Nureyev's Shadow: 
On The Pleasures of the Obstructed View

Not a 'first' memory, but a first experience of one kind of performance, that casts a shadow.

When I was about 20 years old, I attended a performance of a ballet.  I no longer remember the title of the ballet, but I remember that the reason for buying the tickets, for making the journey, for attending the performance was to see Rudolph Nureyev dance.  I don't believe I had ever been to a live ballet, and I didn't know much about the form.  Like so much else, I'd seen it on television variety shows, in small doses, in black and white.  But I knew Nureyev well enough, because he had been in the news as a high profile defector from the Soviet Union--and a dark and mysterious figure, Romantic (with a capital R).  There was a general fascination for this performer, and as ignorant as I was, I had that fascination.   

I was in London, England as part of a school trip, and we didn't have much money; but we did manage to get tickets, which were surprising inexpensive.   

Of course there was a reason for the price.  When we went to our seats, we realized that the theatre was an old opera house, which included boxes and galleries and, near the top, on the side, in the back, bench seats called 'slips.'  We realized, when we sat down, that the Slips were for people who wanted to listen to the music.  It was clearly not for those who wanted to see a performance.  There was almost no view of the stage. 

So for two hours we listened to the music, watched the conductor and the musicians and the audience.  And we watched the very front of the apron of the stage, where every now and then, a part of someone's dancing body might be seen, if you paid attention. 

But there was something more.  We witnessed Nureyev's shadow, leaping across the stage at ever-greater heights, his legs stretched and his torso straight.   

To my surprise, I found myself paying close attention to what I could see, and admiring it for what it was.  My disappointment disappeared.  This was a Shadow Play.   

I have forgotten so much, but I remember this performance very well.  I remember it because it was surprising, and arresting, and because it was, in a very unexpected way, beautiful.  It carried meaning to me, from the apron floor.   

We all pay extra for an unobstructed view.  But what view is, after all, unobstructed?   

I have strained my body around the young actor placed at the edge of the stage, blocking me from watching Ian McKellan strip naked as Lear.  I have all-but-elbowed children out of my way to have a closer view of Christ's trial during a promenade production of The Passion.  I have watched the lower half of Wagner's Siegfried, because I could only afford standing room ticket at the Met, at the back of the orchestra, underneath the Mezzanine.  And I have, like many others, experienced tall people with high hats sit in front of me, all my theatre going life.   

But for some reason, this hasn't bothered me.  Perhaps it was those early experiences at the Festival Theatre at Stratford, sitting around to the side, almost watching from behind the action, clearly watching the action from a place never considered by the Director.   

I never minded the ticket to 'the obstructed view.'  It was only an admission of a general truth.   

And anyway--I saw Rudolph Nureyev's shadow dance.