Matthew Powell
photography Brian Jamieone of the funniest ballet teachers EVER
Legs. Feet. Ugh.
Here’s a couple late night ballet reblogs. It appears they’ve put balloons in his calves and inflated them.
Tag: goddamn legs i’ll tell you what
Getting ready. He knows everything must be perfect, not a thread out of place, not a wrinkle in his leggings. As a male ballet dancer, he has to fight harder for the right to wear shoes with ribbons like all the girls he admires with dainty feet. These shoes were custom made to fit his wider feet, but he can’t help feeling the ballet world will only accept this breach of tradition as long as he is triumphant on stage. A second off his time, a slip, a fall, a forgotten step and he won’t just be a disgrace, but he’ll be a disgrace in ribboned shoes… there will be whispers he should have just stuck to men’s slippers or danced barefoot, like the men should and always have. No, he won’t let that happen.
Especially, especially, since the man he’s worshipped forever will be in the audience. His hero, his role model, his god. Now, he must let go of his ego, his worries, his stress, and just…dance. And dance he will.
(Photograph by Vincent Chine; model unknown. Caption is fiction.)
(Just three late night ballet reblogs tonight.)
I might wear leggings and slippers to work, but I am strong, and I am beautiful, and I am confident. I am a ballet dancer and proud of it.
Chase Finlay is a born-and-bred American boy who dances for the New York City Ballet; there are plenty of videos at the source too. There is something so captivating about this shot; his legs look as if they were carved from powder blue pastel sticks and his torso is an ideal inverted triangle shape. He’s got a great smile, too, definitely a boy you bring home to meet Mama.
(The caption is fictional, btw).
In case anyone tells you that not a single man has ever looked good in overalls, you show them Robert Bolle making them look good enough to model on a runway. Oh Robert, you would look fuckable even in a potato sack!
(Google Translate says this is from Trittico Novecento from 2012.)
Ruslan Skvortsov [of the Bolshoi Ballet] as Phoebus de Châteaupers in Bolshoi’s La Esmeralda
Irina Lepnyova photography
Oooo such bulging calves and dainty toes. …Doesn’t it look like he’s hailing a taxi? I can imagine some gnarled old Italian taxi driver taking one look at him and exclaiming, “Damn! Is that what the pansies are wearing these days!?” …and then getting in a fender-bender from being distracted by his amazing legs. Cause damn, Ruslan knows how to rock the blue tights.
Strings pulled tight.
(Robert Bolle, shot by Milan Vukmirovic.)
“Wh…who are you?” I rubbed my eyes, sure I was hallucinating.
“I’m your guardian angel,” he replied, the answer coming from all around like he was on surround sound. It was a wonderful, velvety voice.
“My…my what?”
“You’re freezing out here, Maximilian. You are going to die. I’ve been sent to tell you.”
“But but… the shelters are full! There aren’t any more auditions for at least another week, and I…I can’t go back to Indiana like this,” I choke.
The angel gazes down at me, no emotion on his perfect face. He is just floating there, still. “Go to Julliard.”
“What? I can’t afford Julliard!”
He shakes his head. “No, go to Julliard, the theater. There’s a door in the back. The janitor forgot to lock it and the heat was just turned off. You’ll be warm enough until morning when it turns on again at 6. Stay until 8, don’t leave a minute sooner or a minute later.”
I look around, wondering if I’m in fact already dead or suffering some sort of lack of oxygen trip in the process of becoming a popsicle. “Are you…are you serious? You want me to sleep in Julliard’s theater? You’re sure? I can’t afford to be arr-”
“Go Maximilian. Go. It is your destiny.”
“My what now.”
“Take my shoes, off my feet.” He looks at me expectantly.
“Um.” His feet are just above my head. “Ok, if this is what you want.” I reach up with trembling, gloved hands and slide the white slippers off his stocking clad feet. They’re warm. His toes are still flawlessly pointed. His legs are gorgeous; I can’t resist running my palm up his calf. The angel is still looking at me but he does not react. Embarrassed, I retract my hand and tuck the shoes into my coat. “Thank you…for the shoes, I mean. What should I do with them?”
“Dance,” he said matter of factly. “It will be known when you will need them. Good-bye Maximilian.” Before I could open my mouth to protest he was gone. I ran around the alley looking for him, but he was gone. Cold seeped into my bones. What the hell was that? I felt something warm against my chest and peered into my coat. There they were… snow white ballet slippers. No tag, no makers mark. No size.
I followed the angel’s instructions and went toward Julliard. One of the trains wasn’t running at the right stop, so I had to walk an extra twelve blocks to get there. I was shocked when I found the door, just like I was told. I slept on a pile of sandbags as a mattress. The shoes kept their warmth the entire night and I had the best sleep in weeks.
The next morning, at 8 am sharp, I was caught by a teacher looking for a misplaced sweater. That meeting would change my ballet career forever….
(to be continued, maybe :3)
Last late night ballet reblog session of 2013 and it’s a beaut! We’re starting off with this gorgeous specimen.
Chris Rodgers-Wilson
Australian Ballet
photography Paul Scala
I want to source this, but I can’t remember where it’s from 🙁 It does not belong to me, however.
As a little boy growing up in England, all Thad wanted was to run away to the jungle and be like Tarzan. No more homework. No more oatmeal. No one stiff church clothes. When Thad got older, he eventually accepted it was far too late to be raised by apes… and he was far too spoiled by modern life to stick it out in the brutal untamed wilderness. So, Thad did the next best thing – he joined the circus. Got the same reaction from his mother and everything.
(Post is fictional; this is American model Apollo Bird.)
The signature curved foot on the tip of a strong leg, the hallmark of a seasoned dancer. He make look small and skinny but his legs have enough power to crush coal into diamonds.
(end of late night ballet reblogs~)