Sunday 11 November 2012

Pink Poodles in Paris

Have you ever put your daughter's hair in a bun? Not just any bun...a rhythmic gymnastics bun. There is, in fact, a class to be attended by every parent in the fall to ensure such a bun is done correctly. It must be high on the head, directly above the ears. If your child should fail to have long, beautifully behaving hair that creates a luscious snug bun, you must resort to accessories. It is ingeniously called a "bun maker". You can buy them online, and there are multiple websites to demonstrate it's implementation. Having been gently scolded in front of the other mothers for my sloppy buns that would explode after the first summersault, I was grateful for this aid, and can now drop off my daughter for her class with my head held high, proud of her snug and plump bun.

Rhythmic gymnastics is the last sport I'd have thought my daughter would be doing. When the Olympics arrive every four years, I pause to briefly admire the freakish flexibility of these primarily Eastern european beauties, before switching channels to watch a 'real' sport. These strange and beautiful creatures were not an inspiration to me in sport as they seem other worldly, disconnected from mortal women achieving a level of excellence in a sport. But it's Vernon and it's winter. It's dark at four o'clock, and either wet or icy for months. I was looking for an indoor activity, where my daughter isn't standing in line waiting for her turn to move. This activity was meeting my criteria to make sure that Madeline was constantly moving, learning new skills, having fun, and best of all, she got to 'get her girl on' with a leotard and ribbons. Who knew that I would spawn a girly girl? I've got to admit, I was attracted to the fact that her session is 75 minutes long; long enough to get in a real run!

A few weeks after the season started, I was informed that the girls would be participating in the production of Anastasia. It began with requests to raise funds and raise awareness to sell tickets. I was then supplied with three schedules to collate on my calendar; one for extra practices, one for volunteer hours, and one for the performance schedule. Hold on now....I paid good money for this program. There is no way I would solicit my neighbours to financially support my six year old newly initiated into this elaborate world of rhythmic gymnastics. The mothers were meant to gather on a series of Saturday mornings for a sewing bee and whip together some costumes. Once again my glaring lack of all domestic skills was exposed for all to witness. As the expectations for this production escalated I finally cracked when I saw the performance times. My six year old was meant to prance on stage at nine o'clock in the evening, after five performances in two days, with a 5 hour dress rehearsal to kick it all off. This was beyond ridiculous! I wrote a letter to the coaches questioning this, and was informed that year after year the young children rise to the challenge, and perform beautifully. Reaaaaalllly...alright then, let the games begin.

As this process unfolded, and I complained bitterly to my husband as I set off for the sewing bee on a rainy Saturday morning, something strange happened. I came into the room with Camille Martens, former Olympian and the dreamer and producer behind Anastasia, sharing with the mothers her vision for the costumes. She had found incredible materials to combine and make royalty, servants, minions, gypsies, and prancing pink poodles come to life. I was sucked in by her enthusiasm, and found myself cutting and creating in a room buzzing with interesting women, coming together for their children and the concept of creating something special. Returning home, I maintained my air of altruism and didn't admit to any enjoyment to my husband.

As the production neared, I received an email. Along with four other mothers, I was selected for the honour of guiding fourteen Pink Poodles in Paris, aged four to eight, backstage throughout the weekend. As I attempted to rustle up a plethora of other commitments I drew a blank. My husband would be out of town for five days, I didn't have work commitments, I hadn't been called for jury duty, and I didn't have a terminal illness. This resulted in a fourteen hour commitment to keeping these little pink poodles occupied, clean, fed, and happy, all for their six minutes of glory.

I arrived at the theatre with a large box. It was full of paper, crayons, scissors, wool, pipe cleaners, stickers. We would make pom poms, crowns, masks, forts, do word searches, play telephone...I was armed and ready for these rabid poodles. There were nearly a hundred performers backstage. The vocalist was warming her voice, the cellist was tuning her instrument, the gymnasts were stretching on mats, the russian dancers were doing deep knee bends, the poodles' faces were transformed by the makeup artist. All one hundred performers were then called on stage with Camille and her coaches for warm up. Every performer silenced in her presence. They listened to every word as she went through a list of specific details to make things run smoothly. The warm up then built like a wave, as their movement and voices rose with building energy. Music then filled the auditorium and erupted in a dance party with parents and backstage hands joining in. I was sucked in! I was part of it!! Let's get this show rolling!!! LET'S NAIL IT!!!!!!



From there the show just rolled. Performers swept on and off the stage, the music played in the halls so we could listen for the musical cues of when our group was needed on stage. We primped and primed the poodles. We got them fed, we rushed more than one to the bathroom, we kept them quiet with crafts, and had them lined up right on time for their few moments on stage. The little poodles vibrated in the hall excited for their moment on stage. When we ushered them back off the stage, they glowed with satisfaction and pride. Mission accomplished! The only problem was that I had absolutely no idea of what was really happening on stage. I had not seen a single scene from the performance. My ticket to enjoy the performance from the audience was for Friday night.

 I sat in the third row of a packed house, with nothing obscuring my view of the stage. The lights went down and the story of Anastasia began. I had read the synopsis, knew the general plot, but was not terribly interested as I thought is was more the opportunity to show the skill of the rhythmic gymnasts. I was somewhat surprised by the fact that Camille had named her only daughter Anastasia, thus was likely more invested in the story.  Over the next 100 minutes I was transported to another place. Set pieces that looked like wood and paint back stage, looked like marble and gold under the lights. The costumes that were sewn by amateurs looked authentic. The children turned into royalty, soldiers, orphans, gypsies, statues, french painters, and of course poodles. I was absolutely shocked that a production consisting primarily of children could move me. I felt the resentment of the poor residents of Moscow in contrast to the royal extravagance. The little faces of the orphans moved a mother's heart. I felt his cry of pain as a father watched his beautiful gypsy girls leave for Paris. Fortunately my mascara didn't run as Camille made us roar with laughter as the orphans toyed with their guardian, the gypsy mother sported a moustache and hairy legs, and the Pink Poodles in Paris were ridiculously cute. At the crescendo of the finale, the curtain dropped, and the past weeks came back to me. It comes down to this. It is a privilege to be a part of something bigger than oneself. Led by a woman with vision and a drop of genius, more than a hundred people created something quite remarkable...all here in small town Vernon. Thank you for including me and my little pink poodle.