~ the cirque audition ~

I had auditioned for Cirque Du Soleil in March of 1993 down at Battery Park, Manhattan. It was the location of their, then touring show Saltimbanco. Their blue and yellow tent, or Chapiteau, was but a stone’s throw away from the Statue of Liberty. It was perhaps an appropriate francophone connection to reinforce Cirque’s ancestral French roots. The Quebecois are, however, proud of being Quebecois and are clearly not French. One could face the guillotine if one dared to call them French.

The new and yet unnamed show I was auditioning for would be called Mystère by year’s end. It would open on December 24^th of 1993 in the desert oasis of Las Vegas’ newest resort hotel, Treasure Island.

Strangely enough, I had never even heard of Cirque Du Soleil prior to my audition. But, here I was among the elite. I was on my way to perform in their record-breaking innovation. The reason why I hadn’t been acquainted with their marvels is that they hadn’t conquered Europe at the time. I was fresh off the Belgian boat and completely void of insight. I would, however, soon be living the American dream by way of this French Canadian animal-free circus.

The audition had been a rather funny occurrence I fortunately hadn’t taken “oh so seriously.” Cirque was out of my league, or at least seemed to be. I should have known better. All prizes are attainable with an appropriate mind-set and a bit of good fortune.

Lady Luck fortunately accompanied me to the audition that day. She rewarded my years of preparation. I sure wasn’t the best one there, nor was I the luckiest. I was simply one of the more determined and focused. Another crucial factor to my Cirque audition success was that for the first time ever, I hadn’t been afraid to be me. It was me they needed to see and not a representative. As fate would have it that wonderful, wintry, clear-skied, New York morning, I was able to leave that mask behind and be me.

The audition call time had been 10:00 a.m. I am a nocturnal insomniac, but miraculously woke up early that morning without having set my alarm. Some things are just meant to be. I spontaneously headed down to the blue and yellow tent at Battery Park on Manhattan’s southern tip. A quick subway ride is all it took and there it was, Le Chapiteau. Was I going to run away with the circus? I should have brought a red nose. The circus tent reminded me of a corny joke I had once heard. Why don’t cannibals eat clowns? ‘Cause they taste funny.

I couldn’t find the entrance to the Big Top so I ended up sliding my way through an opening of sorts in the canopy. It was not recommended. Feeling like some clumsy thief getting caught climbing through a window, I looked up and encountered a Cirque employee. She looked like the kind of person one might expect to work in a circus.

“Allo, can I ‘elp you” she said with a charming accent.

“I am here for the audition.”

She informed me that she was in charge of casting. Great, we’re off to a flying start. I nervously said something profound like, I usually make a better entrance than that, followed by an uncomfortable silence. I then humbly handed over my make-do headshot. She escorted me from the slit in the canopy to the magnificence of the stage. It was simultaneously weird and familiar, and so, so impressive. After all, I had been to Barnum & Bailey before and had seen the inside of a circus tent, albeit as a child, but where was the sawdust? Where was the customary stench of elephant dung and horse sweat? This was a very different type of circus. I hadn’t a clue.

A group of dancers had already arrived. They were biding their time spread-eagled on the stage. Dancers always wait around by stretching and warming up their splits. Flexibility was not my forte. To me, stretching was an incredibly painful endeavor. I did it purely out of wise discipline and competitive obligation rather than masochistic joy. Over the years I had stretched so much to overcome my inflexibility, yet I was still inept to compete with all the dance divas in attendance. It was too late to turn back now.

“Put your mask on and fake the intimidation” I told myself. “You have as good a chance as anyone here.”

More dancers arrived and the ostrich in me laid more cracked eggs, but I couldn’t find a hole to bury my head.

I recognized some of the dancers from ballet classes at Broadway Dance Centre and Steps (where I had been on scholarship). The remainder of the dancers at the audition apparently heralded from Alvin Ailey. It is a world famous modern dance company with an African American flavor. Its foundations are built upon the premises of the Horton technique. It is a modern dance style named after its founder Lestor Horton. The audition call had been for ethnic dancers and the twist in the plot related to us trying our luck at more than just the dance. We were going to attempt an aerial act. Bungee trapeze to be more specific. I’d heard of bungee before but I’d never tried it.

“You want us to what? Where? How high? Are you out of your mind?”

Before we had the opportunity to experience the bungee, the choreographer warmed us up with some improvisation, dance, movement, noise kind of stuff. I didn’t enjoy modern dance but was comfortable doing it. I had trained in it for several years. The choreographer made us improvise. It would give her a feel for our body vocabulary and spirit. Once again, I felt nervous, intimidated and self-conscious. All of a sudden, it was Bungee time. I didn’t volunteer to pioneer the audition. No sir, I was too afraid. Bring it on Alvin Ailey dancers I told myself. Intimidate me all you want with your five pirouettes and Jean-Claude Van Damme splits.

The objective of the bungee lesson, once locked into a safety harness and ready to go, was to pull on the cords like a son-of-a-gun. After pulling like a mad man, we might perhaps reach the trapeze.

“Which trapeze?

“That one, way up there.”

“Right. Funny. That’s got to be at least two hundred feet.”

The odds suggest that at least fifty percent of us will not make it to the trapeze. In addition to the poor statistics, I was afraid of heights. Percentages didn’t matter. My determination mattered. The fools who had gone before me had neither the strength nor the stamina to pump their way up eighty odd feet to the trapeze. Those who had bounced up high enough were too afraid to let go of the cords in midair to grab the trapeze. The extremely courageous one’s who had made it seventy feet up to the trapeze, were then asked to sit up on it and fall backwards into the dark void beneath them.

“Forget about it, can’t we stretch or something?”

From my safe perspective on the ground, it looked like child’s play and the prospect did whet my appetite. I had already absorbed the lesson a little just by watching the brave who had paved the way. I felt confident. It’s so easy to be full of oneself when observing from a distance.

     I watched the remaining talent show-off their ballet technique like dancing mobiles hanging from a sixty-foot-high kitchen ceiling: tendues, developés, coupés, passés etc. The aerial ballet was borne. Even though the audition call had been for ethnic male dancers, a couple of girls had intentionally violated the fundamental prerequisite, ethnic men. The women impressed me. They were physically stronger than some of the lack-less men present.

It had nothing to do with sexism. As a rule, males tend to be physically stronger. The strength needed for bungee originates from the biceps and lats. One is pulling from above one’s head, down toward the hips. There is also an element of timing with the bungee cords. One can collaborate and be literally propelled to new heights, or one can fight a losing battle to an oversized elastic band and look like an out of control cartoon character.

     Finally, my turn arrived. I was so ready to make a fool of myself. What am I doing auditioning for a circus? All those people who had doubted me back in Belgium were going to get the last laugh. The academy was right to kick me out. I wasn’t talented enough. I had sacrificed everything I possessed to run away with a frickin circus. What were you thinking Vital? Nice shoes, they match your big red nose. They’d never let me live it down.

I had now been living in Manhattan just short of a year under the umbrella of a student visa. Its expiration date was rapidly approaching. Nothing profound had happened thus far concerning my career, and the gloomy prospect of a return flight to Brussels filled me with angst. I was neither on MTV (yet) nor had I landed a real gig and money was running out. I had reluctantly succumbed to the possibility of returning to Belgium with swallowed pride if nothing short of a miracle happened soon. Could this audition be that miracle?

There I stood below the trapeze confidently hesitant. They placed me into some kind of harness that fit snug around the waist. It squeezed my inner thighs and everything in between, hello, bonjour! They attached me to the bungee cords by a clip, hook-like thing that mountain climbers use. The coach gave me a crash course in Bungee 101.

“Bend your legs, jump and pull the chords downwards towards you. You’ll get airborne for a moment. Let go of the chords and you’ll feel the ground again, bend your legs again, push off when you hit the floor and repeat.”

It’s probably hard to picture this scenario and probably doesn’t make much sense to anybody right now, but that’s exactly how it felt to me at the time. I was at a loss. In addition, I was filled with fear. How would I make it to the trapeze that had initially appeared to be at least two hundred feet up in the air, when in reality it was probably about forty feet? Could I overcome my fear of heights or would I fall short, as had several before me? I remember my hands being moist with anticipation. I felt weak in the legs. My breathing became excited and ineffective. I should perhaps quit now day and return to the safety of the scholarship at Steps while I was still in one piece. What if I let go and fell? I had no insurance. I had not written my will. My mind was plagued with reservation and anxiety. 

The lesson continued. The coach directed.

“When your feet no longer reach the floor, pull on the chords and tuck, bring your knees to your chest, not your chest to your knees. Then let go of the chords again and when you feel them pull you, grab the chords above your head, tuck and pull until you can reach the trapeze. Then let go of the cords and grab the trapeze with both hands.”

I had heard the word trapeze more in an hour than I had heard in a lifetime. Up until this very moment, the trapeze had been such a romantic notion, a symbol of flight and freedom. It had quickly become a tool of aerial trepidation. 

“If you get as far as the trapeze, we’ll talk you through the rest,” was the ensuing promise.

If I get as far as the trapeze? Great. The bungee coach patted me on the back, turned away and yelled something to his young female assistant in a strange kind of French. I have since learned that it’s called Quebecois or French Canadian.

The gauntlet had begun. I bent my knees, jumped, pulled, tucked, probably didn’t let go and was off to a shaky start. I had become the very joke that only moments ago seemed to be so funny when happening to the other dancers. I wasn’t laughing anymore. My arms grew tired, my breath became short, and my mouth became a desert landscape. My mind was focused, nonetheless. My heart pumped streams of determination.

“I am going to do this successfully.”

Within seconds, the trapeze was within reach but I couldn’t let go of the cords. They were stuck to my fingers. It’s amazing how fear can alter the body’s ability to move or not move. I wish I could say I overcame my fear in an instant and casually reached for the trapeze, but I couldn’t reach it. As embarrassing as it may be, there was nothing casual in my bid for circus honors. I had probably made a fool of myself in an awkward and desperately uncoordinated manner. I did manage to reach for the trapeze and grabbed it. I held on for dear life once it was in my grasp. It wasn’t very pretty, but very effective.

“Don’t look down” was the warning from below.

Of course, I am going to look down. I didn’t realize how high forty-some feet were. It felt like five hundred feet. Luckily, I had a fail proof kung-fu grip on the trapeze. It was time to snatch the pearl and take the first steps of a new journey and new life. As promised, the coach communicated a sequence of choreographed moves, and I was soon sitting up on my new perch. I proudly observed the surrounding scenery with the utmost content. I saw a parting sea exposing new and exciting perspectives filled with fresh possibilities. I had just this very instant become an aerial acrobat and the world was my oyster. It still is today and will be tomorrow, with a few hiccups in between, but that’s life.

My aerial achievement overwhelmed me with apprehension. My heart felt like it was on the final lap of a Formula One race. All the while, my dangling legs were playing shake, rattle and roll and my head was spinning with the disbelief of having actually made it. I was sitting on the trapeze. Mission accomplished. It was no small step for me.

“Bravo, bravo” were the cries from below, accompanied by applause from other dancers.

Forgive me for having laughed at their misfortune. I had kindly extended them the same courtesy of applause for their earlier achievements. Following the encouragement from the coach and his assistant, I relaxed and proudly responded with a French colloquialism. They were pleasantly surprised. I knew that my ability to speak French would work in my favor. Vive la France.

The audition was far from finished. The next step was to let go of the trapeze and fall blindly backwards into that same dark void most of the other dancers had so feared. And that’s when reality hit. Time paused for a second. I froze with fright as I realized how small everybody looked down on the stage. This was too high for comfort. I looked back, then down, then up and jokingly made a sign of the cross. This seemed a good a time as any to resume the practice of my lost Catholic faith, albeit in jest. I was in need of divine intervention that was a biblical plausibility and not a Cirque audition probability. There comes a time in life when one has to close one’s eyes, jump and place trust in the power of fate, and bungee cords. I closed my eyes, held my breath, leant backward and felt gravity take control of my body. I was falling. I lost all sense of direction. Up had become down and down was going up. I tensed up and felt as though I was falling to my death. One second my stomach was in my throat and the next it was in my feet, then back in my throat.

Finally, and much to my relief, I could feel the tension of the bungee cords in my crotch. I wasn’t going to come crashing down to earth. Instead, I was propelled back into the air. Once again, my tickled stomach lagged behind and I yelled in joyful desperation.

“Wow!” What a rush. “Wheeeee.”

I enjoyed it so much I told them I was going to do it again, and again, and again. I had found a new toy and wanted to play until way past my bedtime.

“Wheeeee.”

Forget acting. Forget the dance. Even forget scoring a goal in the World Cup finals. This was bigger than anything I had ever done before. What an overpowering sense of freedom. Man’s ultimate goal of flight was in my possession and precariously attached to a circus prop. Icarus, eat your heart out. I spread my wings as wide as I could. Instead of dancing up there like the other dancers had done, I played like a child on Christmas Day. I loved what I was doing with reckless abandon. In my delight, I showed them several spur of the moment un-choreographed moves: the swimming frog, followed by the flying monkey, and ending with the astronaut and aerial robot. I went from zero to clown in under six seconds. They saw the infant-like innocence that was me. It worked. I captured their attention and curiosity. Personality, charm and abandoned inhibition had defeated training, experience and technique. I learnt an invaluable lesson right there and then. We must sometimes just let go. We must sometimes reconnect with the forgotten inner child in us and just be.

I was asked to flip. Bad news. One of the dancers before me had flipped forward and backward, with straight legs so tall, had bent both his legs, in a small tiny ball, spread-eagled and piked he had shown us it all. I never understood why they didn’t hire him. If there is one thing I do well, I observe and assimilate without fear. I am never afraid to try. So, I blindly attempted to flip but to no avail. With a little guidance from the coach, I was able to rotate. It wasn’t good enough to be called a back tuck or a flip, but they saw a willingness to learn, a desire to experiment and an ability to absorb. I later realized that the company thrives on such qualities.

In all the fun, I had taken my eye off the clock. Time had flown by so fast, literally. I had a scholarship shift to work at Steps as a supervisor. One is granted a scholarship after one passes an audition in either ballet or jazz. In return for free tuition, one must work about ten hours a week at the studio cleaning mirrors, toilets, floors, answering phones or signing people in for class and collecting their money, and if lucky, become a supervisor. The scholarship was, however, a great system if one was able to maintain focus and take advantage of the free classes. I saw many a scholarship student labor the required hours but never take class. They were too preoccupied with surviving the financial burden of living in New York and having to work several other jobs. Inevitably, they hadn’t the time to take class and would ne’er improve. I would hopefully not get caught up in the same stranglehold of scholarship life.

Letting the dance studio down because of this audition was not an option. They had after all placed a considerable amount of trust in me by promoting me to supervisor. I would carry that responsibility to the fullest. I’m firm on honoring professional commitments; personal ones are a different story, but I’m working on that. If I left the audition now, I’d still be on time for my supervisor shift, but the audition wasn’t quite over. The dancers who had survived part one were asked to stay and try their hands at learning choreography and character development.

Not really understanding the magnitude of the situation, and having no appreciation for this incredible opportunity, I opted to leave. I needed to start my shift on time. I am neither rude nor stupid, so I approached the woman in charge of casting and explained my dilemma. She kindly advised me to stay and suggested I make a phone call to find a replacement at work. There was a great chance of being selected she advised me. Leaving now would be saying goodbye to a wonderful future. To think the woman in question has no idea how her small piece of advice and understanding so changed a life. Who knows what I would be doing now had I not heeded her advice. I might still be on scholarship biding my time as a supervisor.

In reality, it was just another audition. One that I didn’t really want anyway. Despite the fun, circus sawdust was not for me. There would be many more auditions. I had just gained a little more experience in the art of auditioning and would apply that knowledge at the next one. The acceptance boosted my lacking confidence nonetheless. I called the manager at Steps and explained the situation. She was so excited and equally understanding. I wasn’t sure why the excitement, but she helped me find a replacement to cover my shift. The rest is history as they say.

Five, six, seven, eight. . . 

The dance routine began and I picked up quickly. For once in my short career as a dancer, I was asked to lead the way. This had never happened before in any dance capacity. I was accustomed to playing catch-up with the more experienced dancers. I usually preferred to keep a low profile at the back of the group where I could follow the leaders. I was at times very insecure of my dance abilities having only had but a few years of real training. I enjoyed the responsibility. I became the choreographer’s ambassador. I was overcome with an unfamiliar confidence.

I felt strangely connected to her, even though in my mind she was from some distant planet where the dance is performed upside down and inside out. She was teaching us the foundation of the weirdest dance alphabet ever. She gave us counts to follow, but they were make-believe counts founded on whimsical nonsense. There was a very abstract rhythm to it all, that when felt by the soul and not by the mind, could instinctually be followed. I freed myself from conformity, dance education, and stopped counting. I relied on intuition and instinct.

Her choreographic eccentricity I label as a barmy combination of jazz, hip-hop and zany derivations of modern dance. In all my arrogant honesty, I found it to be nothing more than a mystical joke that I approached with cocky naiveté. I laughed internally while insultingly mimicking the steps, which I did at times forget. I would save myself by improvising a creative tangent of my own until I stumbled upon a reference point to rejoin the choreography.  Everybody including the choreographer trusted my adaptations and followed. One of my earlier dance teachers taught me that if you are going to falter and violate a dance step, then do it so convincingly that it becomes truth and nobody will know. She was right.

My fragmented arrogance, conflicted with my insecure foundations, blinded me from the choreographer’s innovative vision. My insecurity had gotten the best of me that day. My mimicry and arrogance was probably bad-mannered and disrespectful. I have since been humbled and filled with inspiration, respect and admiration beyond description for a genius of a choreographer. Debbie Brown is incredible! Why were we dancing? Circus folk don’t dance. They juggle, parade elephants, and tumble. It didn’t make any sense.

The audition ended and I was asked to verify my contact information before leaving. I didn’t expect a callback. I didn’t expect to be offered a spot. I lacked so much belief that I didn’t even wait to receive a call in the manner I would normally have done after an audition. I had just had so much fun learning how to bungee. The free lesson had made my day, my week. I had just learned how to fly. What could be better than that?

I headed uptown to 72^nd Street and Broadway on the Number One train and headed to Steps to work my scholarship shift.

Only after casually sharing the story with fellow scholarship students and friends did it became apparent that something special had just happened. Life could drastically change because of this experience. My naïveté was so sincere that I couldn’t even remember the name of the company I had just auditioned for, yet everybody knew who I was talking about when describing the weird circus from Montreal.

Life continued as normal for the following months. I took four classes a day, worked at the Body Shop, went to rehearsals up in Harlem for a modern dance company, came home and ended the day by stretching. Before going to sleep, I’d consult the Village Voice or Backstage newspapers for all and any upcoming audition times and locations. I crammed so much into one day but would never run out of energy, only time.

Months after the audition I got a call from the Cirque Du Soleil headquarters in Montreal. They informed me that I had been accepted to become a member of their new show in Las Vegas. I initially declined the offer.

It’s easy to be independent when you’ve got money. But to be independent when you haven’t got a thing… that’s the Lord’s test.

Mahalia Jackson 1911-72: Movin’ On Up (with Evan McLoud Wylie 1966)

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