Ballet Fan x1

Last Thursday I bought standing room tickets to American Ballet Theatre's Swan Lake.  The tickets were far at the back of Dress Circle, where the overhead balcony obscures the stage and only the bottom quarter of it can be seen.  I didn't care.  The crystal chandeliers, the gilding and the red velvet, of Lincoln Center stir up the excitement of childhood, when going to to the theatre felt like entering a world of glamour and beauty.  When the lights dimmed and it seemed like no one could see, I kicked off my shoes.  I leaned low against the velvet covered bar that serves as an arm rest for those in standing room.  My only company was a tall elderly man.  As I contorted myself to see the stage, the man slowly sank to his knees.  He was so tall that his elbows easily reached the arm rest.  He supported his chin with his hands, absorbed in the performance.  He was alone, had come out of love for the ballet.  No wife had dragged him to sit begrudgingly by her side, where he would nod off by scene two.  I wondered, where are the other men still able to be entranced by art?