I arrived in Amsterdam two weeks ago, for a 3 week choreography intensive course. I was given the opportunity to participate in this course not just for the master classes, but also in order get an impression of the programme at the university, and have it as a potential long-term transfer option for next September. Given the mixed experiences I have had in Russia, I knew it would be wise to begin exploring other options, in case it becomes clear to me in the second semester that another 3 years of study in St Petersburg is not what is best for me.
At first, I was reminded of "my city" - of Peter, with his canals, and long rows of houses running on either side, an archipelago of a city, little islands connected by countless bridges.
But upon closer inspection, the similarities begin to melt away. Colour and light are the two elements that come to mind first, when analysing the things I found here that we don't have in St Petersburg. In Amsterdam, there's something of a Scandinavian village at Christmas time, that would probably offend the St Petersburg-ers, and cause suspicion with it's jolliness if imitated there in Russia.
I am joking, of course. But there is a light-heartedness about Amsterdam, a pleasant smile reflected off the canals, passing from face to face like a cheerful virus, a twinkle passing from eye to eye to window to street lamp. For me, it has nothing to do with the relaxed culture and attitude towards drugs, sex, and alcohol. It's a confidence, a self-assuredness, a sense of safety and contentment. It resonates in the very air. It's lighter than the bubbling excitement spilling from the night clubs, sweeter than the heavy grey smoke drifting out of the "coffee shops". I think most people miss out on hearing this clear, subtle song the city sings. It's like the sound of the bell in Westerkerk, which was once said to be heard throughout the entire Amsterdam neighbourhood of Jordaan whenever it chimed. Now noise pollution has robbed it of its influence, just as the rowdy tunes of the night have silenced this city's quieter humming.
Westerkerk (Western Church), 1631
An experience I had in my first week here in Amsterdam was for me the most powerful, thus far. I attended a candlelit concert at the historic Portuguese Synagogue in the famed Jewish Quarter. Two pianists played a selection of pieces written for four hands by "lost" Jewish composers who were imprisoned or died in the concentration camps.
It was cold in the synagogue. There were no electric lights, the interior illuminated only by the light of the candles hanging from enormous, glowing chandeliers. We sat in the rows of pews around the grand piano, and waited quietly together for the concert to begin. In that moment, there was an acute sense of community, without speech, without eye contact, we all felt in contact with one another. We had all come to this special place, to this concert of rare music, and looking around quietly, we felt we were truly together.
Two women in their mid-sixties came and sat down next to me, and I began to chat with the one sitting nearer to me. We talked about Russia, Amsterdam, dance, art, and music. I was taken aback, yet again, by the astonishing level of culture that I encounter time and again in the most ordinary Dutch people - not artists themselves, but appreciators, allowing their lives to be enriched by the arts.
This woman was curious how I had come to know about the concert. I told her that I read about it on the Synagogue's website, as I was planning my week's excursions, found the subject of the lost composers interesting, and felt strongly that I had to go. She told me that her girlfriend, the woman she had come with, was a pianist herself, often played piano for four hands, and that they both had made something of a personal, individual study of these lost Jewish composers, so this for them was a real treat.
Would that we in the United States had such an accepting culture, that such a conversation between these two women and I could happen at any concert, and the topic of their sexual orientation would never even come up; that it would be unremarkable in the purest sense of the word, because of the normalcy of such equality.
There are so many things I've learned here, from this programme, and many lovely people I've met. Ironically, a lot of my time here has been spent speaking not in English, but in Russian, with a girl from Moscow who is also participating in the same course. It's such a varied, international group here, which has been so refreshing after months and months of being the only one that feels foreign and out of place.
In general, however, I find myself craving the structure, the beauty, the purity of my conservatory. I miss the daily ballet class at 9.30, the intense rehearsals that sometimes ran until 10pm, the fact that everyone is much too busy and exhausted to go out and party at the weekend. People are, in a strange way, much more innocent in St Petersburg, than they are here. Perhaps less worldly, but also less sullied by the dirt on the road. The Russians are unembarrassed to like things that are true rather than "interesting", good rather than "new", and beautiful rather than "provocative". And I like that about them.
I don't regret coming here, I've already gotten so much out of these first two weeks...But this isn't what I hoped it would be. The moment of realisation that I feel more at home in Russia, for all it's grey severity and harshness, than I do here at this school in friendly, open-minded Amsterdam, has produced mixed feelings in me. Frustration was one. It seems that coming here might not be the bright new possibility or answer that I thought it would be. Loneliness was another. Yet again, I feel that I don't belong. Neither here, nor there, but stuck somewhere in the middle (...'somewhat elevated', a reference for any dancers who happen to be reading).
I'm on the bridge, looking out over the water, down the canal. I turn to face one shore, I see St Petersburg. Ballet, classicism, rigidity, beauty. And on the other island, Amsterdam. Dance theatre, contemporary art, acceptance, grotesque.
Torn, I stand on the bridge looking one way, then turning to face the other.