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Out of Step: A Life in Ballet
'You have a child prodigy, Mrs Glasbeek.' With these words Madame Xenia Borovansky sealed Alida Belair's destiny in the world of ballet. Three years later, at the age of eleven, Alida became a celebrity in her role as Clara in the Borovansky Ballet's production of the Nutcracker Suite.
This is the story of a gifted young ballerina's determination to perfect her art - a determination that took Alida from Melbourne to the Bolshoi Ballet in Moscow, and on to leading roles with prestigious companies in London and New York.
It is also the story of a vulnerable young girl's struggle to come to terms with the disappointment of being no longer the child prodigy, and her search to reconcile her physically demanding art with her emotional needs and intellectual development. A protracted battle against anorexia, the loneliness of living out of a suitcase, and the growing realization that there is a world outside the cloisters of the ballet, all set Alida on a collision course with the strange, mute art form to which she sacrificed so much.
With her satirical eye and human warmth, Alida brings to life a host of characters in a most extraordinary world. Hilarious and moving by turns, this is an unforgettable book.
This is the story of a gifted young ballerina's determination to perfect her art - a determination that took Alida from Melbourne to the Bolshoi Ballet in Moscow, and on to leading roles with prestigious companies in London and New York.
It is also the story of a vulnerable young girl's struggle to come to terms with the disappointment of being no longer the child prodigy, and her search to reconcile her physically demanding art with her emotional needs and intellectual development. A protracted battle against anorexia, the loneliness of living out of a suitcase, and the growing realization that there is a world outside the cloisters of the ballet, all set Alida on a collision course with the strange, mute art form to which she sacrificed so much.
With her satirical eye and human warmth, Alida brings to life a host of characters in a most extraordinary world. Hilarious and moving by turns, this is an unforgettable book.
- GenresNonfiction
304 pages, Hardcover
First published March 1, 1994
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October 10, 2015
Belair was lucky, perhaps. Natural talent plus adults willing to capitalise on that talent...or exploit it. Perhaps not so lucky. But hers is at the very least a colourful story: born in hiding to Jewish parents in Vichy France, immigration to Australia at a young age, ballet lessons and rising stardom, again at a young age, professional success tempered by one difficulty after another.
The writing is so-so, but Belair is appealingly snarky. She doesn't hold back—hers are not rose-coloured glasses! Some of the people she danced with, or learned from, meet with her approval in this book, but many do not. It works because she is equally willing to take her younger self to task, presenting herself (intentionally) as quite a diva when she was a child, and then rather neurotic and insecure as an adult. Though I liked to believe that I was tolerant of most of my friends' sexual activities, she says, I had steadfastly protected my own virginity (159). Not 'I was tolerant' but 'I liked to believe I was tolerant'...opening up room for doubts and raised eyebrows. She takes herself seriously enough to be writing this book, but she's self-aware enough to poke fun at herself: [In Light Fantastic] I danced the part of a dizzy coquettish character, in marked contrast to the grandiose classical elegance of the other ballets in my repertoire. This was not a bad thing for someone who was inclined to take herself rather too seriously (178–179).
One of the things that interests me most about Belair's trajectory is her determination to get to Russia. She trained in the Russian style of ballet, but at the time the Cold War was on. Visas to study in Russia were difficult to come by, and applicants treated with suspicion. She did manage, for a time, but all good things must come to an end and so on...and occasionally, here, she says things that are reminders of how fragile dreams can be. I told myself over and over again that if I didn't resist the temptation to join as a soloist now, before I was ready, then I would always be a soloist, never a principal (163–164).
Belair was fortunate in a way that many aspiring dancers are not: she had offers, often several at a time, to join companies. Good offers. Well-established, respected companies. And yet throughout the book she's up against the question of whether or not that's really what she wants. It's a level of success that many can only dream of...but not, perhaps, the success that she dreams of.
The book ends quite abruptly with , though it sounds as though that might have been for the best, given her disillusionment. Judging by what little I could find on the web, she danced a while in Australia after the end of the period the book covers, but...not in the same realm. I imagine her life, and career, would have been very, very different had she been born forty years later.
The writing is so-so, but Belair is appealingly snarky. She doesn't hold back—hers are not rose-coloured glasses! Some of the people she danced with, or learned from, meet with her approval in this book, but many do not. It works because she is equally willing to take her younger self to task, presenting herself (intentionally) as quite a diva when she was a child, and then rather neurotic and insecure as an adult. Though I liked to believe that I was tolerant of most of my friends' sexual activities, she says, I had steadfastly protected my own virginity (159). Not 'I was tolerant' but 'I liked to believe I was tolerant'...opening up room for doubts and raised eyebrows. She takes herself seriously enough to be writing this book, but she's self-aware enough to poke fun at herself: [In Light Fantastic] I danced the part of a dizzy coquettish character, in marked contrast to the grandiose classical elegance of the other ballets in my repertoire. This was not a bad thing for someone who was inclined to take herself rather too seriously (178–179).
One of the things that interests me most about Belair's trajectory is her determination to get to Russia. She trained in the Russian style of ballet, but at the time the Cold War was on. Visas to study in Russia were difficult to come by, and applicants treated with suspicion. She did manage, for a time, but all good things must come to an end and so on...and occasionally, here, she says things that are reminders of how fragile dreams can be. I told myself over and over again that if I didn't resist the temptation to join as a soloist now, before I was ready, then I would always be a soloist, never a principal (163–164).
Belair was fortunate in a way that many aspiring dancers are not: she had offers, often several at a time, to join companies. Good offers. Well-established, respected companies. And yet throughout the book she's up against the question of whether or not that's really what she wants. It's a level of success that many can only dream of...but not, perhaps, the success that she dreams of.
The book ends quite abruptly with , though it sounds as though that might have been for the best, given her disillusionment. Judging by what little I could find on the web, she danced a while in Australia after the end of the period the book covers, but...not in the same realm. I imagine her life, and career, would have been very, very different had she been born forty years later.
Displaying 1 of 1 review