I cannot now, write about certain things. I have noticed a similar thread amongst some other writers, and a certain Irish Daily Mail article springs to mind. How truly free is one to write and to express himself? Naturally, I am privileged to live in a democracy, privileged to live a life free of the traumas so many others endure in their vies quotidiennes. Particularly today, Holocaust Memorial Day, we reflect on the many, many things that make us so lucky. The most obvious: I am alive, and I assume you must be as well if you are reading this, so therefore - no moaning. But, I find there are so many underlying constraints to writing. I would love to write about the previous weekend in full. However, I cannot, because too much is too revealing. Perhaps it's the middle-class morality again.
One thing I am pleased to write freely about is the ballet. An incredibly lucky (and kind) connection offered me tickets to Giselle, a production by the English National Ballet. It was the first time in several years I had made it to the ballet, something I really must do so much more often. It was quite lovely, and I had forgotten how moving it can be. I would moan about how I wish I could dance, had done ballet myself as a child, but moaning is banished for the day. I often find the universe so funny. It was only the previous day I was reading the production's review in the Evening Standard, thinking I really must try to go. And lo and behold, the call came minutes later with the offer of tickets. Marvellous!
The prelude to Giselle is Men y Men, which is somehow a most annoying name. I do get it, but it sounds cheap. I suppose then I was most surprised by how good it was. The effect was of a great many floating male torsos, it was entirely mesmeric. Again, I might moan about my torso not looking quite like that, but I mustn't. Though I do feel this is slightly cheating. It was bold and powerful, but very harmonious. Quite stunning. I often prefer contemporary dance to some of the older stuff. Then Giselle started and drove this from my mind. The two pieces contrast well; the strongly masculine with the quaintly feminine. The very nature of Giselle's death is quaint and dainty, and it actually rather bothers me. Naturally, she is distressed, maddened by the identity of her lover, but actual death seems so pathetic. I mentioned this to a friend, and feel much validated by her response. Apparently Giselle kills herself by Albrecht's sword in the original. This makes so much sense, especially as she picks the thing up and threatens to do the deed anyway. Why the change? I sense some Victorian censorship.
