Ballet: A Cursed and Complicated Beauty

Lily O’Hara


Instructor’s Introduction

According to Yuval Noah Harari, author of Sapiens: A Brief History of Humankind, “…fiction has enabled us not merely to imagine things, but to do so collectively.” In WR 152: Public Narratives: Storytelling for Social Change, we consider the purpose and effect of these “collective fictions” as public narratives that shape personal life and power structures, and we unearth the rhetorical techniques, stakes, control, and the purpose of storytelling to further agendas. Students choose their own topic for their semester-long research project which culminates in a positioned research paper that locates and deconstructs the public story of their topic as they consider history, authorship, and influence across time and institutions. 

Lily O’Hara’s “Ballet: A Cursed and Complicated Beauty” uniquely situates the ballet body as a genre in and of itself as she wrestles with the harm dancing bodies suffer, ultimately asking the reader to rethink the body’s relationship to artistic beauty and consider who controls “tradition” and for whom does the ballerina perform. 

Carroll Beauvais

From the Writer

Ballet is a centuries-old practice of beauty and grace filled with dazzling performances, romance, and magic. What most people tend to overlook, however, is the grueling intensity that is required of the dancers themselves to make that magic possible. In this essay I examine the structures and practices deeply rooted in ballet’s tradition that force dancers into unrealistic and dangerous physique ideals and environments riddled with abuse and archaic pedagogy by unpacking the Western history of ballet and applying it to today’s ballet scene. I propose the necessary shifts of these traditions for the health and well-being of dancers everywhere. 


Ballet: A Cursed and Complicated Beauty

For audience members, classical ballet is an art of magic, grace, and beauty. Dancers twirl on the tips of their toes, soar through the air, and glitter in their costumes, defying gravity. Ballet dancers have an incredible ability to take an audience out of their real lives and into a fantastical world where humans are weightless and built to fly. But after a two-hour escape, the audience moves on and goes back to everyday life, while dancers stay in the world of ballet–which is not as beautiful and glittery as it seems on stage. Hours upon hours of rehearsals leave dancers in crippling pain, with skipped meals and sacrificed relationships. During the course of mounting a ballet performance, ankles are injured, bodies are criticized and shamed, and tears are shed day in and day out, all for the sake of achieving success in the art.

Female dancers are held to a physical standard where “extreme thinness predominates” (Henderson). This standard has not always been the norm, though. There was a time when ballet bodies reflected the feminine curves that represented status and health. But with the emergence of American ballet in the twentieth century and the adoration of its greatest influencer, George Balanchine, the ballerina ideal shifted from curvy to a thinner, bonier figure. Ballet’s roots in a Eurocentric tradition of patriarchy and female objectification provided a natural foundation for Balanchine and his contemporaries, and the behind-the-scenes culture they would create for American ballet—a culture marked by impossible ideals, reinforced through cruelty and abuse, low odds of professional success, and, ultimately, a mental health crisis among dancers.

Despite shifts in approach and style over the centuries, ballet has remained popular for its exquisiteness, spectacle, and impassioned storytelling. Sparkly tiaras and tutus, twirl after twirl on the tips of satin-wrapped toes, male dancers lifting their seemingly weightless female partners high into the air as audiences gasp and applaud—all of this is still very much at the core of ballet performances across the world today, more than four hundred years after the earliest ballet productions in the aristocratic courts of French King Louis XIV. And in the United States, nearly a century after the birth of what we know as American ballet today, Balanchine’s own indelible mark—and its impact on female dancers in particular—also remains. Ballet in the U.S. is still very much driven by a fixation on the thin, ethereal female body ideal, even as research documents the thousands of dancers that go to extremes to attain that ideal and incur tremendous physical and mental health costs along the way: eating disorders, low self-esteem, and anxiety, to name just a few. Ballet is stuck in this culture. Unlike other forms of art and athleticism, it has failed to evolve with time, technology, and growing social awareness. Backstage and hidden from public view, ballet remains an art form sustained by dark, and often dangerous, realities for its female dancers.

To understand the persistence of misogyny and cruelties that still mark classical ballet today, it is important to understand ballet’s history. Classical ballet first emerged in seventeenth-century France, created to be “a chance to take man’s troublesome passions and physical desires and redirect them toward a transcendent love of God” (Homans 6). By the time it landed in the United States in the early twentieth century, brought by Russian artists fleeing Communist rule, ballet was still viewed as an angelic art form, something that pushed dancers farther from humanity and provided them with the power to convey true magic. It was a unique way to tell stories—through a highly structured set of rules, centered around body and music. But “classical ballet was everything America was against” (Homans 448) when it landed on the streets of New York City. It was rooted in a history of Russian Imperialism and European aristocracy, while Americans in New York at the time celebrated extravagant individualism. But with time, ballet became central to American culture and took the country by storm. Paul Vasterling, artistic director of Nashville Ballet, says “there is nothing more exposing of your physique than classical ballet,” (Pointe Magazine) and by the mid-twentieth century, Americans had become infatuated with the exposed female physique of ballerinas that classical ballet handed them. 

As America was becoming acquainted with ballet in the 1940s, George Balanchine, who fled St. Petersburg in the 1920s, arrived in New York. He founded his famous company, New York City Ballet, in 1948 and quickly established his own ideas about what the female dancer should look like, ingraining onto the conscience of choreographers and ballet masters how she should be cultivated and trained.

George Balanchine did not create the ballerina, though. That distinction belongs to ballet’s French artists. What Balanchine did so effectively was take his predecessors’ creation and shape her to fit his own unique vision. During the French Romantic period in the late eighteenth century, ballet was an art of “women devoted to charting the misty inner worlds of dreams and the imagination” (Homans 170). Famous classical ballets like Giselle and La Sylphide were centered around female figures that descended into a flurry of madness due to their tortured relationship with a man, or in ballet terms, their cavalier. These ballets were written and choreographed by men who attributed their pain and loneliness to the women who wronged them, or who never loved them in return, and the heartache of these men gave us our ballerina—a picture of male fantasy and the source of their temptation—and a way for them to exert their power over women by turning them into characters and putting them under a spotlight. And while seemingly weightless and ethereal, the hallmark of the early ballerina at the time was not extreme thinness. Her soft and supple lines were celebrated, a sign of beauty and femininity. Balanchine would take those curves and straighten and stretch them to skin and bone.

By the 1960s, New York City Ballet was thriving, and George Balanchine was the brilliant man responsible for it all. The ballerina born from the French Romantics was evolving, her curves giving way to straighter lines, and her creator no longer focused on stories about sylphs and fairies, but instead on an infatuation with the human body. More than any of Balanchine’s other dancers, Suzanne Farrell epitomized this shift. A member of New York City Ballet, Farrell would eventually become Balanchine’s greatest love and his most powerful muse. Balanchine only loved and married his own dancers, and he did so quite a few times. But his love for Farrell was distinct. She was captivating, and with surreally long legs, a long and elegant neck, a short torso, and a small head, Farrell embodied the Balanchine standard (Pointe Magazine). In 1969, when she could not return Balanchine’s love and married someone else, he fired her and became deeply depressed (Homans 534). Much like the eighteenth-century writers in France, Balanchine’s inspiration was born of his dysfunctional relationship with women, and his obsession with Farrell further cemented for him the extremely thin body ideal.

To turn this ideal into the female ballet body standard, Balanchine drew on lessons from his homeland and its deep imperialist roots. He filled New York City Ballet’s ranks with beautiful dancers spanning different training styles, backgrounds, and qualities of movement and created the illusion on the outside of a truly American company—one that celebrated individualism and diversity. But Balanchine’s “nostalgia for Russia” dictated how New York City Ballet functioned on the inside (Homans 506). It resembled an imperial court, with Balanchine as the tsar and the dancers as his entourage, or even servants. His word was law, and his art untouchable. He was considered godlike in the dance community—and still is. Gelsey Kirkland, one of New York City Ballet’s most famously tortured dancers, made the grave mistake of daring to “suggest that Balanchine was human, when everyone knows he was really a god,” in her autobiography, Dancing on My Grave (Lakes 8). Balanchine’s brilliant, all-knowing status allowed him to determine what was beautiful in American ballet and to achieve that beauty by any means necessary.

Balanchine’s contemporaries quickly latched onto his way. Jerome Robbins, Alvin Ailey, Antony Tudor, and even modern dancers like Martha Graham and Paul Taylor mirrored his tactics that were inspired by European power structures. Across the American ballet scene, Balanchine’s Russian roots—exhibited by authoritarian direction and an almost military-style pedagogy—took hold. “I’ve actually hit dancers,” said Antony Tudor, a prominent choreographer and instructor at American Ballet Theatre in the 1940s. “I’ve bitten little fingers that stuck out too much. I’ve slapped wrists. I’ve threatened to throw people out of the window. People don’t usually learn unless there’s a little pain involved” (Lakes 5). Abuse, both physical and emotional, became the norm, as a way for the teacher to establish control over the student (Lakes 5). “Teachers have used pedagogical methodologies and techniques that today would appall any person with minimal anatomical understanding and common sense” (Ducci 1). Because ballet is based on the physical form, this abuse focuses on dancers’ body types, movement qualities, weight, and physical features. Teaching has become a direct attack on a dancer’s physical being, and by extension, her existence.

In her analysis of the authoritarian teaching methods of concert dance, University of North Texas dance faculty member Robin Lakes describes how ballet teachers have power over casting and dancers’ careers, so their judgments have the upper hand, and their opinions begin to be a part of their students’ self-concept and self-worth–or lack thereof (5). If a teacher tells a student to lose weight or to change some aspect of their body, the student internalizes that criticism as part of her identity as a dancer. The dancer is defined by her body; she believes she is less worthy because she is not thin enough. The student doesn’t question this; she simply changes her ways to please the teacher and avoid further beratement. Students are taught to be “empty vessels,” nothing more than bodies waiting to be molded by a smarter, more successful embodiment of who they are trying to become (Ducci 2). There is also a “hesitancy about so bluntly questioning their teaching behaviors, as if such an act would undermine one’s heritage” (Lakes 3). The perpetuation of the old-fashioned, abusive methods introduced by Balanchine and his peers has trapped dancers into believing they deserve the abuse and, for those who go on to also become teachers, must repeat that behavior.

A survey performed by the Pittsburgh-based project “Minding the Gap” shows that 73% of dancers consider disordered eating to be an extremely prevalent problem in dance. An even greater 82% consider anxiety and depression to be prevalent  (www.wearemindingthegap.org/survey-results). Eating disorders, body dysmorphia, anxiety, depression, self-doubt, and substance use are just some of the battles that dancers fight daily. These illnesses thrive in environments thick with criticism and a focus on the physique, and they often stem from a distorted notion of hard work. “Dancers who don’t have the ‘perfect’ ballet body are often made to feel as though they’re simply not working hard enough” (Henderson). At some point for dancers, dedication to craft and diligence in the studio morphs into sacrifice of health and wellbeing–all to look a certain way.

Research supports these survey results. A study to determine the effects of dance style and training level on body image in dancers identified clear relationships between negative body image, eating disorder symptoms, and poor psychological well-being (Swami and Sunshine Harris 1). When asked about her motives for eating disorder-related behavior in a different study, one dancer responded, “Aesthetics, the dancer always has to be thin” (Santo André et al. 5). The imperative of a thin physique is everywhere, in every dancer’s head, tricking them into thinking that they must engage in extreme, even dangerous habits to achieve a true “ballet body.” 

Perhaps most compelling in connecting the fixation on thinness and ruling with cruelty to mental health consequences are the words and public displays of mockery by the great choreographers themselves. Talking once to a dancer about her leg, Alvin Ailey said, “You fed it, now hold it up there.” The suggestion: the dancer ate too much, and her leg is now heavy. The punishment: to hold her leg extended in the air for a prolonged time (Lakes 7). This incident occurred in a classroom in front of the dancer’s peers, where Ailey made a joke of her for being overweight by his standards. Such conversations about weight are rarely held in confidence, and almost never in a safe and supportive manner. Attacks are made publicly, the assumption being that the teacher knows best and that a lack of compliance will result in punishment and or humiliation for the dancer. This strips young people of their self-confidence, leading them to believe that they are replaceable, that their wellbeing and individuality do not matter, and that they simply aren’t enough.

In addition to humiliation and abuse, dancers experience punishment when their bodies do not conform to the thin ideal. At Ballet Memphis, artistic director Dorothy Gunther Pugh emphasizes the importance of her dancers’ weight. “Choreographers…come in and say, ‘I will not cast that dancer because he or she is too big’” (Pointe Magazine). Kathryn Morgan, a former New York City Ballet and Miami City Ballet dancer, had roles taken from her at Miami City Ballet when she was not able to lose weight fast enough (Kourlas 4). If a dancer is only as worthy as her weight and physical proportions, it is easy to see how she would believe she is worth nothing when her body is being constantly criticized. Confidence and self-worth are difficult enough for young people to achieve. In a ballet environment, where respect and kindness are so often absent, that struggle is extreme.

A dancer’s mental health greatly affects all aspects of her life (Ducci 2). Poor mental health impacts injury prevention, physical health, motivation, ability to work with others, mood, and cognitive abilities. As a profession that requires high levels of physical performance, ballet fails to recognize that mental health and physical health go hand in hand, and the “get over it” attitude breeds silent suffering (Ducci 1). When experiencing a physical injury or struggling mentally, dancers are given few resources for support. In a 2017 Dance Magazine survey, 75% of dancers said their schools or companies do not offer or refer support services to dancers struggling with their mental health (www.wearemindingthegap.org/survey-results). Dance teachers are rarely trained to provide support to students, and students are led to believe that taking care of themselves takes away from rehearsal and throws into question their dedication to the art. The pressure to have a certain body type can lead to burnout, career-ending injuries, or simply a loss of love for the art. 

Can glittery, two-hour displays of magic on a stage be worth such devastating and life-long consequences?

“The world is full of heartbroken ballet dancers, former and current” (Kourlas 4). Heartbroken because they have been hurt by something they love and are good at. Betrayed by teachers and choreographers who should have helped them to be better without bullying them. In her memoir, famous New York City Ballet ballerina Jenifer Ringer emphasizes how dancers should be seen as whole human beings, not “collections of bones moving from one beautiful pose to the next” (Kelly). To move with conviction and grace, dancers need both physical and inner strength. George Balanchine and his predecessors used the human body as inspiration for movement, but somewhere along the way, the dancer’s body became defined by an unattainable ideal, forced upon her through abuse and scare tactics. And to this day, ballet continues to rely on this concealed approach for success.

The original purpose of ballet was to display the incredible feats of the human body through art (Kelly) and to bring dancers and their audiences closer to the angels. But one might argue that most dancers could not feel farther from angels; there is nothing magic about harsh training and a fixation on a thin, fairy-like ballet body that leads to anxiety, depression, eating disorders, and low self-worth. What audiences see onstage inspires young girls and boys to dance. And it should. But this inspiration comes from a world built on objectification and patriarchal structures that reduce boys and girls to nothing more than a successful or failed ballet body type. Our bodies are art (Kourlas 4), and what we can do with them is magical—that is what should be celebrated. To dance is to be part of creating something beautiful, and a ballet body should simply be a body that can do ballet.

For more information on my public narrative project, please visit https://express.adobe.com/page/QazgVoDIwbYt2/.

Works Cited

Ducci, João. “Mental Health in Dance – It’s Time to Break the Silence.” Dance Major Journal, vol. 7, 2019.

Henderson, Garnet. “What Would It Take to Change Ballet’s Aesthetic of Extreme Thinness?” Dance Magazine, 8 July 2021, https://www.dancemagazine.com/ballet-body/. 

Homans, Jennifer. Apollo’s Angels: A History of Ballet. Random House, 2010. 

Kelly, Deirdre. “The Cult of Thin.” Dance Magazine, 29 June 2016, www.dancemagazine.com/the-cult-of-thin/.

‌Kourlas, Gia. “What Is a Ballet Body?” New York Times, 3 Mar. 2021, www.nytimes.com/2021/03/03/arts/dance/what-is-a-ballet-body.html.

Lakes, Robin. “The Messages behind the Methods: The Authoritarian Pedagogical Legacy in Western Concert Dance Technique Training and Rehearsals.” Arts Education Policy Review, vol. 106, no. 5, 2005, pp. 3–20.

Santo André, Heloisa C, et al. “‘Can A Ballerina Eat Ice Cream?’: A Mixed-Method Study on Eating Attitudes and Body Image in Female Ballet Dancers.” Frontiers in Nutrition (Lausanne), vol. 8, 2021, p. 665654.

“Survey Results.” Minding the Gap, www.wearemindingthegap.org/survey-results. Accessed 1 Mar. 2022.

Swami, Viren, and Amy Sunshine Harris. “Dancing Toward Positive Body Image? Examining Body-Related Constructs with Ballet and Contemporary Dancers at Different Levels.” American Journal of Dance Therapy, vol. 34, no. 1, 2012, pp. 39–52.

‌“Too Fat? Too Thin? Too Tall? Too Short?” Pointe Magazine, 27 Feb. 2011, pointemagazine.com/ballet-body-issues/. Accessed 1 Mar. 2022.


Lily O’Hara is a junior and a psychology major in the College of Arts and Sciences at Boston University. She is proudly from Baltimore and trained in classical ballet for thirteen years. During her pursuit of a professional ballet career, she gained a deep passion for both mental health awareness and athletics. She hopes to use her own experiences to improve mental health awareness for the next generations of athletes and dancers. She would like to thank her family and friends for their support, and Professor Carroll Beauvais for her encouragement and inspiration.