Do Painted Ballerinas Dream of Temporary Tattoos?
Do Painted Ballerinas Dream of Temporary Tattoos?
Written by Lucy Latorre
Art by Lucy Latorre
Like many girls who turned three in 2007, I watched Barbie in the 12 Dancing Princesses like it was a requirement. The sisters mesmerized me—their steps light and delicate, but their personalities bright and bold. I would bounce around my living room trying to mimic their moves, matching their faces, and pretending that I had my own brightly colored dress. There, in front of my TV, I was a ballerina, too.
Outside of my living room, I took ballet lessons at a local dance studio. I wasn’t a bad dancer. I wasn’t a very good dancer, either. My passion pushed me to at least have a speck of showmanship, even if I was a beat behind everyone else. Even if my arms weren’t straight and I couldn’t jump without landing heavily on my weird, tiny feet, I looked like I was having a good time. Like Princess Genevieve and her sisters, I danced with a smile on my face, my personality just as visible as my dance moves.
But then I saw a new kind of ballerina. In the left corner was an Edgar Degas painting littered with pristine ballerinas, outdoing even the most beautiful of the Barbie sisters. When I was zoning out on the barre, I would fixate on them. The ballerinas always donned grand white tutus and puffed sleeves with brightly colored sashes tied at the waist. Their hair was wrapped into perfect, voluminous buns with flowers and bows. As I stared at the girls, they stared back at me in all my awkward glory.
Unlike the ballerinas in Degas’s paintings, I was not neat. I never wore my snood, so my bun was loose with too many flyaways. My tights were ripped and running, and sometimes I’d forget to wear them at all. I would get my nails painted with bright, sparkly colors and chew on them, leaving each nail with its own unique, chipped-up shape. If I didn’t have the unitard and the slippers, there was absolutely nothing about me that screamed “ballerina.”
Like many girls who turned five in 2009, I liked to cover myself in temporary tattoos. Butterflies, Harley-Davidson logos, and Disney Princesses covered any visible skin. I was more of a billboard than a child. But for 25 cents at a local diner, temporary tattoos were an inexpensive way to express my personality and my interests. I could put my tights on and be a ballerina, but afterwards, my legs would be an advertisement for everything I loved.
This feeling was not reciprocated by my ballet teacher. During a lesson before our recital, my teacher invited the parents to discuss how to dress us. Each girl was to look exactly the same as the girl next to her. Or, at least, not at all like me. She called me to stand in front of the class.
“Now, this is what you shouldn’t look like.”
No runs in our tights, no flyaway hairs, no sparkly nail polish. No temporary tattoos. As I walked back to the circle of my classmates, I was forced to reckon with a tough truth. Half the beauty of ballet is the synchronicity, in appearance as well as movement. To be a ballerina, you have to sacrifice your personality.
Degas’s ballerinas watched this, locked behind the painting. They stayed completely still as nothing more than a group of ballerinas. Barely any expressions besides a slight smile. I think they would’ve looked better with some temporary tattoos.