The Dancer
On a cold Sunday morning in January I awoke to the sound of wind and leaves rustling at my window. When I got up, the sting of the cold air made me shiver when it seeped into my flat. As I shaved I saw my face in the mirror; twenty-five years old and full of promise, a fresh visage looked back at me.
My friend Julio passed away on Christmas Day, and I picked up the phone to hear a dial tone but I could not call him anymore. A Chopin waltz I played inspired me to dress up and drive to the forest, to escape the city and my sorrow for a moment.
When I reached Millbrook in Upstate New York I drove around to find a solitary spot and the site of a demolished building spoke to me of loss. I put on war paint and spiked my hair.
I danced to remember.
I danced to grieve.
I danced, inspired by Pina Bausch and Martha Graham.
My dance was for you, my friend.
When it was over, I felt the brotherly love for my friend Julio intensified. I gave myself closure and the hope he had in me cheered me up. I have the right to succeed and the right to fail, so I will keep working every day toward my happiness. My return to NYC was sad and quiet.
© Text: Orlando Barahona
© Images: T.M. Hitchcock
Sportswear: Vizeau
Model: Anton G.
Grooming and makeup: Yeikov
This work by rogue-diary.blogspot.com is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.
© Images: T.M. Hitchcock
Sportswear: Vizeau
Model: Anton G.
Grooming and makeup: Yeikov
This work by rogue-diary.blogspot.com is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License. Join my page on Facebook:
