River Tam (
soulmakingsound) wrote in
0hlala2023-02-04 02:32 am
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[would i still be allowed to dance?]
It doesn't matter where she is. She could be waiting for the subway. She might be out in front of the Louvre, where the glass pyramid, carefully staying out of the way of skateboarders. Wherever there is a flat surface (or even a not-so-flat one), River is dancing.
It's been a hectic few days. Finding herself in an entirely new place, without her brother. Without her crew. But dancing calms her mind. And so she moves her body to whatever song is in her head, letting the steps soothe her.
It's been a hectic few days. Finding herself in an entirely new place, without her brother. Without her crew. But dancing calms her mind. And so she moves her body to whatever song is in her head, letting the steps soothe her.
no subject
She saunters past him, the girl from earlier, the girl with the audition, apparently in her own world, the steps recognisable to anyone who's danced the style. The ground looks treacherously slippery, however, and he reaches out, cigarette still between his lips, and catches her by the upper arm, halting her movements that were otherwise nice. Light port de bras. That claw might need a little work, though, if she really wants to make it in Paris.
"Careful," he tells her, "it's slippery here."
no subject
The man holding her arm looks familiar and she tilts her head to the side, birdlike. Curious. "Most birds have to land," she says. Quoting one of his replies to her.
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"Your port de bras is beautiful, but you need to tense your fingers less. Only the Americans like a Balanchine claw." The same lightness with which she uses her shoulders and arms need to go into her fingers. They need to be elegant, refined and always subtly pointy. Even a French Odile would never show the harsh finger arrangement of most current New York City Ballet ballerinas.
no subject
"My teacher was rigid. Precise. Everything in its place. At times, it is hard to forget what we're taught and simply dance."
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He catches his smoke between two fingers, looking at it for a moment, then dropping it on the pavement and stubbing it out beneath his heel. The snow sizzles a second, then the cigarette is dead and gone and forgotten. Looking at her again, he cocks his head to one side, motioning for her to indicate which way she's intending to dance now, he'll follow her. It's cold, but the weather is beautiful, he can afford to take a detour with her.
"Did you get a spot?"
no subject
She picks up the soft sided duffel that holds her combat boots, a coat if she gets too cold, and her phone. Tilting her head in the opposite direction, she turns the unasked question back to him. "Where to go? You know the city better."