I am about to meet the Naked Ballerina for the first time. It is a warm, smoggy, rather uncomfortable June day in Southern California, 1994. The earthquake hit earlier this year in January, and all of us here, whether we choose to admit it or not, are feeling to various degrees that we are literally standing on shaky ground.
One would never know hell had broken loose on this part of Los Angeles, though. It is extraordinarily beautiful here: clear, green, and despite the thickness of the smog, one can still catch a phenomenally breathtaking view of the entire city.
The Naked Ballerina lives on Pacific View Drive, which is a small, out-of-the-way road, approximately one mile from the Ventura freeway connecting Hollywood proper and the San Fernando Valley. One takes Mulholland Drive virtually to the summit – and what a sight one beholds! There is a lookout site not too far from my destination, and I choose to pass a few moments just looking out over the city.
I’m also deciding what to ask the Naked Ballerina once I arrive at her house. Can I let it all hang out (after all, she earns her living “hanging out,” so to speak), ask her anything? Are some things inappropriate, too private, even for a stripper to be questioned about?
I figure she must earn a healthy living – the property up here in the Hollywood Hills isn’t cheap – the residents definitely seem to have money.
I’m quite nervous. I’ve never talked with a stripper before, although the subject has fascinated me for ages. Would I do it myself? I don’t think so – probably not. But I’m intrigued by the whole thing and have been for years – and by her in particular (I caught her on television twice two years ago – she seemed bright, was earning her Master’s degree in psychology at the time, and played the piano beautifully). What made her want to do this – this topless dancing thing – I asked myself. Why aren’t I seeing her on MTV, VH-1, or Real Personal? Why, if she is so bright, gifted, educated, and talented, is she choosing to make her living by taking off her clothes? Can’t she do anything else?
When I finally arrive at the house, I see that it is a modest wooden structure, though architecturally unusual in shape. It looks rather like a psychoanalyst’s couch, and a slanted one at that. I go around to the back, where I was told she would be, and find myself facing a quaint little yard, complete with azaleas, a tomato patch, and a single pink rose, surrounded by an unpainted picket fence.
I’m getting butterflies and my stomach is turning. I’m not sure why. She’s just a person who strips, for God’s sake, not a criminal or derelict. I swallow hard and go to the door.
“I’ll be there in just a minute,” I hear after ringing the bell. A pleasant tone, her voice, I think.
In no time flat the Naked Ballerina is at the door. Her appearance is not at all what I’ve been led to expect by the recent media blitz on strippers and prevailing myths.
“Hi, I’m Alex. Come on in.”
I get a big, warm toothy smile and an extended hand. I’m feeling better already, and more at ease. I begin looking around her apartment, which is actually a small guest house, or what would be called colloquially, “maid’s quarters.” She apologizes for the lack of heat, and I notice that the oven is open, and on.
Alex is wearing a chocolate brown velour bathrobe, eyeglasses, and is completely barefaced. Not a touch of makeup. She must have just gotten out of the bath; her hair is piled atop her head and wrapped with a white terry cloth towel; she looks like the subject of a Jan Steen or Vermeer portrait. I’m realizing more and more how what I thought she’d be like and what she is like are at terrible odds, and it feels extremely unsettling. I’ve hardly even exchanged two words with her yet.
“Would you care for a cup of tea?” she asks. I say yes, and soon water is boiling on top of the open oven.
While Alex is preparing the tea, I take the opportunity to look around her humble dwelling, which, I must say, is truly fascinating and reveals the tastes and interests of a multi-faceted person. Books are everywhere; I quickly and discretely scan some of the titles and authors: Sexual Personae by Camille Paglia, Love Is a Dog from Hell by Charles Bukowski, and The Brothers Karamazov by Feodor Dostoyevsky, to name a few. A Book of Common Prayer and a King James Version of The Bible lovingly flank Madonna’s best-selling, metal bound Sex in the right-hand corner of a middle bookshelf. I feel my left eyebrow arching quizzically and, dare I say, judgementally.
An aging upright piano sits inconspicuously in the corner of the living room, and several pieces of sheet music sprawl above the yellowing ivory keys: “Golliwog’s Cakewalk” by Debussy, “Sister” by Quincy Jones, from the movie The Color Purple, and Hanon’s collection of exercises for the piano. A navy-blue hymnal lies solidly on top of the instrument. I notice that the bookshelf which sits across the room harbors a huge and varied assortment of sheet music for both guitar and piano, and four massive, plastic white folders bulge outward beyond the rest.
Alex brings me the tea and we sit on a sofa which faces a window, through which I see a cluster of birds picking away at a swaying bird feeder. All kinds of birds abound: cardinals, juncos, and purple martins are hammering away at the seeds and suet; a pair of quail slouch under the commotion snatching the falling residue. With this kind of natural entertainment, I think, one never need leave the house.
I ask Alex what those white folders contain, and I learn that she went to GIT for a year. “What’s GIT?” I ask naively.
“It’s short for The Guitar Institute of Technology. GIT is a music school in Hollywood. It’s the reason I came to Los Angeles after graduating from Barnard. Those white folders contain the curriculum for ’83-’84. I had a blast at GIT. It was like rock ‘n’ roll camp!”
I ask her if I can take a quick look at one of the folders, to which she enthusiastically replies, “Of course! Be my guest – it’s great stuff!”
She then lurches out of her seat and reaches for the folder. As she grabs it and gingerly pulls it from the shelf, I cringe anxiously: the thing is so massive and obviously heavy that I fear Alex will hurt her arms pulling the hefty tome down.
“Never mind, Alex! It’s O.K.; I don’t want you hurting yourself,” I sputter, apparently to no avail.
“Here it is. Enjoy – I repeat, it’s great stuff! GIT was a great place!”
Alex hands me the white vinyl covered folder and resumes her tea drinking. I ever so carefully open the collection of papers (it looks valuable and fragile) and turn immediately to a section designated “Classical Guitar,” in which I see pieces I heard Andrés Segovia perform at one time. Immediately adjacent to this section is one titled “Rock Guitar,” where Eddie van Halen’s famous “Eruption” solo stares out at me.
“Music is music,” Alex says, noticing my puzzlement. “Anyway, on to other things. From what I understand, you have an interest in strippers (who doesn’t these days” – I hear her say not so subtly under her breath), “yes?”
