Studio style

Sylvie Guillem, prima ballerina, takes her ballet class in a full-length black raincoat. Or at least she did the day I had a cheeky peek through the Royal Opera House studio windows in London’s Covent Garden. As a well groomed ballet student of barely 16, fragile torso neatly encased in a baby blue leotard, I was baffled. After asking one of the more worldly senior students, I was told that this was her signature ‘look’. Just one of her eccentricities that give her that undeniable mystique. The thick cotton and polyester masked those dangerous legs, her messy hair fell loosely around her delicate face. With every tendu, out would shoot a ragged leg warmer. With every develope a sinewy leg slid from the folds of the fabric. On this day, my concept of the ‘ballerina’ was somewhat shattered. Sylvie was not the glamazon I had expected.

When I’m asked what I do for a living and reply ‘I’m a ballet dancer’, the reaction is usually one of doe-eyed admiration. People begin to wax lyrical about how glamorous it must be. Perhaps their brains conjure up images of delicate girls with their hair in chignons and perfect pairs of shiny ballet slippers. It’s no wonder most people we meet get a shock when all of us aren’t angelic and softly spoken, but mature and career driven, and with their eye on the sartorial pulse. The ties between fashion and the theatre have been going on for over a hundred years. As the 1903 magazine Dry Goods Economist wrote: “Does not the sight of the dainty show girl instill in the women of every city and town the desire to be as well dressed and bewitching as her sister on the other side of the footlights?” . The iconic Degas paintings of young girls in ballet class wearing frothy white skirts neatly tied around the waist with a big blue sash have been impressed into society, therefore prompting the public to believe that ballet is terribly old fashioned. Place one of The Australian Ballet’s sculpted bodies next to one of Degas’ voluptuous portrayals of a ballet dancer and it is clear why the evolution towards skin tight, breathable fabrics has happened.

In the last decade, fashion and dance have become even more closely linked. One simply has to walk into any shoe shop to find a variation of the ubiquitous Chanel ‘ballet flat’ that, along with the skinny jean and the leather jacket, has become a staple of any young woman’s wardrobe. Anna Plunkett and Luke Sales of Australian label Romance Was Born have used the tutu as a basis for some of their more fantastical designs in their Spring/Summer 09/10 collection. Russh Magazine (March April 09) reported “Ballerina Fever! From tutus at Balmain to ribbon tied stilettos at Jean Paul Gaultier, who opened his spectacular SS 09 show with a performance by a troupe of dancers including multi-talented Coco Rocha, dance is back in style”. The trend even extends to hair “At Lanvin, hair once loose had been raked into bunches fit for the Ballets Russes”.

All dancers are very concerned with the way they look. Each of us make an effort in dressing for the day of rehearsals ahead of us. Often a new leotard will bring glances of approval from peers. A little glamour can help us through the day of sweaty and concentrated work. But, we don’t float from rehearsal to rehearsal in sugary pinks and gauzy chiffon as fashion magazines such as Vogue and Russh often suggest. It’s easy to see why they do. The fashion fantasy of the ‘ballerina’ taps into the lost dream so many young girls had, of one day putting on a tiara and a pair of pointe shoes.

At times, it appears the entire fashion industry is ready to slip on a tulle skirt and claim dance as the inspiration for pretty, wearable, feminine clothes. But what of the dancers themselves? Are we destined to be portrayed as porcelain doll-like creatures draped in dainty gossamer with feathery trimmings? The reality is that in the harsh studio light of a late afternoon rehearsal, I gaze around at athletic, beautiful bodies poured into dark shades of lycra, the occasional black tight with a great big ladder slashed through it and it is evident the idolised dreamy dancer is in fact a steely athlete, dressed accordingly. Vintage oversized t-shirts abound and hair that has been haphazardly pinned into a spiky bun is often accessorised with a blunt fringe. Then, we step onto the stage, and suddenly all the hours spent in the studio become irrelevant. We put on our scratchy corseted tutus and yearn for the supple comfort of a leotard. Of course only a dancer will know this.

Once the red curtain descends on the final bow of the evening, the public leave with their fantasy still intact. Much in the way the best outfits often look haphazardly thrown together and coolly nonchalant, so too does ballet have to appear. When we are bounding our way around the stage, huffing through the final phrase of our solo, it all must look effortless. Gone are the days of Fonteyn exiting stage door in full make up and fur. Now, after a show, dancers wearily climb onto the tram home. There is no trace of make up left, and the elegant hair is now a nest, harbouring hair spray and the occasional forgotten bobby pin. I’ve heard Sylvie catches a ride on the back of her boyfriend’s motorbike after 3000 people applaud her radiant femininity. Young girls will never cease to picture their ballet careers being spent wearing diamonds, but perhaps this is a fantasy to be nurtured. After all, what would ballet be without a little fantasy?

Annie Carroll is a corps de ballet dancer with The Australian Ballet