I did not know that Parisians did not fall in love with his Little Dancer and only after his death was it cast in bronze. I did not know the back story of the model. And I didn't know of your aspirations for ballet as a young girl, but I did learn to SEE this work of art in a whole new way. Thank you!
I never had ballerina aspirations, but I remember walking into a room at the Smithsonian as an adult, and there she was. I literally gasped. I had never expected to see her. I’d always been moved by her. I didn’t know there were many castings of her and didn’t know the sad story of Marie. Thank you.
You lucked out, Deb. You stumbled on the original wax sculpture, the mother of them all. I hope you see the Clark’s Little Dancer one day. She’s so beautifully displayed there, and the Berkshires are a lovely destination.
Yes, ballet was definitely my thing! Started lessons at age 4 and went weekly to Mme de la Tour for five years and loved it. (Stopped when we moved to NYC in 1951.) I even wrote a post about my lost dancing career (The Road Not Taken), stimulated by seeing the new movie of West Side Story a few years ago, where I felt it should be me up there on the screen (never mind I'm not exactly young any more). I always loved Degas paintings, but never the statue. I didn't like the clothes on the statue and there is something very sad about it. But I like your analysis. Spot on, as we say in England.
As a former ballet student, you’ll be interested to know that the Little Dancer first went on display two months after Anna Pavlova’s birth in St. Petersburg. I couldn’t weave this fun fact into the essay. Glad you enjoyed my analysis, if not the work itself.
I took dance lessons for a few months from a teacher who yelled at, berated, and bullied the seven-year old girls in her class. I wanted to quit, but couldn’t, because I was the star student who had to perform in front of all of the others so they wouldn’t mess up. But after the final performance — it was assumed that I would continue — I dropped out. Was too afraid to tell anyone about the headaches and vomiting after each class. How terrified I was that I’d make one mistake and she’d turn on me. How shameful it felt to let people down by not continuing. I wonder if Marie went through this.
Rona, this is beautifully written. I can see in the comments how deeply your readers connected with it. I hadn’t thought about my experience until now. Thank you for the depth and insight you brought to the life of beautiful young woman the critics called ugly.
Oh, Rona. Such worlds we never know! Everyone has a story (or something like that -- I'm probably butchering the adage). This is revelatory, insightful, sad, and remarkably inspiring. It reminds me how little we really know about most everyone we encounter and how what we see can change when we invest more of ourselves into understanding. Thank you very much for this.
Elizabeth, it's wonderful to write for readers who understand what I'm trying to express (with great difficulty, in this case). You see me. I am honored.
A painful story that I’d never heard. And it’s odd, given that it’s such an iconic statue, but I’m not entirely sure that I’ve seen it other than in photos — though surely I must have.
But in any case have probably never really looked at her, nor imagined that she was modeled from a real person rather than representing an abstraction. Will see it in a completely different way now.
In ballet — as a tiny child I briefly took classes from a harsh woman who nevertheless was magical to me because she insisted that we address her in French (which she had to teach us). My first experience of learning a new language was being taught by her how to politely ask for the piece of candy that all of her four-or-five-year-old students had earned by the end of each demanding session! The ballet didn’t interest me, probably because I was like my bad at it, but the language (and candy) was wonderfully exciting.
Nothing like ritual to make an experience exotic to a child. My ballet teacher was also a force of nature, although much sweeter-natured than yours. A story for another time...
Ps, your moving account of the school reminded me of Rumer Goden’s Listen to the Nightingale — one of those books that stays with one, though it tends to leave one in low spirits.
I'm trying to keep my spirits up reading "Starter Dog" before it goes to my sister for her birthday. I'm enjoying the book and your writing, the adventures are just starting! And I find reading your Sunday message always helps me think about how our lives unfold and how we continue to be surprised. I live in Pasadena and I think last time I saw 'our' Marie she was in a room surrounded by a collection of the ballet paintings. Now that I know her name and story, I want to visit her again. Thank you Rona.
Lucky you to live near the Norton Simon, one of the great small museums of the world. Maybe you’ll run into reader/Substacker Mary G., a regular there. Somewhere in an older post, I tell a funny story about a visit to that museum. A roundabout way of saying “Good to see you back.” Glad you’re enjoying Starter Dog.
Rona, the reality behind the appearance theme fits your story like a crown. It’s lovely and makes my feet hurt literally. I’ve always marveled at ballerinas who must suffer but ignore their pain. Perhaps the little dancer rose above her pain and is looking above it to survive.
I never wanted to be a ballerina. I wanted to look like one: tall, lithe, and with effortless fluidity of movement. I thought about being a fish, but would have settled for gills so I could swim under water without having to come up for air. I absolutely loved the water. Being in water gave me the effortless fluidiity of movement I would never achieve on land. I will take a burbling creek, a lazy stream, a river, a lake, an ocean. I am at home by the water. I remember watching every episode of "The Man from Atlantis" thinking someone created what I so wanted to be. After college, I became an accredited scuba diver, but alas, I could not afford to go on dives, and my dreams of effortless fluidity of motion ended up where futile dreams go to die. Writing about it is the next, best thing, and my regrets at not having gills are minimal! LOL
This one reminded of a snapshot I did of a young girl, all dressed up for a museum visit, imitating a ballerina sculpture (Rodin I think, not Degas) in a museum in Paris (the d'Orsay I think).
I love the Little Dancer! As I recall, I've seen her in Paris at the Musee D'Orsay, in DC at the National Gallery, in NYC at the Met, in Philadelphia at the Art Museum, and in London at the Tate, and I see her all of the time in Pasadena. (Believe it or not, there was a time i thought there was just one of her and i kept seeing her and thought, wow, she moves around a lot!) She's in a slightly darkened room at the Norton Simon and I'm always amazed by her tutu and ribbon. Even today, it seems so modern to have a sculpture dressed. She is so adorable, she steals my heart every time. Thank you for all the background info on her. I never really thought about the fact that underneath her costume is the sculpture itself, a naked girl. I hadn't thought of little Marie posing for the artist. Now my heart will both break and soar when I see her again--which i know will be soon.
I too thought there was only one of her—in Boston. You could say she’s on tour, like all the most celebrated dancers. It’s been a joy to share what I’ve learned and felt about her with other friends and fans.
What a beautiful post, Rona. I learned so much about a sculpture (and a person) I’ve seen many times in museums but never stopped to think or learn about. As a would-be ballerina myself around age 8 — I was gawky, inflexible, hopeless at the barre but in love with tutus! — I owned a beautiful collection of Degas reproductions, all those famous ballet paintings, which I used to page through rapturously, forming my unconscious ideal of what women are supposed to look and dress and act like: so beautiful, so thin, so objectified, even in their backstage humanness. I’d have done far better to aspire to Marie’s grit and defiant gaze!
Once art goes into the world, it no longer belongs to the artist. People make of art what they will. While I do not share your complete passion for the dance (though I would not kick Misha B. outta bed for eating crackers), I love love loved this piece. How your wove in your personal life with Degas' masterpiece is a wonderful story. Thank you for sharing your gift with us. Reshared with delight. I think there's one of the bronzes in the National Gallery in DC as well. They are everywhere, like the castings of Rodin's The Thinker.
I love how you’ve woven your story with hers. This has greater poignancy after reading the article about Alice Monroe, especially your line, “I’d want to out-argue and protect her in the same moment.” I have no doubt that you would protect her above all else. Your daughter would believe, as all daughters should, when you say, “I see you.”
Beautiful piece, Rona. I used to find Degas' sketches of the ballerinas kind of bothersome, as if he were trying to make them look bad. But now your essay makes me think that he was trying to see them and their reality, as he did with The Little Dancer. Also, have you read Cathy Marie Buchanan's novel The Painted Girls, from maybe ten years ago?
The only ballet I’ve had a chance to see is the Nutcracker. Other than that maybe a glance or two in film like the scenes in John Wick.
It seems to me another world, one that has a language that demands perfection and beauty. Those things are always painful to achieve but glorious when done.
I admire the dedication and sacrifice, but I wish ballet had some more approachable places for all to enjoy it.
I did not know that Parisians did not fall in love with his Little Dancer and only after his death was it cast in bronze. I did not know the back story of the model. And I didn't know of your aspirations for ballet as a young girl, but I did learn to SEE this work of art in a whole new way. Thank you!
The highest of compliments, Jill. My father, an artist, taught me to see. It9s an honor to pass on the gift.
I never had ballerina aspirations, but I remember walking into a room at the Smithsonian as an adult, and there she was. I literally gasped. I had never expected to see her. I’d always been moved by her. I didn’t know there were many castings of her and didn’t know the sad story of Marie. Thank you.
You lucked out, Deb. You stumbled on the original wax sculpture, the mother of them all. I hope you see the Clark’s Little Dancer one day. She’s so beautifully displayed there, and the Berkshires are a lovely destination.
What a powerful and moving piece, Rona, bringing Marie's story, what little is known about it, back into the spotlight.
Thank you, Ann. Marie was a girl of pride and spirit. If she were alive today, she’d still grapple with poverty. But she’d have a better shot.
Yes, ballet was definitely my thing! Started lessons at age 4 and went weekly to Mme de la Tour for five years and loved it. (Stopped when we moved to NYC in 1951.) I even wrote a post about my lost dancing career (The Road Not Taken), stimulated by seeing the new movie of West Side Story a few years ago, where I felt it should be me up there on the screen (never mind I'm not exactly young any more). I always loved Degas paintings, but never the statue. I didn't like the clothes on the statue and there is something very sad about it. But I like your analysis. Spot on, as we say in England.
As a former ballet student, you’ll be interested to know that the Little Dancer first went on display two months after Anna Pavlova’s birth in St. Petersburg. I couldn’t weave this fun fact into the essay. Glad you enjoyed my analysis, if not the work itself.
I took dance lessons for a few months from a teacher who yelled at, berated, and bullied the seven-year old girls in her class. I wanted to quit, but couldn’t, because I was the star student who had to perform in front of all of the others so they wouldn’t mess up. But after the final performance — it was assumed that I would continue — I dropped out. Was too afraid to tell anyone about the headaches and vomiting after each class. How terrified I was that I’d make one mistake and she’d turn on me. How shameful it felt to let people down by not continuing. I wonder if Marie went through this.
Rona, this is beautifully written. I can see in the comments how deeply your readers connected with it. I hadn’t thought about my experience until now. Thank you for the depth and insight you brought to the life of beautiful young woman the critics called ugly.
Beauty and brutality. That’s ballet, with a heaping side of pain. Interesting that you never fell for the enchantment.
Oh, Rona. Such worlds we never know! Everyone has a story (or something like that -- I'm probably butchering the adage). This is revelatory, insightful, sad, and remarkably inspiring. It reminds me how little we really know about most everyone we encounter and how what we see can change when we invest more of ourselves into understanding. Thank you very much for this.
Elizabeth, it's wonderful to write for readers who understand what I'm trying to express (with great difficulty, in this case). You see me. I am honored.
A painful story that I’d never heard. And it’s odd, given that it’s such an iconic statue, but I’m not entirely sure that I’ve seen it other than in photos — though surely I must have.
But in any case have probably never really looked at her, nor imagined that she was modeled from a real person rather than representing an abstraction. Will see it in a completely different way now.
In ballet — as a tiny child I briefly took classes from a harsh woman who nevertheless was magical to me because she insisted that we address her in French (which she had to teach us). My first experience of learning a new language was being taught by her how to politely ask for the piece of candy that all of her four-or-five-year-old students had earned by the end of each demanding session! The ballet didn’t interest me, probably because I was like my bad at it, but the language (and candy) was wonderfully exciting.
Nothing like ritual to make an experience exotic to a child. My ballet teacher was also a force of nature, although much sweeter-natured than yours. A story for another time...
Ps, your moving account of the school reminded me of Rumer Goden’s Listen to the Nightingale — one of those books that stays with one, though it tends to leave one in low spirits.
Then I’m probably not up to it right now. Trying to keep my spirits up.
I'm trying to keep my spirits up reading "Starter Dog" before it goes to my sister for her birthday. I'm enjoying the book and your writing, the adventures are just starting! And I find reading your Sunday message always helps me think about how our lives unfold and how we continue to be surprised. I live in Pasadena and I think last time I saw 'our' Marie she was in a room surrounded by a collection of the ballet paintings. Now that I know her name and story, I want to visit her again. Thank you Rona.
Lucky you to live near the Norton Simon, one of the great small museums of the world. Maybe you’ll run into reader/Substacker Mary G., a regular there. Somewhere in an older post, I tell a funny story about a visit to that museum. A roundabout way of saying “Good to see you back.” Glad you’re enjoying Starter Dog.
That calls for insanely silly novels with guaranteed happy endings. They work for me, anyway…
What to do? I'm so cynical.
Ah, then poetry and art are the best answers…
*Godden
I’d love to hear that!
Rona, the reality behind the appearance theme fits your story like a crown. It’s lovely and makes my feet hurt literally. I’ve always marveled at ballerinas who must suffer but ignore their pain. Perhaps the little dancer rose above her pain and is looking above it to survive.
Diane, I think that’s exactly what she was doing—escaping into her private world. It’s a tried-and-true survival strategy. I’ve counted on it myself.
Yes, and it works!
I never wanted to be a ballerina. I wanted to look like one: tall, lithe, and with effortless fluidity of movement. I thought about being a fish, but would have settled for gills so I could swim under water without having to come up for air. I absolutely loved the water. Being in water gave me the effortless fluidiity of movement I would never achieve on land. I will take a burbling creek, a lazy stream, a river, a lake, an ocean. I am at home by the water. I remember watching every episode of "The Man from Atlantis" thinking someone created what I so wanted to be. After college, I became an accredited scuba diver, but alas, I could not afford to go on dives, and my dreams of effortless fluidity of motion ended up where futile dreams go to die. Writing about it is the next, best thing, and my regrets at not having gills are minimal! LOL
Betsy, I get the sense you have lots to write about being in the water. Water makes everyone beautiful and light.
It does indeed!
Oh how I love reading your work...
This one reminded of a snapshot I did of a young girl, all dressed up for a museum visit, imitating a ballerina sculpture (Rodin I think, not Degas) in a museum in Paris (the d'Orsay I think).
Is there a way to share the photo?
Julie, I so wish we could share photos here. They can be shared in Notes, or you could send me a direct message. Love to see that photo.
I love the Little Dancer! As I recall, I've seen her in Paris at the Musee D'Orsay, in DC at the National Gallery, in NYC at the Met, in Philadelphia at the Art Museum, and in London at the Tate, and I see her all of the time in Pasadena. (Believe it or not, there was a time i thought there was just one of her and i kept seeing her and thought, wow, she moves around a lot!) She's in a slightly darkened room at the Norton Simon and I'm always amazed by her tutu and ribbon. Even today, it seems so modern to have a sculpture dressed. She is so adorable, she steals my heart every time. Thank you for all the background info on her. I never really thought about the fact that underneath her costume is the sculpture itself, a naked girl. I hadn't thought of little Marie posing for the artist. Now my heart will both break and soar when I see her again--which i know will be soon.
I too thought there was only one of her—in Boston. You could say she’s on tour, like all the most celebrated dancers. It’s been a joy to share what I’ve learned and felt about her with other friends and fans.
What a beautiful post, Rona. I learned so much about a sculpture (and a person) I’ve seen many times in museums but never stopped to think or learn about. As a would-be ballerina myself around age 8 — I was gawky, inflexible, hopeless at the barre but in love with tutus! — I owned a beautiful collection of Degas reproductions, all those famous ballet paintings, which I used to page through rapturously, forming my unconscious ideal of what women are supposed to look and dress and act like: so beautiful, so thin, so objectified, even in their backstage humanness. I’d have done far better to aspire to Marie’s grit and defiant gaze!
Thank you, Helen--for your encouraging words and for sharing a little of your life as an eight-year-old aspiring ballerina.
Once art goes into the world, it no longer belongs to the artist. People make of art what they will. While I do not share your complete passion for the dance (though I would not kick Misha B. outta bed for eating crackers), I love love loved this piece. How your wove in your personal life with Degas' masterpiece is a wonderful story. Thank you for sharing your gift with us. Reshared with delight. I think there's one of the bronzes in the National Gallery in DC as well. They are everywhere, like the castings of Rodin's The Thinker.
Amy, thank you so much. for reading with your whole heart, and for sharing. The original wax sculpture is in D.C. at the National Gallery.
I love how you’ve woven your story with hers. This has greater poignancy after reading the article about Alice Monroe, especially your line, “I’d want to out-argue and protect her in the same moment.” I have no doubt that you would protect her above all else. Your daughter would believe, as all daughters should, when you say, “I see you.”
Well, Lillian, we can't be sure about that. But I like to think so. Being seen as you are is a foundational gift.
Beautiful piece, Rona. I used to find Degas' sketches of the ballerinas kind of bothersome, as if he were trying to make them look bad. But now your essay makes me think that he was trying to see them and their reality, as he did with The Little Dancer. Also, have you read Cathy Marie Buchanan's novel The Painted Girls, from maybe ten years ago?
I think Degas was fascinated both by working women and by the immense effort behind the illusion of ballet. I very much enjoyed Buchanan's novel.
The only ballet I’ve had a chance to see is the Nutcracker. Other than that maybe a glance or two in film like the scenes in John Wick.
It seems to me another world, one that has a language that demands perfection and beauty. Those things are always painful to achieve but glorious when done.
I admire the dedication and sacrifice, but I wish ballet had some more approachable places for all to enjoy it.
Yes, ballet is expensive to watch live. But you can get the effect online. For ballet nerds, there are videos comparing different performances.