Neither Tiny nor Pretty: On Pedagogy, Possibility, and Why I’m So Tired
This is not a review of the Netflix drama Tiny Pretty Things, a new series set in a ballet academy. It’s not a review because I stopped watching after an episode-and-a-half.
If I learned anything from Tiny Pretty Things, it’s that I’m tired. Tired of pedagogies that disregard the humanity and autonomy of young dancers; those that glorify the teacher as the center of the universe and as beyond reproach. I’m tired of the portrayals of ballet pedagogy on screen that—no matter how obviously melodramatic—are rooted in a sad, dangerous reality that the ballet field seems content to ignore; the same reality I see every time a student cries in my office when they finally begin to believe that they. are. enough, their previous years of ballet training having clearly communicated to them that they’re not.
It’s time for an honest discussion about what damaging pedagogies look like in ballet, how they leave marks on dancers, and how we can develop pedagogies with explicit emphases on student autonomy. I won’t get to all of that here—it’s too big. This post is an attempt to move this conversation forward in light of the Tiny Pretty Things release; an attempt to say some of the quiet things out loud.
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I walked out of a ballet class once. I was 23 and dancing freelance in New York, doing project-based work in the evenings and administrative jobs during the day. Every so often I’d take drop-in ballet classes around the city in addition to the daily classes I’d take with my favorite teachers, so when I heard about a well-loved teacher with a devoted following, I decided to try her out.
As was my usual approach to class with a new teacher, I arrived early and found an inconspicuous place at the barre to avoid drawing attention to myself. She didn’t seem to notice me, which was good—she seemed a little dramatic anyway. The class started, and it was fine. Not my style, really, but nothing I couldn’t benefit from. We were in the middle of the adagio at the barre when she made a beeline toward me. Without saying a word, she grabbed my foot in arabesque and cranked my leg up so high behind my head that I almost fell over. My whole back seized up, yet I was more appalled at her assumption of physical control over my body—I felt so violated and yet at the same time so ashamed that I couldn’t get my leg that high on my own. As I muddled through the rest of the barre, I decided that, having never before left a class mid-way through for a pedagogic reason, I would go when the barre was over. I was shaken, and I was pissed.
The barre ended and the class began the transition into the center. I walked quietly to the corner to gather my things, hoping she wouldn’t notice. But ballet teachers see everything, I now know from experience. In front of the thirty or so other people in that packed class, she screamed at me from across the studio: “What?! You can’t take it?!” I thanked her for the barre (because thanking the teacher is an inviolable tradition even if they’re hideous) and picked up my bag to go. She kept yelling, chastising me that I’d never “make it” if I couldn’t “take the correction,” while I kept thanking her and trying to back out of the studio without bursting into tears. Writing this, now, nearly twenty years later, my heart is pounding. I’m so angry. Why the fuck did I keep thanking her?
The most profound problems that affect students in ballet derive from the tacitly understood expectation that they’re willing to endure trauma as part of their education.
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Every time a new ballet film or series is released, I feel compelled to see it—responsible for knowing its contents so I understand how my field is being portrayed to the public; so I might have at least a sense for what students might be seeing; or so I can address the questions that sometimes pop up from the non-dancers in my life. They ask for my perspective, on occasion, and I like to be informed. So I watch… until I can’t.
Tiny Pretty Things is the latest in a long line of ballet dramas on screen; some of the most notable (and notorious) ones include The Red Shoes (1948), The Turning Point (1977), Center Stage (2000), The Company (2003), Black Swan (2010), and Flesh and Bone (2015). The public’s fascination with the behind-the-scenes world of ballet is insatiable—apparently robust enough to withstand many of the same themes again and again, albeit with different characters and in different contexts.
If you don’t want to watch Tiny Pretty Things, here’s the gist based on my viewing of the first episode-and-a-half. The plot seems mostly irrelevant—it’s a flimsy murder mystery that apparently exists to support the drama of countless ballet clichés that the show trots out and magnifies to an uncomfortable degree. To say it’s heavy handed is an understatement. Each overused trope lands hard and in fast succession: the self-aggrandizing artistic staff, the overbearing ballet mom, the disordered eating, the sycophancy, the competition for roles, the hypersexualization of dancers, the injuries, the drug abuse, the abuses of power, the web of who-is-sleeping-with-whom-and-who-is-whose-former-lover. Even Edgar Degas’ “Little Dancer” statue makes an appearance. Most impressively absurd is a scene where Frenchified ballet director Madame DuBois (Lauren Holly) barks at her office assistant who’s injecting her bunion-laden feet with cortisone, two vials of which she just happened to have lying around in her office on a silver tray: “Merde! That was bone you hit.” Most of the dialogue feels like a punch in the face, reminiscent of a junior high school theatre production with the facial expressions to match. The dancing is, as one might expect, just as angsty.
Featured in Tiny Pretty Things as in all ballet dramas, the ballet class is where, in real life, the work happens—where dancers develop a nearly superhuman degree of bodily control. The ballet class is where dancers become. And yet there’s so rarely a productive depiction of a ballet class on screen. I often wonder if it’s because supportive, generative ballet classes aren’t the norm, or if it’s because they make for lousy entertainment. While I’m concerned it might be the former, I’m guessing it’s probably the latter too, because who among the Netflix-watching public would sit through the slow, tedious process of dancers being respectfully coached by teachers who delight in their progress as they work tirelessly to hone the micro-details of ballet technique? If Tiny Pretty Things is any indication, viewers want to see the kinds of abuse long associated with ballet pedagogy exploited in melodramatic fashion. It’s juicy. It’s sordid. It sells. Hooray for ballet under capitalism.
The show’s treatment of ballet pedagogy is, unsurprisingly, disastrous. In a scene set in the studio after hours, two students are working on their technique together. One says to the other: “You need to think like a puppet. A ballet master is the brain; you’re just the body.” Their lack of perceived autonomy here is dangerous, I’d suggest, and it’s communicated directly through the damaging approach we see enacted in the scenes of the ballet class. The ballet master treats the students like empty-headed dolls without agency or self-determination. He disparages them with “Another year and still not a turner,” and “Your summer break did you no favors.” In another scene, he bursts into the studio in a rage, screaming at the class to get rid of the excess clothing they’re wearing over the standard leotard and tights: “Get your junk OFF!” And that was as far as I got. I’ve heard teachers yell; I’ve been disparaged. Reliving it was not something I was interested in, regardless of how over-the-top these scenes are designed to be.
Turning off a television show is the viewer’s choice, but we don’t offer students the choice to turn it off in real life; we don’t allow them to stop participating for the purposes of self-preservation when they’re being treated badly during class—we chastise them instead. They’re expected to endure and to thank the teacher because traditional rules of ballet class decorum say so, and there’s no arguing with tradition.
Realistically, I doubt ballet dramas like these actually cause damage in real life ballet classes. More likely it’s the other way around. I’d like to think that most people watching are aware that these fictional accounts are overblown, but given the consistent portrayal of the ballet class as a locale for abuse, perhaps we should be concerned. We see in reality those authoritarian teachers who bring their mood swings into the studio or engage in larger-than-life brutality, acting the part of the “ballet master” rather than seeking real engagement with pedagogy. There are those very real teachers who demand silent obedience, those who withdraw student voice and agency, those who assume authority over students’ bodies, and those who take ownership of students’ hard-earned achievements.
As Tiny Pretty Things and so many other ballet dramas seem to understand beneath their syrupy veneers, ballet’s relationship with pedagogic abuse is historic, well-documented, and ongoing. It has been repeatedly rationalized in print. Here are three very real reasons for alarm:
1. In a 2018 Dance Teacher magazine article called 11 Things Every Dance Teacher Wishes Their Students Knew, the first item on the list is: “1. When I’m hard on you, it’s only because I want you to reach your potential.” (To me, this statement feels uncomfortably close to: “I only hurt you because I love you,” a concept closely associated with domestic abuse.)
2. In a disturbing passage in John White’s Advanced Principles in Teaching Classical Ballet (University of Florida Press, 2009), he describes how to teach using what he calls “premeditated pedagogic outbursts,” saying: “If students are bobbling a balance on demi-pointe after a pirouette while holding the barre, ask them why they are hopping or why they are lowering their supporting heel or their working foot to the floor. Then wait for an answer. Of course, there will be none. Then tell them emphatically, ‘Do not hop!’ And have the students try it again. When they hop again (as they more than likely will), ask once again, even more emphatically, ‘Did you understand what I said before? (pause) Do not hop!’ When the movement is at last done correctly, remind everyone that overcoming such difficulties often is just a matter of deciding not to commit the error. They have to learn to be tough-minded.”
3. In his book Ballet Pedagogy: The Art of Teaching (University of Florida Press, 2010), Rory Foster suggests that students should “accept the teacher and what is taught unhesitatingly”; that “when a student begins to argue, misbehave, and resist corrections, it is time for him/her to seek out another teacher, because without complete trust and respect, the training development is breached.”
My heart hurts when I read these. There aren’t many publications on ballet pedagogy in print—it’s an oral tradition, after all—so it’s certainly possible that ballet teachers looking for resources might rely on these to inform their pedagogies. I have particular concerns about ballet teachers with limited pedagogic training and support; those who might take these writings at face value; who might read uncritically in the face of the perceived authority of the written word.
I’m not worried about those of us who roll our eyes and snort at these destructive depictions of pedagogy. I’m worried about those of us who don’t.
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Imagine some possibilities:
Imagine if those teachers who wielded and refused to give up their damaging pedagogies stopped receiving the support of ballet’s institutions. Imagine if institutions offered training to support willing teachers in building humanistic ballet pedagogies.
Imagine if abusive approaches to pedagogy weren’t published or made the standard. Imagine if the peer-review process was expanded to include the identification and rehabilitation of problematic pedagogies.
Imagine if the accepted practice was for dancers to protect themselves from maltreatment—to exercise their full human autonomy in their training and in the profession. Imagine if ballet institutions supported dancers in making autonomous choices and followed up to eliminate sources of trauma. Imagine if ballet teachers and institutions acknowledged and took action to address the ways gender, race, and class affect dancers’ access to autonomy in ballet.
Imagine what ballet could look like, what ballet dancers could accomplish, and what the ballet drama on screen could become if more teachers put their pedagogic creativity into developing new ways to encourage student agency and self-determination—to empower them.
Some teachers and institutions are already moving ahead with this important work. I’m honored to know many of them, to learn from them, and to work alongside them. There’s further to go for certain, but there’s reason to hope. In the meantime, turn off your television and stay tuned.
Photo credit: Ahmad Odeh on Unsplash