After enough time spent on TikTok, doom-scrolling had finally managed to pull me into social media’s be-all end-all trend of the moment: Ballet-Core. As my eyelids fluttered, heavy from endless tapping, liking, and sharing, I was, quite suddenly, immersed into a pink, white, and nude color-schemed universe. It had once felt so familiar to me, especially as someone who used to practice the art of classical dancing, though now, it had transformed into something entirely new— digitized, polished, and packaged into Get Ready With Me videos and a slew of other 15-second-long challenges.
The ex-ballerina in me was instantly awakened, thrilled by the re-emergence of an art form that was now celebrated and shared like it had never been before. Except this time, ballet was no longer confined to the walls of a studio, dance schools, or a stage. It took on a new form, being taught to full-time employed adults and enjoyed during post-office routines. No longer characterized by screaming strict teachers, intimidating mirrors, or the overwhelming feeling of bleeding toenails, today, ballet is closer to looking like Carrie Bradshaw strutting down Soho in a pink tanktop and a white-tutu than Svetlana Zakharova performing a rendition of Tchaikovsky’s White Swan.
@nat.alie.dances REAL Ballet core 😍 @aurora grace 🩰🤍 #balletcore #ballettok #ballerina #ballettiktok #ballettrend #professionaldancer #professionalballerina #balletoutfit #balletfitcheck #fitcheck #orlandoballet ♬ original sound – 🎧🖤
As aestheticized as a TikTok trend can be, and as much as I tried to resist the blatant misrepresentations I would see online, I eventually gave in to all the “demureness” it was feeding me and fell headfirst into this new sub-pocket of the internet. A movement that now stands on its own, it can be argued that its rapid ascent to the forefront of pop-culture was rendered legitimate through the strategic use of a fiercely powerful third party: fashion.
From Miu-Miu flats and cozy Revolve wrap-tops, to re-styled legwarmers, revisited boleros, and an infinite amount of skirt options, it seems as if fashion houses picked up on all the buzz arising online, and ran to their couture shops with a brilliant new idea to integrate in their next Spring/Summer collection. Quickly enough, this new sartorial revolution witnessed an explosion of muted pastels, cashmere, cotton, ruffles, and a tulle extravaganza, alongside runways that screamed, “You don’t need to be a ballerina to look like one.” Put it this way, if high fashion likes ballet, then it’s probably here to stay, or at least until the next trend comes pirouetting in.
And as though ballet has been made widely accessible and inclusive of all body types and ages, classical dancing has finally started steering away from its own historically and culturally embedded discriminatory nature. This is, after all, the same tradition that forced ABT Principal Ballerina Misty Copeland and countless other dancers of color to pancake (dye) their pointe shoes and tights to match their skin tones as theirs weren’t deemed appropriate by imposed standards of the time.
At first glance, the TikTok-ification of ballet has rendered it more democratic. You no longer need to pay insufferable amounts of money to attend a posh performance seated next to snobbish Upper East-siders— on Tiktok, you can find the entire Act I of The Nutcracker posted in fifteen parts. Look closer, and those Miu Miu flats your favorite influencer is wearing cost around $975, that beginner’s intro class at your local studio sets you back $60, and the entire ballet-core wardrobe that the capitalist machine has convinced us we need is more expensive than a week’s worth of meals.
@domi.knows for my ballet core girlies🩰🤍 #balletcore #balletcoreaesthetic #ballerinacore #balletoutfitdeas #balletaesthetic #girlyaesthetic #coquetteaesthetic #howtostyle #pinkaesthetic #dollettecore #summeroutfitinspo ♬ sonido original – yo
Though I was well aware of these limitations, I chose to turn a blind eye. The allure was simply too strong— ballet, a former passion of mine that I had left behind five-years-ago, seemed to be seductively whispering my name once more. Then, I quickly found myself forgetting the very reasons I had walked away from it all those years ago. And in a desperate attempt to reignite an old flame, I signed up for the next available course at the Cairo Opera House. But sadly, it didn’t take long for me to realize that ballet and the Middle East aren’t the most compatible pair, and that the TikTok dreamland I had so thoroughly enjoyed was a lot farther from reality than I had expected.
As I crossed through the 1980s-coded, brutalist threshold of the run-down Opera House, I saw everything except the airy studios and eerie lights I saw the whole of New York rave about. Far from the content I so eagerly consumed every night, I was living, first-hand, in the unattractive, off-screen, backstage area of ballet-core. Shyly knocking on what seemed to be the director’s office, I was met with a hoard of men, jotting down notes on old dusty books, and as I inquired about a ballet course, I was quickly rushed into the far-end advanced level room.
The first thing I noticed? There were no pastels. Instead, everything around me felt muted, worn, and bare-bones. I also noticed that my ballet attire was shabby— an old Adidas sweatshirt and a pullover on top for warmth. No dainty leg warmers, boleros, or pink wrap tops. Stunned, that was the moment I came to terms with the fact that I had been tricked. By who? Ballet-core, the internet, and the shiny veneer it gave me all this time.
My first plié was jolting, catapulting me straight into the past. The rest of the barre and center-work was even more agonizing, as I was petrified by the harshness of the sport. The memories came rushing in all at once: Ballet was pain, dissatisfaction, embarrassment, sweat, a screaming instructor, forgotten combinations, petit allegro, jealousy, unstable pirouettes, weak ankles, and that ever-present mirror I always hated.
As I wobbled out of my first class in five years, terrified by my performance and the horror film I had just left in the room, a girl approached me to explain the programming. As we began to talk, she explained, in a very matter-of-fact tone, that she is barred from performing Giselle’s rendition at the Opera House simply because she wears a veil—a religious symbol deemed inappropriate for the stage, or at least by the men I had encountered earlier in the office. She spoke of it with a quiet sense of resignation, as though this injustice was just another unspoken rule she had learned to live with in a world that continually tries to dictate who belongs and who doesn’t, and what she can or cannot express. A harsh reminder of the power dynamics that still govern spaces supposedly built on and for art, the epiphany that came with my return to my childhood passion was undeniable: ballet, despite its graceful appearance, is not immune to the very systems of control and exclusion it seeks to challenge.
Despite social media’s fair attempt at camouflaging reality, ballet still remains an extremely controversial sport that carries a discriminatory set of rules wherever it goes. And as much as TikTok tries to paint over the harshness with pretty influencers, soft pastels, and trendy aesthetics, ballet’s toxic undercurrents manage to break through, no matter how hard it’s glossed over.
Yes, I was tricked, but that is the very essence of ballet. It’s all about the performance, playing a part, hiding the backstage, the ugliness beneath. Ballet is the quintessential trompe-l’oeil, an illusion of ease, beauty, elegance and perfection and social media was the tool to sell that image.
Regardless, I return to my classes every Friday, despite the fact that the delicate, pastel-colored world I had once envisioned in my head has now crumbled to the ground. With the veil cast off, I can now see ballet for what it truly is— I can critique its toxicity while also appreciating the beauty and immense labor it takes to make it work.
