365 days

or

how is a ballet actually created?

 

365 days – that’s how long it takes for an idea to become a fairy tale on stage once again.

The short answer to the question of how a ballet is created is:

With a lot of passion, a touch of madness and an astonishing amount of optimism.

In between lie countless dance steps, even more ideas, an astonishing number of unplanned surprises – and at least twice as many minor nervous breakdowns.

The long answer usually begins with an idea.

At the start of a new production, I sit there full of energy and enthusiasm, thinking:

 

‘This time, everything will be completely relaxed. Nothing unexpected will get in the way and nobody will fall ill!’

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A few months later, I find myself wondering why I ever believed that would be possible.

The first step is choosing the music. That sounds simple at first. But it isn’t.

Because suddenly you hear a piece of music and think: “Perfect!” Three days later you hear another and think: “No, this one’s perfect!” A week later you discover a third – and start all over again.

 

Meanwhile, the first choreography is already taking shape in my head. Even before a single step has been danced, the images are already dancing through my thoughts.

Then the real work begins.

 

Step by step, the dances take shape. One group gets its choreography. Then the next. Then the next. Some movements work straight away. Others look brilliant in theory but, in practice, look rather as if you’ve accidentally choreographed a traffic jam on stage.

So changes are made, adjustments are fine-tuned and the routines are optimised.

 

Sometimes a passage is rearranged five times.

Sometimes ten times.

 

And sometimes an entire choreography even ends up back in the bin because the positions of the sets have changed at short notice due to set-change times.

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At the same time, the costumes are taking shape.

At first, there’s just an idea in your head.

Then the first fabrics arrive.

The first samples.

The first finished pieces.

 

And at some point, there’s suddenly glitter, ribbons, tulle, safety pins and fabric swatches lying around everywhere. Nobody knows exactly how that could have happened. It’s probably just part of the process.

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And, of course, no production would be complete without the little surprises of everyday theatre life. For instance, that beautiful roll of fabric suddenly has a huge hole or a weaving fault right in the middle after ten metres. The set transport, of course, always takes place just when it’s pouring with rain. Props vanish as if by magic, safety pins take on a life of their own, and just before the dress rehearsal, someone is bound to come up with another ‘brilliant’ new idea – usually it’s me … and I’m really sorry for everyone involved. 😊

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Meanwhile, it’s not just the dances that are developing, but the children too.

Cautious first steps turn into confident movements.

Small insecurities give way to self-confidence.

Individual dancers are slowly coming together as an ensemble.

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And that is precisely one of the most wonderful aspects of a production. You get to witness children rising above themselves and learning to persevere.

Of course, things don’t always go to plan.

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Illnesses get in the way. Music has to be changed or added at short notice. Costumes need to be altered again. And sometimes a scene turns out much better than originally envisaged, quite spontaneously.

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You quickly learn to remain flexible.

And you learn that perfection usually doesn’t come about because everything goes to plan, but because you keep finding new solutions.

 

The closer the performance gets, the more interesting the meaning of the term ‘last minute’ becomes.

 

This ‘last minute’ begins about six weeks before the premiere and only ends after the second performance.

 

During this time, it feels as though you’re doing ten things at once and you occasionally long for a ten-year holiday in the Caribbean.

But then months of work suddenly come to life and, in the end, everything falls into place.

And at precisely that moment, when the curtain rises, you remember once again why you do all this.

Because in the end, you realise that it’s not just the play that has grown, but everyone involved in it.

 

With that in mind, I’m off back to work now, because *The Nutcracker* still wants to – and needs to – grow. 

 

Love, 

 

Jasmin