Posts Tagged ‘gymnast’

By Maureen Janson

My mom was smart. When I was an awkward 14-year-old with designs on being a gold-medal gymnast, Mom insisted that I enroll in ballet class. Having just joined my high school gymnastics team, I was enthusiastic about improving my floor-exercise routines, so I gladly agreed.

One early fall evening, Mom took me “uptown”—to the business district of our Northwest Chicago neighborhood—for my first ballet lesson. I felt like I had entered a different world. In the studio a tidy group of serious young dancers whirled across the floor. They were so beautiful! In their black leotards, pink tights, and impeccable buns, they balanced on pointe and leapt from one end of the studio to the other. And they worked hard.

In the corner the teacher, with cropped red hair and wearing a black turtleneck and flowing black skirt, called out in a thick accent over the taped piano music, “Ent von, ent too, plié—no! No! You must plié!” Sibyl Spalinger had trained and danced in Switzerland and although her English was near perfect, she maintained a thick German accent. She tapped a bamboo cane on the floor with each downbeat. “Again from ze corner!” she called. A knot grew in my stomach in anticipation of my class—this ballet stuff was serious!

As we adult beginners entered the room for our first class, Sibyl warmed us with a sparkling smile. Up close, she was smaller than I had thought. Her cat, Gigi, sat curled up next to her on the floor, oblivious to our presence. Sibyl’s warm smile quickly disappeared as she launched into directions on how to stand in first position and how to demi-plié.

Although it was likely that many of us would never be professional dancers, Sibyl treated us as if we were. Her expectations were high, and I loved it. By the end of class I felt completely absorbed. Contrary to my laid-back gymnastics training, Sibyl expected things of me. If something didn’t go well, she demanded practice until it got better. I wanted to improve and look like the advanced girls. Within a few weeks, my gymnastics dream fell  aside and ballet took over.

I enrolled in more classes, even one that was too advanced. My body could make the shapes, but I had no idea what the steps were and I could barely keep up. Sibyl was stern but encouraging, and she always ended each class with that smile.

Soon I began to work as a demonstrator for one of her children’s classes and later took on a working scholarship, washing the studio floor and mirrors every Saturday in exchange for as many classes as I wanted. I rode my bike there every day after school, dancing and going to the soda fountain across the street for french fries with my new dance friends. Homework fell by the wayside, but somehow I made it through high school fueled by my hours at Sibyl Spalinger School of Dance.

I progressed quickly in four years and was accepted into the ballet department at Indiana University. The transition was eye-opening. What Sibyl had called “out-turn” I learned was referred to as “turnout” by the rest of the world, and the way we began frappé exercises was much different  from the “chicken foot” that Sibyl taught. But I had the fundamentals to stay afloat. For a few years during college, I returned to Sibyl’s classes during breaks, but soon I felt that I had outgrown the neighborhood studio. I longed to be downtown with the professionals, and to move on.

Years later, when I was guest teaching and dancing on the West Coast, I received a letter from my mom telling me that Sibyl had closed her studio and returned to Switzerland.

On a recent Chicago visit, I parked my car in front of Sibyl’s old studio, now a daycare center. The blinds were open enough for me to take a peek. The tiny, L-shaped room was strewn with kids’ toys, drawings, and small chairs and tables. But I could see the beautiful wood floor underneath, and mirrors were still on the wall.
I let my mind slip back to the days of sweating in that room, and having the time of my life. In that room my career direction was determined. The years I spent there changed my life forever.