I will never forget the first time my mother took me to the ballet. We were Manhattan-bound on a cold December night, headed for the New York State Theater in Lincoln Center to see the New York City Ballet perform its world-renowned production of The Nutcracker. I remember preparing hours beforehand, getting all dolled up alongside my mother for the momentous occasion. We both donned our finest wares, which for me meant an excessively frilly dress, a pearl necklace usually kept locked away in a safe deposit box, and black patent leather dress shoes that my mother had been saving for Christmas. We arrived at the theater and mingled with the throngs of equally well-dressed patrons. To say that I considered myself a princess that evening would be an understatement.
Fast forward about 15 years to last Tuesday night, when I made the trek from campus to the Wang Theatre to see the Boston Ballet's Giselle. Granted, I had not chosen to wear another frilly dress, but I had still gotten a little dressed up for the outing. Upon my arrival, however, I realized that was a lot more than many of my fellow audience members could say for themselves. Looking around, I noticed a few men in sharp suits and several women in cocktail dresses and strappy high heels. But in the span of ten minutes, I realized this group of elegantly dressed individuals was decidedly in the minority. I was disappointed - or rather, appalled - to find that the jeans-and-sneakers crowd had them outnumbered at least three to one.
As someone who frequents the theatre scene in Boston and New York, I have been a witness to this gradual but pervasive takeover of the jeans-and-sneakers crowd. At first, it was only a small percentage of theatregoers who felt comfortable wearing anything more casual than black pants. It used to be khakis that attracted sidelong glances and disapproving looks from both ushers and fellow patrons. But as is often the case with any exception to the rule, khakis became more accepted as appropriate theatre attire as they grew more common.
Next came the shoes. Khakis were at first paired with fine dress shoes - though khakis were still the anomaly, continuing to wear dress shoes seemed somehow to make them at least somewhat satisfactory. But audiences were quick to realize that if they could get away with casual pants, they could probably get away with casual shoes as well. And so it was then that the Doc Martens and Steve Madden boots slowly began to creep their way in. After all, no woman wants to wear heels unless she really has to.
Although I found the change in dress code at theatres to be disconcerting, I eventually came to terms with the shift from eveningwear to more business-casual attire. I figured that as long as people looked neat and put-together, it was all right. But no sooner had the thought crossed my mind than the jean-and-sneakers crowd began to emerge. At first, it was only one or two people at a given performance with the gall to wear to the theatre the same outfit they wore to mow the lawn. And people definitely disapproved. This time, there were more than just sidelong glances and disapproving looks - other attendees were pointing and whispering. Pleased with this reaction, I figured the trend would vanish as quickly as it had made its appearance.
But with each subsequent performance I attended, more and more people appeared to be embracing the jeans-and-sneakers fashion statement. Last Tuesday at the Wang, these outfits were paired with Polartec pullovers or belly-button-baring T-shirts. Just as astonishing as the attire was the reaction of my fellow audience members, or lack thereof. While I was flabbergasted, no one else seemed to notice.
What bothers me about the jeans-and-sneakers crowd is not so much the attire itself, as the way it is a direct affront to the efforts of the performers. Whether attending performances at elegant venues like the Wang, or the Colonial Theatre, or New York's Metropolitan Opera House, such very casual dress is inappropriate, inconsiderate, and even rude considering the amount of effort devoted by every dancer, singer, actor and musician to a given production.
Consider the process faced by a performer. It's no secret that "making it" in the arts is one of the most difficult things an individual can aspire to do. It starts with the search for a job, which requires scouring audition announcements and advertisements for upcoming productions. Next come the auditions, which are often time-consuming and can entail a significant amount of ego bruising. If and when said performer makes it through each elimination phase of the auditions for a production, it's time to get to work - namely, endure endless hours of rehearsals accompanied by insults, constant criticism, and exhaustion.
The process culminates with Opening Night. For the run of the performance (usually a few weeks), said performer typically performs six to seven nights. And on each of those nights, he or she goes through the rigorous process of makeup, costumes, warm ups, and finally the performance itself. Phew.
For all that, the least we can do as audience members is put on a nice pair of pants, right? You could argue that given the cost of jeans and sneakers these days (after all, when was the last time you found a pair of sneakers under $100 without trying?), the jeans-and-sneakers crowd is just as dressed up as the cocktail-dress-and-high-heels crowd. The difference is that the jeans-and-sneakers crowd just doesn't look it. The woman wearing a dress that resembles an evening gown probably had to try a lot harder to find what she's wearing than the person who picked out one pair of jeans from his collection of many.
And that's what counts. It's not just about appearances. It's about the effort you put into it. Considering how much our performers do for us, from start to finish, we owe them that much.
