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It
was early Friday evening in the spring of
1988.
The 2nd year class
at the Central School for
Ballet in London was in full flow of their bi-weekly
Modern-Jazz dance class with master teacher Deirdre
Lovell. Herb Alpert was inspiring the enchainment
en l’air across the floor. Her voice simultaneously
stern and melodic, demanded bigger breath, longer
arms, higher leaps and softer landings. She had this
unusual way of barking orders that inspired dancers
to go past their limits. Those classes were always
exciting and energy charged. You never knew what Ms
D would say – it usually made everyone laugh
or go profoundly introspective.
The class had moved across the floor twice (starting both right and left). Ms D jumped off her stool because there was a nuance that the 2nd year class was just not getting in the preparation for the leap. In that manner in which mature dancers are able to pull on muscle memory and do some physical thing that two minutes earlier was the furthest thing from their minds, Ms D leaps up; then suddenly, out of the blue, the sound of a gun-shot. Everyone heard it, nobody saw it coming – not even Ms D. |
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