the ocean

Yesterday we went to my niece and nephew's dance recital in the suburbs. Because of the pandemic, we haven't had this experience before, although we have seen cell phone video footage of prior performances, including one involving a tiger outfit. This particular show was billed as a version of the Nutcracker, despite the fact that ultimately Tchaikovsky got about as much play as Sia. It was about as you would expect: much longer on cuteness than, say, technical precision. I especially enjoyed the way many of the children looked slightly to stage right throughout the production so they could see their teachers performing the moves in the wings. It provided a sort of Brechtian alienation that was otherwise sorely absent from the proceedings.

The point, of course, was that everyone seemed to have a great time. Except perhaps the child who sat down in the middle of the stage with his back to the audience and had to be carried off crying mid performance. People will be telling that story when he is forty. Unless he ends up dealing meth or something; it would probably seem less cute then. But Jack and Maggie both seemed thrilled. Maggie loved her costume, which looked something like what Christina Aguilera wore in the Lady Marmalade video but, you know, slightly more age appropriate. And Jack was genuinely chuffed (yes, chuffed) by his group's placement last on the program, which he characterized as "the grand finale." It was both grand and, more importantly in these circumstances, truly final.

This is why it is so important to introduce children to the arts at an early age. You want them to associate them with dinner at McDonald's afterwards as opposed to with, say, Patti LuPone.