The studio is large, vast, an empty space needing to be filled: it is silent, yet a crowd hovers around the open doorframe. A large white door is twisted open, silver door handle catching the sheen of the fluorescent lighting. Rafters skirt around each other on the roof, running in parallel lines and dimpled with piping and vents. The gentle gust of air conditioning softens the room as it is activated, and the white curtain covering the wall-side mirror starts to ripple. A lone body inhabits the room, an elderly lady whose hair is starting to be tinged with grey. Dark ginger hair is buffered by silver strands edging her scalp, and her face is lined with wrinkles from age. Regardless, her eyes are kind and welcoming as she calls out to the crowd outside the door.

The piano beside her stands tall at waist height, dark oaken wood speckled with molecules of dust. The sleek ebony keys of the piano are hidden beneath the key cover, which slides to cover the ivory white keys as well. Lithe bodies start to filter through the door frame, each person clothed in a flattering bodysuit. Each style is different, and hues of dark burgundy, sunset orange and chartreuse green blur together. Regardless of the individual colour choice, each bodysuit is simple, fitting close to the body and with a low-cut back and two simple, thin spaghetti straps. Each hairstyle is identical, no matter what colour or texture hair, it is parted neatly down the middle and swept into a low ponytail. Pins are secured in the ponytail as it is wrapped around and then covered with a hairnet to assure nothing becomes loss or falls out.

Everyone moves in sync as they kneel on the ground to gracefully slip on canvas shoes, making sure to tie the drawstrings to an appropriate tautness to remain comfortable. The dancers migrate to the bar, a series of wooden rods fastened in place by metal screws and plating to the plaster wall of the studio. One by one, they start to turn to the piano, where the teacher waits in anticipation. The instructor glances around the room, her eyes scanning for any inattentive students. Pleased, she walks with a slight wince to the stereo, her hip injury causing her to retire early from life as a ballerina and instead forcing her to take on the role of an instructor. Piano music floats through the room, muffled to those outside of the studio space as the white door is closed to not cause a distraction to other classes.

The piano music starts off slow, before picking up tempo. As the music picks up, the class moves in sync and canvas shoes make muffled noise as they make contact with the studio floor. Heads are aligned as the music hits a certain note, years of instilled discipline allowing them to hear even the smallest changes in the tempo or pitch of the music. The exercise is all about repetition and control, elements of ballet that are essential to anyone’s success. As the temperate in the room picks up as the class advances, beads of sweat dot and trickle-down forehead’s and the teacher calls for a water break. The ballet students flock over to the side of the room, where metallic and plastic water bottles have been placed by the mirror. Heavy breathing is heard, speckled with moments of silence as they gulp down water, the liquid sloshing around inside the metallic container. About thirty seconds is set aside for the ballet students to rehydrate and they continue to guzzle down the water until the teacher snaps her fingers. The water bottles are set down onto the ground, and the dancer rush back to the bar, stray baby hairs slicked down to their forehead as they prepare and brace themselves to continue the hour and fifteen-minute-long class.