An airport. To me, an airport is a gateway, a transition from one stage of being to another. My life and airports are inseparable. Our generation grew up alongside the rise of air travel, and this has shaped how we perceive life. Often, as I watch my daughter, I reflect on how different her generation is, growing up in a world of advanced technology. I remember the first television in the communal apartment room, the first telephone installed in our flat, the first color TV…

Perhaps the children of my daughter’s generation will witness vacations on other planets or spend weekends at a “Holiday Inn” on a space station.

Sometimes I feel like my life itself is a constant transition from one stage of being to another. Moscow State Academic Ballet School became one of the airports in my life. In the waiting halls, studios, and corridors, I was born—the choreographer, Me.

Will I be fully understood and accepted during my lifetime? I don’t know. Probably not, like most artists. I don’t claim that my works will outlive me, and perhaps it’s better if they don’t. But I do know that the few viewers who carried something from my works into the future—what they saw, what they heard—will continue the life of my art. This means that my journey in the chain of artists lost in their own airports is not in vain.

I didn’t choose my profession; I was destined for it. My task was to stay on the right path of discovery, and to learn what awaited me around the bend. And those who hear, those who follow, those chosen to walk this path—they, too, will not be fully understood or accepted. Disputes are not the reason for our existence. Such has been the world of art since its very inception.

I am deeply grateful to all the people who have found joy in my work, to those who have returned to see it again. I love applause. But what I love even more is silence. The silence of an audience entranced by a performance. The silence of a viewer lost in thought. The silence of feeling…

I step into the train station building. In the corner, a group of  American Indian musicians is playing “Yamshchik, ne goni loshadey” (a Russian song, “Coachman, Don’t Drive the Horses”). I enter the station far from my native Russia. How these American Indian musicians came to know this melody is a mystery. Through the magical paths accessible only to music itself, I am transported back into my memories. The melody feels unexpectedly natural, despite the unique sound of their national instruments. And once again, I am drawn back to the stations and airports of my life.

To be continued.

© Konstantin Uralsky