My bare feet are firm against the hardwood. My stance is straight, proud. I am exactly in the center. I know it’s the center because Rachel and I measured it and there is a small blue blob of paint there leftover from last spring’s “The Iceman Cometh.” My chest is just slightly out and my hands are both about a foot behind me. Props flank me. My set designer encouraged me to use these large columns with big, metal balls at the top. They’re supposed to match my Romanesque outfit. The music starts. Just a piano at first, but it sounds like chandeliers tinkling in the window. I’ve listened to that music over and over. I’ve heard it so many times it became annoying. But right now, I relish the familiarity. Energy pumps through my soul. As the piano notes cascade, my fingers wiggle. When I choreographed this, I thought of the wings of a baby bird and how their small feathers at the tips would blow, softly, in the wind. But standing here, with the possibly antagonistic crowd before me, it feels more like my arms are a makeshift cape.
