On the ballet stage, the orchestrated dancers tell a story
An exquisitely detailed movement, timed with purpose
In the depths of expressive shame, the heights of glory
Or a story of a day in a life, a painting of life in orchids
“And even this heart of mine has something artificial. The dancers have sewn
it into a bag of pink satin, pink satin slightly faded, like their dancing shoes.”
Edgar Degas
