I’ve had my share of boo-boos, bloopers and faux pas. However, it should be mentioned that I am, in most cases, coordinated. For crying out loud, I am a dancer … unlike my sweet mom who tried her hand feet at ballet with some rather unfortunate results. Less Baryshnikov – more Lucille Ball. My flair for the artistic partnership of music and movement did not come from my mama. But I am of the opinion that my flair for a slip-up, a blunder, or an occasional mishap was most definitely genetic.

It was a very auspicious beginning…

And it all began at four years of age. My very first recital. At the Morgan Sisters School of Dance on Chicago’s Southside. While perched atop an oversized hatbox and wheeled out on a gussied-up cart for the big finale “Easter Parade” – it was halfway through the routine when the box collapsed. And there I was butt to bottom, arms and legs dangling precariously, flowered bonnet all cock-eyed. I wish I could tell you that I swallowed my pride, pulled up my big girl tutu and followed the old ‘the show must go on’ adage. It was more like, “Mooommmmyyyyy”!!!

My parents were thrilled when I won a scholarship to continue studying ballet with Elisa Stigler at the Chicago Musical College at Roosevelt University. Elisa Stigler, Miss Stigler, Elisa…oh how I adored her. (She accepted my fascination with the the dancing I observed on television; likely taking note of my grimacing during pointe work) Performing in a scholarship recital – along with various musicians and an opera singer – was naturally very exciting.

Partway through my Snow Queen variation one of my straps came undone and, while hanging precariously, threatened to change a ‘G’ rating to an ‘R’. While bouree-ing my little heart out I imagined my topless routine making me the first bump-and-grinder to grace the respectable Rudolph Ganz Recital Hall stage. This time I persevered, finished that variation and tried not to blame my mom for reckless needlework.

I danced with the legendary Natalia Makarova…well not exactly with her. But she was there dancing the title role in the Leningrad Kirov Ballet’s production of Cinderella, in 1964, when I was cast as a Snowflake, a Page and an Ethiopian. IT WAS THRILLING. (I got paid real money and wore head-to-toe body makeup as that Ethiopian…what more could a 10-year-old ask for??) And all those real-life–right-in-front-of-me breathtaking ballerinas, the dazzling costumes, the opulent sets…AND the highly dramatic, imposing, sadistic ballet master.  

There was that one time during rehearsal, while bending over to fix a wandering ribbon on my shoe, that I felt a dark foreboding shadow. That tyrannical ballet master, his hugeness – both in stature and disposition – was towering over me. And although I couldn’t understand a single word he was saying in Russian, I could certainly interpret his raving mad charades version of getting through to me. Then the translator had to repeat the entire tirade to me (and everyone else in the room). MESSAGE RECEIVED LOUD AND CLEAR. It was a ribbon folks…and I was ten years old! And what was I doing en pointe anyway??! Njet?

As a member of my high schools’ dance club – Orchesis – our annual presentation was a culmination of the years’ choreographic jewels. My tap routine, performed as a duet, was about to begin. Lights were down as we entered the stage from opposite ends to make our way to the edge of the proscenium stage and about to step onto the apron surrounding the orchestra pit. I took that step and fell noisily into the orchestra pit, squarely on top of the drums (and drummer) …AS THE LIGHTS WERE COMING UP. Someone in the audience (a huge fan no doubt) yelled, “that-a-way Frankel” – great…just great…

We were laughing so hard through the entire dance that tears were literally hurling from our eyes. Then came the final tippy-tap and the black-out. And there we were on our knees “feeling” our way around that aprons’ arch trying desperately to find a way OFF when someone thought they’d be helpful by lifting the lights. The beginning of this whole thing was embarrassing enough, but now the entire audience was privy to our slithering off in utter humiliation. And that’s when the second wave of applause made its humiliating appearance.  

While dancing with Hubbard Street Dance Chicago, during the premiere of a new piece something felt amiss. I had the ill-timed occurrence of my skirt having come undone in the midst of performing. No prob…I was used to performance boo-boos – I had this! As it gradually made its way toward my ankles I made the snap decision to yank it off and toss it over my shoulder…in character and with much flair I might add. Unfortunately, my moment of self-satisfaction was gone in a heartbeat as I imagined the cranky criticism that would soon be aired by my director. I had to push it from my thoughts and deal with the issue at hand…the dancing was still in full swing. As predicted, my director was irked, displeased, NOT happy. Come on…sh*t happens and I did get a nice review out of it…Na- Na – Na – Na – Na.

Playing Cassie, in ‘A Chorus Line’, and performing “Music and the Mirror”, was physically demanding and I remember thinking…how the HELL am I going to get through that eighth performance of the week?! The final pose, held through applause and major sucking in of air, was to be broken by Zach entering the stage and speaking to me. Performing this production in a theatre-in-the-round could be quite disconcerting as all four of the exits/entrances were identical; apart from the particular show poster hanging alongside each one. So imagine my surprise when breaking my pose, and expecting Zach and ‘Hello Dolly’…and instead, facing ‘Fiddler on the Roof’ and no one. I had done the entire dance facing the wrong direction. It was more like “Music…where’s the mirror?”

My partner and I were all set for our big entrance at the Chicago Theatre. We had been hired to emcee the big event, banter with the audience and do a bit of dancing. So there we were in the wings…waiting for our music…waiting for our cue…waiting… WAITING to make our big entrance. Silence.  Then I heard someone’s voice echo throughout the theatre, “shit, where’s the music?!”. What dimwit was doing this? Oh…wait…it was ME…on my LIVE mike. Well, anyone can make that mistake. Right? And oopsy.

Auditions are nerve-racking, pressured, awkward and can be mortifying. And they were just part of my job. Sometimes you danced, then sang…or sang while you danced. Sometimes you were handed dialog to read and sometimes you had to improvise (once as a cavewoman with the best interpretation of primitive grunting one could summon). And on occasion you got to bite into an imaginary sandwich and smile!

I have tripped, tried my best singing along to a caffeine-induced tempo of my song, faced a table of blank faces when I was supposed to be looking into a camera lens and made some really dreadful acting choices. ALL PART OF THE BIZ. After a particularly delightful (dare I say praiseworthy) try-out where the bigwigs were complimentary, double checking my availability and sending me a sixth sense pat-on-the-back-you-are-hired vibe – I did my round of thanks, collected my stuff and walked out the door – into a utility closet – where I promptly shut the door. BEHIND ME. And there I stood in the dark, in the silence, weighing my options. Finally, one of the bigwigs called out, “Karen?” I responded, “uh, yes?” “Are you going to come out?” I assume I said something along the lines of, “yessiree”. I nailed that audition…

I am extremely near-sighted and spent the majority of my career sans contact lenses. In addition, my ability to see in a black-out, when the lights immediately cut out, was iffy – at best. There was the hydraulic stage that had not made its way from the basement, thus leaving a huge black hole I would have plummeted into. The MULTIPLE edges of stages I seemed to be drawn to where, in the nick of time, I would feel a tug at the back of my costume or a harshly hissed “STOoooooP” right before I would have taken a nosedive.Thanks to my wonderful colleagues over the years for thwarting those particular catastrophes AND for not abandoning me as I stood center stage, in the dark, trying to exit, but frozen in my inability to determine which way to to, producing the loudest whisper of “help me’ as possible…thank you for rescuing me time and time again. Before I went off the deep end.

 “Pit” falls, costumes gone awry, missed cues, disorienting configurations…

THERE’S NO BUSINESS LIKE SHOW BUSINESS!