The Secret Life of Dancers

Rupert Pennefather, a principal dancer at the Royal Ballet, lights a cigarette and holds it – self-consciously – in his right hand. He says something about ballet being “a different kind of fitness” – anaerobic rather than aerobic – but, clearly, he isn’t convinced. “Actually” he says, “I’m rehearsing Giselle at the moment and I do get a bit puffy.” Which explains why he’s only bought a pack of ten. “You always give up quicker with a pack of ten” he says.

Pennefather is on the balcony of the Royal Ballet, looking down onto the piazza of Covent Garden. He’s here for morning class. It’s like they say – miss class for one day, you notice; miss class for two days, your colleagues notice; miss class for three days, your audience notices. Of course, it’s all hypothetical since the New York City Ballet announced that, because of the economic climate, they were laying off dancers. These days, nobody misses class. Not any more.

Of course, it wasn’t always like that. And nor was Pennefather. “When I first joined the Royal Ballet” he says, “I was 18. And going out a lot. I would come in for class and wouldn’t be able to remember what I was doing – I wouldn’t even be able to lift the girls.” As he speaks, he can see the rest of the dancers inside – stretching, intently. “But I grew up quickly. I had to, because life in the the Royal Ballet is fiercely competitive.”

He is wearing a singlet, tights and canvas shoes. It’s timeless. “Funny that” says Pennefather, with a smile. “Because way back when they didn’t have elastic tights. Somebody actually had to sew them onto you. And ballet shoes are snug these days. Really comfortable. I tried on a pair from way back, and they were thick leather with a lot of material inside. When I pointed my foot, I thought ‘My God, how did people dance in these?’

He’s had his breakfast. I imagined a cup of green tea. A natural yoghurt maybe. With a bowl of stewed fruit. But he actually stopped off at his local café for an “R Pennefather” – frieg eggs, hash browns, bacon and baked beans. “I have to be careful because I’ve got a very high metabolism” he says. “And if I don’t eat, I go really skinny and weak. The girls are at risk if you’re not strong enough. You really can’t go dropping a girl.”

Pennefather didn’t get where he is today by dropping a girl. It’s one of the reasons that he’s risen to principal so quickly – his reliabilty. “Also,” he says, “ballerinas have given me the opportunity to work with them.” Which sounds like a tip – if you want to get on, charm your principals. “I don’t really want to say that” says Pennefather, with a smile. “But some dancers in the company, I would say, have figured that out. That’s all I’m saying...”

Lauren Cuthertson is one of the principals that Pennefather has charmed. Mind you, with a BMI of 18.5, she doesn’t take much lifting. “My body might be slender” she says “but it’s not too slender. Not too sinewy. I’m not too too, which seems to be the fashion these days. Everything has gone way beyond what is normal.” There’s no fat on her. She looks down at her chest. “I’ve noticed some girls recently and I’ve gone ‘When did they start teaching how to grow those?’”

The dancers are pretty and thin. Or handsome and thin. But, whatever they tell you, don’t believe it – dancers do not come in all shapes and sizes. And they all look so young. Dancers for the corps de ballet are most attractive to company directors in their late teens or early 20s. It’s a pressured life, as they try to carve out a career before injuries, and age, cut it short. But to look at them all, you wouldn’t know it. They look wonderfully happy.

Some are studying choreographers’ notations. The notations are a ballet’s steps, written down on a musical stave – a balletic score, in effect. Each line of the notations represents a different part of the body, and symbols show how each part moves during the dance. As any dancer will tell you, in their darker moments, the choreographer is the real star of ballet – the dancers are just the ones who dictate how brightly that star can shine.

“As a dancer” says Pennefather “there is only so much you can change. Johann choreographed La Sylphide, for instance, and had worked out, visually, exactly what everyone was doing. It was all thought out in his head. You don’t want to change it. Technically, if you’re on a pirouette, you can carry on turning as long as you’re in time with the music – there’s no set rule – but it doesn’t really happen like that. It’s your performance, but it’s someone else’s production.”

The dancers – both male and female – are very huggy and kissy. And in such an intimate job, its inevitable that relationships happen. But most look elsewhere. Even if it’s not very far. Mara Galeazzi married a Royal Ballet stage technician. “He always says to me, ‘You have so many beautiful men around you all day, with perfect, toned bodies. Why do you choose me?’ He is big and strong, and beautiful too, but I say to him ‘That’s the beauty of it – I see so much perfection every day’.”

As the ballerinas file in to class, it’s clear that a lot of that perfection is down to genetics. You’re either born with a small head, a long neck, and a shortened torso – or you’re not. Galeazzi , who has been one of the principals since 2003, was one of the lucky ones. “Actually,” she says, “I was never really elastic enough. Which means that you get to a certain level, and you just can’t go any further. So you find your own way. You start to build your muscle around what is possible.”

Finding out the limits of what is possible can be painful. The ideal ballerina has toes that point outward. The ‘turnout’, as it’s known, is the cornerstone of classical ballet. It begins at the hip and moves down to the knee, the tibia, the ankle and the foot. But if the leg isn’t turned out naturally, it can be done by stretching. And that can take its toll. From the number of straps and supports, it’s clear that every dancer nurses some sort of injury.

Pennefather, for instance, is wearing a belt to help his bad back. And Galeazzi still has a toe fracture that she first sustained as a young dancer. It’s difficult not to feel those injuries in class – every day of the week excluding Sunday – however much glucosamine and calcium you take. “Your knees are stretched beyond their limit, your legs are over your head, and your back is always bent” says Galeazzi. “I don’t think it’s a very natural way to train.”

Cuthbertson has recurring trouble with her left foot – a sprain next to her second metatarsal. “Every time I go on pointe, it opens up the sprain. It just never gets any better. To make matters worse, there’s not much blood supply there to let it heal. I’ve found that acupuncture has helped, because it’s meant to stimulate the bloodflow. But, to be honest, rest is the only thing.” And ski socks, lined with goose down, that she likes to wear when she’s not dancing.

According to the noticeboard in the hall, the physiotherapist is in today. And so is the chiropodist. For the male dancers, the jumping and lifting puts strain on their feet, so they get ankle complaints. For the female dancers, it’s corns and bunions – the inevitable result of going on pointe. It’s worst when the company are doing Swan Lake. With its endless pas de bourrés – running tiptoe on the spot – it brings the chiropodist a raft of new clients.

The dancers spend the class studying every aspect of themselves in the mirrors – but they are used to it by now. “It’s a visual art” says Pennefather. “So we’re always aware of how we look. It’s not vanity. Although there are some people who are vain. Who build up, not for strength, but for appearance. I’ve never done that. You should only do what’s necessary. But you do want to look right in the part.” His headband is just idle fancy.

Cuthbertson is particular about her hair. She knows that it needs a trim. “I’m about to appear in Giselle” she says, “and I have to let my hair down in the performance. Literally. So it needs a trim. I would look like Cousin It if it was too long.” Cuthbertson is just as particular about her make-up. In fact, she likes to do it herself. Even before a performance. “I know where I need to wax my eyebrow at the end because it tilts down too much – that sort of thing.”

It’s all about creating perfection. At every level. It was even suggested that Cuthbertson change her name because it wasn’t perfectly glamorous. She refused. “They said ‘Try using your brother’s middle name’. My brother is Aaron Matthew Cuthbertson, and Lauren Matthews sounded like a magician’s assitant. So they said ‘Use your mum’s maiden name’. She’s Lewis. My middle name is Louise so I would have been Lauren Louise Lewis. Too showbiz if I’m honest.”

The 75-minute class is followed by six hours of rehearsal – often without a break. And the dancers can be rehearsing four different works in a day. “Maybe one involves a tutu,” says Cuthbertson, “one involves a sylph-like big skirt, one is in hot pants kicking your booty around, and one is with a fan – they’re all completely different. That’s one of the things about the Royal Ballet. The mass of repertoire we have now is growing. And we have to do all of it. But that’s what I love most.”

It’s tempting to think that ballet hasn’t changed since it was formalised in the courts of sixteenth- and seventeenth-century France. But it is evolving – slowly. Galeazzi is rehearsing The Firebird, written by Stravinsky in 1910, and is struck by the evolution. “Back then, the dancers had less elasticity” she says. “Less curved feet. And less turnout in the legs. But they were amazing artists. Now I reckon dancers think more about technique.”

These days, there is certainly more science. The dancers do gyrotonic, a form of exercise that uses specially designed wooden machines with rotational discs and weighted pulleys to strengthen the dancers’ muscles with flowing, circular movements. Gyrotonic looks like pilates (another exercise that’s popular with dancers) but is more like yoga in its origin and breathing techniques. And their bodies are monitored throughout. By computer.

“Sports scientists are getting interested in how we train,” says Cuthbertson, “and how we fire certain muscles. “In the olden days, if someone was injured they would just go away and, when they felt better, they would come back. But now, because of the science, we know what we’re going to achieve by rehabbing properly after an injury. Having said that, when we’re on stage we don’t care if we’re firing some muscle or not. That’s not what we’re there for. We just want to move people.”

Which is where the acting comes in. When everything is about technique, it’s easy to forget about the art. “You spend years and years at school” says Cuthbertson, “trying to make trying to make your best frappe, or your developpé to the left a bit higher, or your arabesque a bit more extensive. Suddlenly you join the company, and the first thing is you’re acting. You’re not being this ballerina you trained for. You are pretending to a peasant, a whore or a gipsy.”

Cuthbertson came up through the Royal Ballet system, and started boarding at White Lodge – the Royal Ballet school in Richmond Park – at the age of 11. “It’s a short career” she says, “and if you’re going to do it, you need to decide to do it the best you can as early as you can.” She had no idea how hard the training would be. “Every class – pushing your body” she says. “I had never hurt in ballet before. But you learn. Your stamina gets better. And you become a better machine.”

She didn’t feel robbed of a childhood. “I was happy as Larry” says Cuthbertson. “I still messed around like a kid. I was always up after lights out. I had so much fun because I was quite rebellious. Whereas other girls missed out because they were always nervous about doing something wrong. I just did something wrong, and got it out of my system. At the age of 13 I was told that, if I just cruised, I wouldn’t make it. That stuck. And I realised then that ballet was what I wanted to do.”

Pennefather danced because his sister danced. And he loved it. But when he went to a mixed school in Maidenhead, things turned nasty. “Boys at that age don’t really understand about ballet” he says. “They think it’s feminine. They call you names. And it’s not great. I know one boy who had his shins completely kicked in because he did ballet. It can be terrible. I did nearly give up at one point – everyone got to me – but my parents helped me through it.” And he’s so glad they did.

But all too soon it’s over. Galeazzi, at the age of 34, is considering her future. Ironic really. “Because,” she says, “right now I feel I’ve got real control of the stage.” She wants to wait to have her family, although returning to ballet after a family isn’t out of the question. Darcey Bussell did it. And when she came back they said she was better than ever. She had realised there was life outside ballet. But that’s what happens to dancers – as their emotional maturity increases, their physical ability decreases. It’s a terrible, tragic trade-off.

Cuthbertson thinks about retirement all the time. “I’m 24 and I’ve only got another 12 years – 15 years max. And then it will all be over. And I bet I’ll feel then like I feel now.” A lot of older dancers go into teaching. But Pennefather thinks he’ll fancy a change by then. A film directing course maybe. Cuthbertson wants to be a fashion buyer for a store, or a milliner. And Galeazzi wants to go back to composing music. Whatever they decide, it’s unlikely they will have much of a pension to fall back on.

Some principals at the Royal Ballet negotiate salaries for themselves – some appoint an agent. But it’s all hush hush. “When I started out” says Pennefather, “I was on £1,100 a month. Now they start on something like £1,500 a month.” As dancers move from first artist to soloist to first soloist to principal, they get a rise. But the biggest rise is from principal to highly-paid media darling. Like Sylvie Guillem, who made thousands for her shows in Japan. But there’s only one Sylvie Guillem.

And, these days, it seems society only has room for one Sylvie Guillem. It wasn’t always like that. Not during the golden age, when the great ballerinas were the toast of all society. “I do sometimes wish I was in on the Ballet Russes” says Cuthbertson. “On that train with Diaghilev. When ballet was fashionable, and pioneering and something that people looked up to. Nowadays, to a lot of people, it’s something that belongs in a museum. That’s what we want to change at the Royal Ballet.”