Anatomy of an NYCB Audience
Updated: 4 days ago
I’m entering my 6th season as an usher at NYCB. I’ve worked approximately 800 NYCB shows. I’ve had a lot of time to observe. The stage, yes, but also the audience. I’ve learned a lot about human behavior—the good, the bad and the ugly. But I’ve also learned the NYCB audience is a unique and living organism. If you love this theater, this company, I hope you’ll read this ode to the audience and see what i see:
ANATOMY OF AN AUDIENCE
Once upon a time, I thought that in any given theater, the people that made up an audience were random, unrelated, entities who, by chance, all ended up with tickets to the same show, and thus for a mere 2 hours became part of this one-time-only amorphous mass of people who experienced the same thing and the same time, and then dispersed afterwards, never to be reunited in the same way again.
And to some degree that is true—like snowflakes, there has probably never been any two nights where a theater has a 100% identical group of people to any other night. However, since becoming an usher at NYCB, I have learned what a COMMUNITY this audience is.
First of all, there’s the ushers, some of whom have been faithfully greeting patrons for 30 or 40 years. We know many audience members by name. There are some audience members who thank us by bringing treats for us every time they attend.
There are subscribers who have been attending the ballet for 50 years and have always had the same seat. These long time subscribers all greet each other jovially when they arrive at their seats. Once strangers—they are now friends with the couple who they’ve sat beside six times per season for the last several decades.
Some dedicated fans attend the ballet several times per week, making sure to see each program at least twice, if not, three times to catch each cast in their roles. They take their promotion predictions very seriously.
Writers, authors, and newspaper critics troop in each night, sitting in the back of the orchestra, watching with a discerning eye, prepared to capture the lights, sound, and movement in ink.
SAB students, hair still in tight buns from their classes across the plaza, gather in corners gossiping and fantasizing about the day they will make it onto that stage.
The SAB faculty members, hustling over from the school after a draining day of teaching, perch on their chairs, ready to be re-inspired for the next day of classes.
Former company dancers return to their alma mater, to join the audience, feeling like a guest in their own home—but grateful to enjoy an overture without crunching rosin under their heels. Nonetheless, they slip backstage during intermission, into a more familiar realm.
Professional dancers from other companies, who some may label “rivals,” joyfully attend performances of their contemporaries, many of whom trained together as children. Who better to understand the feats of strength performed, than those who have done it themselves?
Then there are the families of the performers. Proud parents who drop everything to be at the theater for an unexpected debut. I recognize the ones that fly in from Alabama or California or who took the train in from DC or Connecticut. Siblings that stand and cheer louder than anyone at the curtain calls (yes, Hod family, I’m talking about you).
A distinct feature of NYCB audiences is the Front Row Gang—an ever-evolving group of ballet devotees occupying the front corner of the orchestra. Organized by a ball-cap-wearing benefactor, students, artists, and family members unite in their enthusiastic support of the dancers, receiving in return, a wink of acknowledgement from the performers during curtain calls.
Choreographers hover in the first ring, receiving congratulatory handshakes over the impending premiere of a new work. They smile humbly, nod gratefully, and sink into their front row seat nervously.
Just before the house lights go down, a posse (not to be confused with a passé) of repertory directors stride up to the first ring—all of them with their inordinately long legs—and file in along the back wall. They are there to observe the performance with a critical eye. They hold their breath in suspense, nod in approval, gasp in moments of uncertainty, chuckle at unexpected extra pirouettes, and applaud the dancers whom they are responsible for. As the curtain falls, they troop back out of the dark theater and burst onto the promenade, exclaiming their first reactions with each other as they hustle downstairs towards backstage. Twenty minutes later, at the end of intermission, they retrace their steps back to the first ring, mingling with honored guests, colleagues, and patrons before repeating the whole process for the next ballet.
I used to think when I bought my 30 under 30 ticket to attend the ballet, that I was just one person in a group of 2,000 strangers briefly joined together in the experience of this performance. Now I understand that every NYCB audience is a rich tapestry of deep and meaningful connections to this company, to these dancers, to this theater, and to each other.
I also used to think two 20 minutes intermissions were excessive. (Let’s get on with the dancing!) Now I understand that long intermissions are an integral part of audience-building that is necessary to cultivate a dedicated audience.
The relationships between staff, performers, students, faculty, choreographers, designer, directors, alumnae, subscribers, family and fans makes the theater feel less like a collection of individuals and more like a community with its own distinct characteristics.
I’m looking forward to returning to the theater tomorrow. What was once a place for me to disappear anonymously into a sea of people to enjoy an evening of ballet alone, is now my “Cheers”— a place I can go “where everybody knows your name.”
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