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MATTHEW MURPHY |
Last night marked the official end of my four-year career with American Ballet Theatre. There were no balloons, no speeches, no tears, and ultimately no closure. Standing in the wings, watching my childhood idols Julie Kent and Ethan Stiefel dancing Giselle, I was reminded of how lucky I am to have worked alongside so many inspiring artists. But as the second act progressed, and the ghost-like wilis overtook the stage, I couldn’t help but feel like one myself.
Over the past year I have had moments of hope where my return to the company seemed almost within reach. Then, in March, the decision was made that I was going to step away from the company and devote my emotional and physical energy into healing; hoping was replaced with coping. That was long ago, and over the course of the subsequent months I have faced the emotional devastation of dealing with a chronic illness that ultimately pulled me away from the goal I worked toward since I was thirteen.
One of the words I have wrestled with most through this time is “closure.” As performer and a writer, I enjoy experiencing the arc of my movement or words when creation is complete. The art that I lose myself in, often wraps things up in a way that morphs my perception of the journeys we take.
I put much of my hope for a neatly tied bow in the end of the year party that typically occurs on the Friday before the final day of Met season. It is a time to celebrate the dancers’ hard work and acknowledge those who are leaving. Because of the nature of ABT’s schedule this year (which continues after Met with four weeks of tour), the party was eliminated. With its cancellation came a barrage of emotions.
It is one of many rituals dancers experience when parting ways with the company, in which I could not partake. I didn’t know my last show, a Romeo and Juliet in Chicago in April 2007, was going to be the final bow I took with the company. While some of these rituals may indeed be superficial, they are moments I wish I had the chance to experience.
In reality, my departure began shortly after that bow, when I was diagnosed with Epstein Barr Virus. Since then, I have drifted away from the friends that became my family during my time with the company. Yet my name still rested comfortably in the middle of the corps listing of the program. Its removal cuts the final strings that tied me to my first New York family.
I took a walk through the Met yesterday evening (essentially this family’s home), gathering my memories of my time as a member. As I wove through the maze, I wondered if it was the last time my ID would let me through the doors; if my dressing room spot would ever be mine again; if I would ever warm-up at the barres in the wings; if I would have another ‘first’ performance, entering the stage and feeling the orchestra sweep over me. These are all questions I can’t answer.
Walking around backstage, I began realizing that life, unlike the movement or words in whose arcs I trust, isn’t something that can be revised through rehearsals or drafts in order to come to a resolution. It is a constantly evolving creation that isn’t over until it’s over. It’s entirely possible that I will be back. And it’s entirely possible that I won’t. I guess that’s the beauty of not having closure; possibilities are endless.
