Prima Ballerinas 599

## Ekaterina Shipulina: A Life in Pointe Shoes The first memory I have of ballet is not in a grand theatre, but in a dusty, echoing room in the outskirts of St Petersburg. It’s 1984 and I’m five years old, bouncing around in a worn-out tutu, my oversized ballet shoes slapping the cracked wooden floor. A thin woman, all sharp angles and unwavering determination, stands at the barre. Her name is Ms. Ivanova and she will become, for a time, the closest thing to a mother I know. The smell of sweat and old wood fills the air. There’s a distinct chill from the drafty windows, but I’m too caught up in the music, the melody twisting around me like a graceful ribbon, to notice. I’m dancing. Even in my tiny, clumsy way, I’m dancing. The world beyond the dance studio is a blur. The constant shadow of my mother’s illness, a battle with cancer that would eventually claim her when I was seven, hung over everything. My father, a hardworking factory worker, barely had time to spare. Ms. Ivanova, and later, the other instructors at the Vaganova Academy, became my anchors, my source of discipline and, perhaps most importantly, joy. The Rigours of Ballet The Vaganova Academy was an intense world. Days bled into nights as we honed our technique, pushing our bodies to their limits. Hours were spent at the barre, each plié, relevé, and développé drilled into our muscles until they became instinctual. My body, once gangly and awkward, became lean, graceful, and capable. We were all sculpted by the demands of the art, each of us striving for perfection, for that ethereal grace that could only be attained through countless hours of arduous practice. I remember the loneliness, too. Away from home from a young age, the only company I truly knew was that of my fellow dancers. They became my sisters, our shared dreams and struggles bonding us in a way that surpassed the normal teenage friendships. The competition was fierce, an undercurrent of silent tension, a constant reminder that only a handful would reach the top. But the passion for the art burned brightly within each of us. We yearned to bring stories to life with our movements, to capture the fleeting beauty of emotion in a single arabesque, a fleeting gaze, a perfectly timed extension of a leg. From St Petersburg to the World The journey to the professional stage was, however, a path strewn with challenges. I was accepted into the Kirov Ballet, now the Mariinsky Theatre, but initial opportunities were few and far between. I spent the early years as a corps de ballet dancer, learning from the masters, soaking in their every move, every expression. There were no leads, no grand moments in the spotlight, yet every night, I stood beside my fellow dancers, our bodies moving in perfect harmony, contributing to the larger spectacle, a single thread woven into the magnificent tapestry of the ballet. My turning point came with a performance of *Don Quixote*, where I was cast as the Queen of the Dryads. My role may have been small, but it was mine, my chance to showcase the training I had dedicated my life to. That night, my spirit took flight, I danced with a new found confidence, each turn and leap fuelled by years of dedication. This performance earned me the attention of the Artistic Director, a powerful figure with discerning eyes, who began to give me more prominent roles. *Giselle*, *Swan Lake*, *The Nutcracker*, each new role a stepping stone on my path to stardom. Facing Adversity Yet, success in ballet is often a double-edged sword. The pressure is immense. There’s always the next performance, the next role to fight for, the constant need to surpass your previous best. It can be an isolating world. Even as I performed for thousands, there were nights when I would walk off the stage, my heart aching, the exhaustion palpable. Then there was the injury, the bane of every dancer’s existence. It happened in the midst of a performance of *Sleeping Beauty*. My right ankle snapped, the sharp crack resonating through the theatre. I crumpled to the stage, the roar of the audience fading into a distant hum. Months of physiotherapy followed, each day a battle to regain the strength, the balance, the freedom of movement I had taken for granted. The experience, as brutal as it was, changed me. It was a reminder of how fragile this art form is, how it demanded constant dedication and a resilience I hadn’t realised I possessed. My Voice on and off the Stage My journey hasn’t been simply about dazzling audiences with breathtaking feats of athleticism and grace. I’ve always felt a deep connection to the stories we tell on stage. There’s an artistry to expressing raw emotions through physicality, to embodying characters both tragic and triumphant. I wanted to understand the intricacies of these stories, the nuances of their emotional complexities. I began to write, drawing inspiration from my experiences, my observations, and my passions. My words, at first clumsy and hesitant, blossomed with each poem, each short story I wrote. In the quieter moments between rehearsals and performances, I immersed myself in the works of Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, and Chekhov, drawing inspiration from the depth and beauty of Russian literature. My world expanded beyond the stage, incorporating the rich tapestry of words, the power of the written form, as another means of expression. The Next Chapter The fire still burns bright within me, an undying love for ballet, a yearning for more than just a dancer’s existence. Today, at 40, I’m dancing more for myself than for the acclaim. I’ve toured the world, danced for the greatest ballets in the world, and my life, although a constant challenge, has been richly fulfilling. Yet, there’s more I want to offer. My passion now extends to teaching, to sharing the love for ballet with younger dancers, to guide their passion, to nurture their talents. There’s something truly rewarding in helping others discover the joy of dancing, in seeing their eyes light up with newfound passion. My dance journey has not ended. It’s transformed. And I’m ready for the next chapter. There are stories to tell, new steps to take, new audiences to reach. The curtain may be down for now, but it will rise again, and I’m ready for the applause.