December 4, 2002 Culture the other press Ballet for BC Scheherazade, The Winter Room and There, Below Carla Elm OP Contributor As I struggle to decipher the ticket dispenser instructions and fumble in my change purse in the parking lot, a woman in the line-up behind me taps me on the shoulder. “Do you need a Loonie? I found this on the ground:'I need to get to my event.” She's not smiling. I laugh and take the coin. I’ve got plenty of change, but happily oblige, purchase my ticket, then rush to my car to place it on the dash. As I leave the parkade I see the woman re-reading the dispenser with bifocals, a long line-up behind her. Shit in the parkade stairwell, possibly human, next to an abandoned black sweatshirt. I gingerly step past it, my high heels clacking on the cement. A cultural congregation of sorts at the Queen Elizabeth Theatre. It’s 7:54 and Ballet BC’s production of Scheherazade is about to begin. Cars line the rain-soaked streets and entranceway, well-dressed crowds mill about, and luckily I see my sister, waiting by the box office sign, tickets in hand. Complimentary tickets that would normally have cost us a total of $100 for the seats end up with. I make a point of thank- ing the Marketing Director at the media counter, just as the ‘get-to- your-seat’ bell chimes. My sister and I rush to the mezzanine level, find our seats and settle in for what will undoubtedly be an amazing experience. Before the lights dim, I look at those around me. Mainly middle- aged patrons, some mothers with primped children, most clearly well off. The ballet begins. The curtains open to an impressive tableau. A man and a woman occupy the huge space, beautifully lit by a large, round disk of light on the floor and through a giant swath of silk from above. Scheherazade tells the tale of a prince gone bad, and the woman who manages to tame him. As a victim of adultery, the prince, deftly played by Jones Henry, murders his first wife. His second wife also meets a similar fate, the prince catching her neck in his hands and snapping it with a gesture both scary and controlled. But control is the last thing this prince has, and execution for all his wives seems inevitable until he meets Scheherazade, strikingly portrayed by Emily Molnar. Scheherazade has a plan. She decides, every night, to tell the prince a tale so captivating and suspenseful that he will put off his killing spree just to hear the continuation of it the following evening. She succeeds in staying her execution and winning the heart and trust of the prince to boot. Production values in this piece are impeccable. Player after player commands the stage with precision, emotion and beauty. The stage lighting is one moment subtle as a moon-lit terrace and the next awash with warm morning light. Corridors and secret rooms are sug- gested with the use of key lights—players dance in the shadows as though in dimly lit hallways, then move into sharply lit rooms to con- front and tryst. Large veils of silk suggest the Middle Eastern origins of this tale, and shift as fluidly as the dancers themselves. It’s moving and beautiful and ends to uproarious applause. Intermission begins. A long line-up to the women’s washroom. Obvious dancers walk by. I make a note to sign up for yoga class and visit the pool occasional- ly. Women are decked out in finery from evening gowns to cashmere turtlenecks and suede pants. Children follow their parents, looking like miniature adults. No one’s smiling. 1 wash my hands, adjust my consignment store clothing and head back as the bell sounds. In the lobby, I pass by the bar, the latte counter and a raffle for an expensive car. The final two pieces, in turn, are exquisite and practiced. First up after intermission is 7e Winter Room, an achingly beautiful duet. The players, Acacia Schachte and Edmond Kilpatrick, begin by slowly walking past one another as though on a dark, cold, rainy street. A fog machine and dim lighting set the dismal scene. Then suddenly hats and coats—the players’ costumes—stretch to the ceiling and the crowd gasps. What’s revealed underneath the mediocrity of daily life is a washed-out, warm, inner world. The pair performs an eternal dance of love. An enormous tree, roots and all, hangs suspended, cen- tre stage. I’m moved to tears by this magic. The last performance, There, below, is a precise dance of entrances, exits and random pairings. The company seems tired, after performing three distinctly different pieces. They receive a standing ovation at the close of the evening. I turn to my sister and we smile, overjoyed to have experienced such inspiration and beauty. On our drive home, we pass by the Woodward’s squatters, huddled together on Hastings and Abbott, unquestionably cold and wet as the urban mist settles back in. I feel a great sadness. My sister and I and the ballet audience have just witnessed something beyond corporate sponsors and meager government funding. What we've seen by these incredible artists exists because of these entities, but stems from something deeply LAUNI SKINNER, CGA Regional Vice President Starbucks Coffee Company THINK sacred. And it’s not made available to all. Once home, I notice on the Ballet BC website, a page outlining ‘Special Events.’ Listed are raffles for a BMW and a Mercedes, and a Home and Garden Tour for $50. per person. The text reads: “Ever walked past someone's house and wished that you could peak inside? Now you can see inside seven awe-inspiring homes and gardens. Mansions, vil- las, cottages, condos, carriage houses...” I think of the homeless, desperate and wishing for a roof. I think of art existing for and of itself, appreciated by everybody. And I think of arts organizations caught in a cycle of fundraising initiatives catering to an exclusive audience in order to survive. And then I want to enact change, but don’t know how. www. THINKCGA.org CGA. Certified General Accountants Association of British Columbia © page 16