the blog

| 6.7.2016 | Some Kind of Second Wind |

The not-so-serious diary of a dancer on the run, inspired by David Foster Wallace’s “How Tracy Austin Broke My Heart,” and the often undocumented wit and intelligence of my colleagues and friends.

I have no collection of unfinished manuscripts in my drawer — somebody once told me that’s how I’d know I really want to write. Now I’m not so sure about this: Most days, I’m still not convinced I really want to dance, but I’ve collected notebooks detailing rehearsals inscribed as counts and steps and corrections. Disorganized email folders full of love letters to choreographers and co-conspirators. Some self-designed, some stolen costumes still hanging in my closet and a trunk overflowing with programs and pre-Instagram performance photographs. Some small scars and knees full of noisy scar tissue. An unintentional career’s worth of insane physical discipline and unquantifiable joy, inescapable self-doubt, and unlikely – but infinitely rewarding — partnerships.

As dancers, we furiously prepare our best in order to seize the few moments we’re given to prove we have something to share. I often wonder about all that we don’t get to say. Here I’ll start to collect those stories.

About me: I took my first professional steps with the New York City Ballet, but when injuries and unhappiness got the better of me, I traded in my coveted place in the company ranks for the college classroom and the opportunity to pursue a future beyond ballet. One semester into my studies at Columbia, I discovered studios across Broadway, found my second wind, and fell in love with dance again.

A big “thank you” to my generous editors, Leslie Curtis & Caitlin Trainor, for lending their time and good taste to this blog.

Emery LeCrone’s Aria at Jacob’s Pillow. Photo by Richard Curtis.

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