The Red Shoes

I opened my mouth. I want to direct The Red Shoes I said. I will still swear to the fact that, at that point, I had never read or heard the story, seen the ballet or the film. And so, quite simply, that's how my affair started. As if 'The Red Shoes' had been tickling just below the surface, waiting for me to whisper them into existence. I ran to the library and took out every version of the story I could find. It was a stronger, darker tale than I remembered, rich with colour, taste and temptation. The story wooed me gently, hooked me in like a polka and landed me like a tragic tango. I was in love, or something close to it. I was certainly obsessed. I saw myself in the girl, dancing, dancing. I even envied her plight.  What is life if you can't dance its dance, spin uncontrollably through its delights and disappointments? The story spoke to me of passions sated and fruits devoured, chances taken and reason ignored.

But, The Red Shoes is a dangerous lover, tempting and all-consuming. I have greedily peeled off its layers to discover its meanings. The dance is a trap. It is intoxicating and wild, seductive and strong, but it is not all that the girl is. Robbed of her instincts and raw with loss, she throws herself into her red shoes, searching for things she has lost. Searching for what she is.

The girl in the story is punished in all the versions I have read. I cannot inflict that fate on my heroine or on myself. Haunted by my own red shoes, I offer myself, and you, another way. A way rich with possibilities and hope, heady with dance and calm with stillness.

Emma Rice

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