Post by Imorta Thaw on Sept 11, 2008 17:11:18 GMT -8
Critique very welcome.
95/100
Tatiana Kuzovleva
Grutzmacher
English 2
Period 3
This past august I participated in my eighth Flamenco concert. It was exhilarating. I’ve been dancing for about five years now, but the thrill never wears off. Neither does the panic that grips my heart with frozen bones every time I get on the stage, chasing any thought of breath from my mind. Usually I retain enough composure to get through the dance. Panic has no place on stage, so I plaster on a big huge grin and hope that the audience can’t tell I’m shaking.
During the last performance, panic’s grip was especially suffocating. Cold, slimy tendrils slithered up my back and wound around my neck, suffocating me with their deadly embrace. This was especially evident during the first number. Having started with all the dancers perched on chairs, the composition put me closest to the audience, facing away from the harsh stage lights, in which position I could clearly see my shadow. Boy was I shocked to see it shaking. I hadn’t even noticed the pressure I put on my nerves.
Generally, I can hide my feelings rather well. I tend not to roll my eyes too obviously at kids that have trouble getting concepts, or yawn when the teacher drones on and on about an irrelevant topic. I’m not even nervous before the show starts. Before the seats start filling with people, I am perfectly fine, but after that? Oh! I would be less frightened in a graveyard, the morbid palace of the dead, than facing the blurry crowd.
Take this last concert for example. Before we parked in front of the theater doors my breathing was regular, and my heart wasn’t racing a hummingbird’s wings. My mom was a different story however. We had trouble finding the right place, and that really put her on end. She kept repeating things, and asking me to repeat things. Maybe her nerves rubbed off on me. I don’t know. The point is that when we got to the show, she and I switched places. Now I was the one trying to make sure every thing was perfect, frantically searching for my fan, and practically begging her to finish with my make up so that I would be ready for the show.
With hindsight, I always wonder what it is I had been so worried about. It’s not like anyone I know comes to the performances. Of course, that fact tends to leave (or take leave of)* my brain right before the show. All I know when I’m on that stage is that I have to be perfect, or my cheeks will match my crimson costume. After everything is said and done, I love performing, but I am also deathly afraid of it. Go figure.
95/100
Tatiana Kuzovleva
Grutzmacher
English 2
Period 3
Second of August
This past august I participated in my eighth Flamenco concert. It was exhilarating. I’ve been dancing for about five years now, but the thrill never wears off. Neither does the panic that grips my heart with frozen bones every time I get on the stage, chasing any thought of breath from my mind. Usually I retain enough composure to get through the dance. Panic has no place on stage, so I plaster on a big huge grin and hope that the audience can’t tell I’m shaking.
During the last performance, panic’s grip was especially suffocating. Cold, slimy tendrils slithered up my back and wound around my neck, suffocating me with their deadly embrace. This was especially evident during the first number. Having started with all the dancers perched on chairs, the composition put me closest to the audience, facing away from the harsh stage lights, in which position I could clearly see my shadow. Boy was I shocked to see it shaking. I hadn’t even noticed the pressure I put on my nerves.
Generally, I can hide my feelings rather well. I tend not to roll my eyes too obviously at kids that have trouble getting concepts, or yawn when the teacher drones on and on about an irrelevant topic. I’m not even nervous before the show starts. Before the seats start filling with people, I am perfectly fine, but after that? Oh! I would be less frightened in a graveyard, the morbid palace of the dead, than facing the blurry crowd.
Take this last concert for example. Before we parked in front of the theater doors my breathing was regular, and my heart wasn’t racing a hummingbird’s wings. My mom was a different story however. We had trouble finding the right place, and that really put her on end. She kept repeating things, and asking me to repeat things. Maybe her nerves rubbed off on me. I don’t know. The point is that when we got to the show, she and I switched places. Now I was the one trying to make sure every thing was perfect, frantically searching for my fan, and practically begging her to finish with my make up so that I would be ready for the show.
With hindsight, I always wonder what it is I had been so worried about. It’s not like anyone I know comes to the performances. Of course, that fact tends to leave (or take leave of)* my brain right before the show. All I know when I’m on that stage is that I have to be perfect, or my cheeks will match my crimson costume. After everything is said and done, I love performing, but I am also deathly afraid of it. Go figure.
