The Performance

Through a window in the door, I see Clara dancing in the rehearsal room, alone, absorbed, with an intensity that fills the room. She is wearing black--a high-cut leotard that leaves her legs, back, and shoulders exposed. The fabric glistens at the seams where sweat clings to her skin. Her blonde hair is twisted into a tight bun. Like everything else about her.

She rehearses the same sequence over and over again: a jump, landing on the balls of her feet, a rolling backward movement, then straightening up with her toes pointed. She dances barefoot. Always barefoot. I've never seen her in pointe shoes. Maybe because she needs to be grounded.

Her buttocks tremble with tension, the muscles in her thighs twitch.

I watch her through the glass, pausing for a moment. Not because I want to spy on her, but because she is more beautiful in this state of concentration than any choreography.

I have never believed that pride is a virtue. Rather, it is an obstacle. Something that prevents us from making the right decisions when it matters. But Clara--Clara lives it. She dances with it. And sometimes, when she loses herself in a turn, I think she is made entirely of it.

I push the door open. It creaks. Clara pauses, doesn't turn around, but I can sense that she is aware of my presence. Just a slight pause. Then she goes through the passage again. And again.

I wait until she stops on her own. She picks up the towel from the floor, presses it against her neck, sinks down onto the mats, breathing softly as I approach.

"You work day and night," I say.

She doesn't turn around. "Not enough."

"If that's not enough, I don't know what you're willing to sacrifice."

She rests her hands on her thighs, breathing heavily. Then, quietly: "Maybe it's too late anyway."

I nod. I sit down on the floor, not far from her. The mats are cool. The room smells of bodies, wood, concentrated time.

"So you've heard," I begin.

She looks at me. Questioningly.

"We can't bridge another month," I say calmly. "And if we don't get any attention, any grants, any press--then this was our last project."

No surprise, no question. Just a tense jaw, a fixed gaze. Then she pushes the towel aside and asks:

"What do you suggest?" "We need a performance that will blow the arts pages away. Authentic emotions. Tell them what you really feel."

She laughs dryly. "The audience wants beautiful movements. Emotions, yes, but neatly packaged."

"Maybe that's the problem."

I pause.

"We haven't challenged the audience in a long time. I mean, really. No feigned provocation, no anger on demand. Something that touches them."

She is silent.

"I've been thinking about a piece. A love story. But not the classic kind. No romantic union. Instead, a dance between two bodies searching for each other. Desperate, sensual, painful. A piece about desire. About the longing to be seen--and not pretending to be someone you're not just to please the person you crave.

I see her shoulders tense. A reflex.

"You mean sex."

"I mean authenticity."

She looks away. Then, hesitantly: "And what exactly do you have in mind?"

I answer cautiously. "I imagine you no longer hiding behind leotards and gestures. That your body is the narrator. Unadulterated. Maybe even naked."

Her face freezes.

"I'm a dancer, Francesca. Not a provocateur. Not a... not a Berber."

"But why not?" I leave the question open. "Anita Berber danced what the world didn't want to see. Her nakedness was not an invitation to look--it was an attack on the gaze. A mirror. Just like Lotti Huber: naked on stage, beyond all body ideals. And that was art. Rebellion. Because it showed that a body doesn't need an excuse."

"You know very well that the social context is completely different today--what was revolutionary and shocking back then is now part of artistic practice."

"Exactly. And there's no reason to hide from art practice. Besides, we're currently experiencing a conservative backlash. Probably to an extent that we can't even fully appreciate today."

She presses her lips together. "But I can't do that."

"Because you're afraid?"

"Because I don't want to see myself that way."

I remain silent. Then I ask quietly, "What bothers you about your body?"

She hesitates. Then:

"My breasts. I've always hated them. They sag. The left one more than the right. And the areolas... are too big. Like coffee cups. You can't see that in a leotard. There I'm smooth. There I'm... safe."

I nod. "But how do you expect to reach someone through dance if you disrespect your body?"

She shrugs her shoulders. Her hands lie still in her lap. Then she says, "OK, hate is too strong a word. It's the looks they get. The nipples that push through the fabric of the leotard. I just don't know what people see in me when they look at me like that."

"You can only find out if you let them."

I feel like I'm losing her, so I change tack.

"I don't expect you to take your clothes off. Maybe... there's a way to show yourself without exposing yourself. Something that suggests more than it reveals. Gauze, perhaps. A fabric that plays with light, with movement, with closeness."

She says nothing. I continue:

"What do you think? I'll have a dress made for you, just to try. No obligation. Made of gauze. It won't show anything you don't want to show -- but it won't hide you anymore either."

She lifts her head.

"I haven't said yes yet."

"I know."

"But I... I could try it on."

I nod. "That's all I'm asking."

For a moment, neither of us says anything. Clara sits with her eyes downcast, the towel draped over her neck, heavy with sweat. The fabric smells of her exertion, of her body. I watch her stroke the terry cloth with her flat hand, slowly, thoughtfully, almost tenderly. Not ready to say yes, but no longer ready to say no either.

I wish that were my biggest problem. But the next problem is already at the door--and his name is Tobias. Twenty-two, muscular, agile, self-absorbed.

I see it immediately when I let him dance with Clara for the first time: he admires himself in the mirror. Not directly, but in small gestures. The pose at the end of each sequence is more important to him than the connection between them.

Clara notices it too.

"He's cute," she says during the break, putting the towel around her neck. "But that's not going to help him keep time."

I smile. "He has to learn to let himself go with you."

She doesn't answer. Her fingers wander to a loose rubber band on her wrist, and she tugs at it, lost in thought.

The first rehearsals together are tough. Tobias dances technically cleanly, but coldly. Clara seeks contact, friction, discomfort. She demands too much. He demands too little. In a lift, he holds her too long at mid-height. Her legs tremble, then she breaks away abruptly.

"You're letting me hang," she snaps at him.

"You're tense."

"Because you're not leading me."

I interrupt before things get out of hand.

"Dance is like a dialogue. You have to listen to each other. Don't drown each other out. Tobias, take a step back. Clara, trust him -- or at least pretend you want to sleep with him."

The next day, Clara rehearses in her gauze dress for the first time. She wears skin-colored panties and a sports bra underneath. Another compromise. Still not taking any risks.

The fabric is so light that it flutters with every movement, clings, then loosens. Her thighs flash through, her waist is outlined, her navel shimmers faintly.

Tobias frowns. "Either all or nothing."

"Why?" asks Clara.

"Because that looks like fear. Like you want to but don't dare."

Clara's jaw tenses. I can see it in the slight bulge on her cheek.

"I'm not dancing to please you."

"But you want to please the audience, don't you?"

I intervene, but the damage is done. She doesn't say another word to him. He leaves early. "Let her fight her own battle," he mutters.

It's late when Clara asks me back into the studio. Just the two of us. No music, no light from outside. Just the dull glow of the wall spotlights, subdued, warm.

She's wearing the gauze dress. Nothing underneath.

The fabric lies like mist on her. Her nipples are gently visible, the curves of her hips shimmer through her movements. Not intrusive. Not revealing. But... human. Natural. Vulnerable.

"I want to see if it works," she says quietly. "But not a word to Tobias."

"Can you film me?"

I grab my phone. No filter. No zoom. Just the dance, as it is.

She starts slowly. The music is only in her head. Her movements are soft, minimal. No expressive dance, no grand gestures. Just lines flowing through her body. A turn. A pause. Then: a slow opening of her arms, as if listening to herself.

I film in silence. Watching her encounter herself--without a mask, without evasion.

After ten minutes, she ends in silence. She collapses, completely enveloped in the gauze fabric.

I sit down next to her and show her the film.

She watches herself. Completely. Without comment.

Then she says, "If Tobias laughs, I'll quit.""

I nod. "He won't."

"But if he does..."

"Then you'll still know that you can dance without hiding."

That night, I pick up my notebook.

I sketch a second version of the dress. Identical, but with two weak points: side seams made of basting thread, barely visible but fragile. One well-aimed jump and the fabric will tear. Not completely. Just a gap. A crack in the façade.

I have it made in the same tailor's shop. Two versions. One with a strong seam for the dress rehearsal. One with basting stitches for the premiere. Of course, I have moral reservations. But I also have an obligation to my theater. And Clara said it herself: nudity has long since become an integral part of the culture industry. Nothing for a dancer to be ashamed of.

At first, Clara won't even notice that the seams of her dress are only holding together provisionally. Or maybe she will, of course. But then she'll have to decide on stage whether to continue or stop. Clara is not someone who stops.

I inform the press: "The performance tells what words cannot say. This premiere could be a turning point."

I do it for the play. For the theater. For Clara.

Because I know that pride is not armor. Pride is the courage to dance even when nothing protects you anymore.

Then the evening of the performance arrives.

The audience sits as if at a ceremony.

No coughing, no shifting in seats. Just tense anticipation. Many have come--more than we expected. The good press has had an effect, or perhaps it is the anticipation that something is about to happen. I see critics from Bellevue, Redmond, Kirkland. And Miriam from the Seattle Times. She is sitting in the third row, notebook on her knee, pen at the ready.

The lights dim. The play begins.

The music is soft at first. A single cello bow, breathing, feeling its way. On stage: Tobias. More agile than ever, focused, almost tender in the way he moves across the room. His hands draw lines in the air as if trying to grasp something invisible.

Then Clara enters.

She is wearing the prepared dress. The fragile one.

And she doesn't know it.

Clara keeps her distance. Her movements are soft but not open. Her body recoils when Tobias approaches. She circles around him, sometimes close, sometimes far, like an animal testing its boundaries. He tries to grab her -- but she is faster, flatter, more elusive. Their hands touch briefly, then she pulls away again. The music pulses softly, like a growing breath.

Then she jumps.

A grand jeté, wide and courageous -- thrown through the air like a sentence that can no longer be taken back. Tobias catches her. Not head-on, but at an angle, sideways, almost tentatively. His hands on her waist, her thighs on his hips. She pauses for just a moment, then pushes herself away from him, rolls out of his grip, glides to the floor. The movement does not end. She flattens herself, writhes on the floor, a body without support, only strength.

Tobias approaches again. This time he touches her shoulder. She flinches. It is not a feigned reflex. Her muscles tense visibly. But she stays. And then it happens: he lifts her.

Not in a classic pose--no arabesque or attitude--but like something fragile. Her feet leave the floor, her arms hang down, her head sinks back.

The crack begins in this lift.

I don't see it right away. Just a tremor in Clara's posture. A slight twist of her upper body, as if she wants to protect something that isn't lost yet. The gauze stretches under Tobias' grip -- and gives way. First at the side, then above the hip. The movement continues, but Clara's gaze changes. She searches. Feels. Suddenly, she is no longer entirely on stage.

She jumps again -- a scissor movement across the room -- the tear widens.

The left strap slides over her shoulder. Her breast becomes visible. Not an abrupt exposure, but a quiet, inevitable loss. Her skin glistens. Her nipple is large, not symmetrical, but alive, pulsing with her breath. And she continues to dance.

Then comes the moment when I don't know if she dares to do it.

The arabesque penchée.

One step. Another. Her gaze is lowered. Then she lifts her right leg -- slowly, almost hesitantly -- stretching it backward and upward. Her upper body leans forward. She balances. Only her left foot is on the floor, the other leg in the air, a line as bold as it is naked.

The dress lies at her feet as if poured out. No more fabric to protect her. Her buttocks exposed, her vulva spread wide, her breasts dangling. Dancing the arabesque penchée was certainly one of Clara's bravest decisions that evening. She hides no movement. She stands there, bent, open, a line between strength and shame.

I see her face.

Her lips are slightly parted, her cheeks flushed. Her eyes are shining, but she is not crying. She looks into the light, not at the people. Only a single tear slides past her eyelashes, hangs there, trembling--like her.

Then she straightens up.

Tobias enters the room again. His expression has changed. No grin. No hesitation. He doesn't lower his gaze, but he doesn't raise it too high either. His hand finds hers. Their fingers intertwine, calmly, decisively.

Final lift. Clara doesn't jump -- she walks. He lifts her slowly, as if she were something precious. Her arms rest on his shoulders, her forehead against his. Then their lips touch. No kiss for the audience. No applause.

Just a yes.

The lights remain on for a moment. Clara stands naked in the light. But she stands proudly, with her head held high. She knows that her decision not to break off was the right one.

The applause comes. Hesitant at first. Then powerful. I see Miriam--no pen in her hand, clapping with both hands, her eyes wide open.

And yes--that was it.

Clara stands in the light, naked, breathing quietly. Uncovered. Tobias next to her. Their hands remain intertwined. Their feet are firmly planted. Their bodies open. But their gaze: straight, unshaken, self-assured.

The applause becomes more rhythmic. The first audience members rise to their feet for a standing ovation. Someone shouts "Bravo!" Somewhere I hear: "That was real!"

I was right.

Not that Clara's nakedness moved the audience.

But because, thrown back on her naked self, she rose above herself.

Later, backstage, she doesn't cry. She doesn't say anything either. But she lets me cover her shoulders. Her skin is still warm from the lights. Her hands tremble slightly.

I give her my cell phone.

She scrolls to the video we recorded weeks ago. Watches it again.

Then she asks:

"Was that you? Did you prepare the dress?"

I nod.

She takes a breath. Lowers her gaze.

"I hate you for that."

Pause.

"And I thank you."