Kansas City Ballet Dancer Kaleena Burks in Devon Carney’s Swan Lake. (photo by Brett Pruitt & East Market Studios)
When the mood and choreography strike, Kansas City Ballet Artistic Director Devon Carney invites a few folks to perform on stage as supernumeraries. That’s a fancy term for extras—usually peasants—who mill around and have deeply animated conversations with their supernumerary neighbors.
I know a few who have filled that role quite ably, including in KC Ballet’s Giselle, Don Quixote, The Nutcracker and last fall’s Swan Lake. They looked so elegant up there on the Kauffman Center stage with their colorful costumes—burlap for the poor, silky satin for the dandies—and confident presence. Even in supporting roles they were stars—at least in my eyes.
Probably didn’t hurt that they’re all trained dancers from years gone by. It’s like riding a bike. Once you know it, you don’t forget, even if the pedaling’s a bit rougher than when you were a kid.
Like the pros around them, they worked their way around rehearsals, endured costume sittings and wig fittings, signed 8×10 glossies for adoring fans and generally fit right in. I’m sure they enjoyed the backstage action as much as the spotlight: the cue calls, the rushing about, the sharp smell of liniment, the controlled chaos that makes everything difficult look so simple.
No question, they were at home. Me, on the other hand…
I imagined myself among them once. For a brief, what-could-I-possibly-be-thinking moment. There’s a lot to be said for fame, fortune and thrill.
The door opened. I nearly fell through. It was back when the Ballet did Sleeping Beauty and I was on staff as Chief Development Officer. Devon came up to me and said, “How’d you like to be in the performance? I’ll make you one of the townspeople.”
I gotta tell you, I was tempted. Until reality slapped me pretty good.
“Hey fool,” my inner adult warned me. “Let’s be real. You on stage? Yeah, right. With the exception of a tap dance when The Mrs. catches you at something, you’re about as graceful as a car wreck.
“Besides, those dancers. Look at them. They’re all tall, slender, and attractive—even the townsfolk. Then out comes you: short, graying, less than slender, and sporting two left feet. You’d want to tell jokes or something. That’s not a good move for a silent artform.”
Made sense. Plus, I’d probably have to wear tights. That wouldn’t be fair to anyone.
“Here’s what I propose,” I countered to Devon. “If you ever need to clear the Hall in a hurry, stick me up there. Front and center. I guarantee the crowd will run out screaming like it was one of those Japanese monster movies.”
Disaster dodged.
I did get a kick out of watching my friends on stage. I was right where I belonged: our seats in the middle of the Mezzanine, surrounded by unknowing but certainly very grateful patrons of the arts.
It was a small sacrifice for the good of all.
–Ron Fredman
