I rose onto the tops of my toes. Though I was afraid of the pain, I couldn’t feel a pinch, because I was on cloud nine. The line from my toe, up my legs, matched the images that I grew up striving to recreate on the glass in from of me.

Trade of Change.

Front and Center.

“Now we will be breaking you down into groups of three,” said the man with a clipboard at the front of the room. Three, why three?! I hate three! Groups of three mean one person is bound to end up in the front alone. And that person is always me. These words repeated over and over in my brain as my nerves pulsed from my toes to my bun on my head. “Gabrielle Phillips. Front and center please.”

I told you so. I adjusted my leotard navy blue leotard in the mirror, slicked my hair back with my hands, and awaited the music. From there we were off. Ball change kick, walk walk, prepare turn- moves flashed through my memory as I replicated the choreographer's feet, legs, torso, arms, and head. Checking each stance in the mirror, while remembering to enjoy the dance, which is honestly harder than it seems when there are at least fifty girls on the side watching your every move, waiting for you to make a mistake. Finishing strong was vital, pop the one leg, throw one arm in the air, and smile at yourself in the foggy glass, and you’ll be grinning right back at yourself.

Nine in the Morning Tomato.

Each Tuesday and Thursday nine in the morning movement begins the same way, “Line up! Are you ready to begin?” Our teacher, Kate, enters the room with her head high, and her expectations even higher. We begin the warm-up taught to us the first week of classes: a series of stretching, balancing, and strengthening exercises. At nine in the morning, I find myself utilizing the reflections of my classmates to ensure that I am following the correct sequence. As the class continues, we explore movement in our bodies, creating abstract, individualized motions through space. Periodically I check back in with my reflection to evaluate the progress I am making. Beads of sweat are dripping down my face and neck, and my cheeks are the shade of a tomato. As we complete our class of turns, kicks, and leaps, we walk out of the frame; returning to campus.

—————————————————

Typically, when you think of an essential place in your life, it is a single location. For me, one room didn’t make me into the person I am today; an object consistently in every place truly made a difference. No matter if I was at Rochester Ballet Studio for my first ballet class, in Chicago for a Billy Elliot audition, or the dance studio in the basement of FSU’s Fine Arts Building, there was always a mirror. And in the mirror was the same vision of two feet, two eyes, two hands, one nose, and one “me” looking directly back at myself. The consistency was comforting to me as I faced some of the most nerve wrecking experiences growing up.

[Project Two]

Outline

First Draft

Draft Two

Final Paper​

Final Paper