Bridget Breiner

I have two seemingly unrelated stories to tell you; to me they demonstrate the same thing.
When Merrill Ashley retired from the stage of the New York City Ballet in 1997, she was ending a career of 31 years.  Joan Acocella, dance critic for the New Yorker, wrote a lengthy and beautiful tribute to her. She described Ashley as a dancer of great technical skill and precision, but also as a dancer who longed to be what she saw as Balanchine’s true ideal -- a dancer of “emotion, self-abandon.“ She was an allegro champion who longed for adagio, and this shaped her distinctive quality. Ms.

Acocella writes:
“Ms. Ashley‘s career, then, like many big careers, is the story of an enormous gift combined with a yearning for something else. We always imagine that these artists come to us whole. They don’t. Behind the scenes, they are killing themselves to repair or at least cover some flaw that they received with that gift.”
This statement hit me like a blow at the time, and for about two years I could quote it verbatim to anyone who would listen. It always had the same effect. Everyone recognized it as the deep truth that we all felt but could never name: our heroes are imperfect.  Their great ...