Where are you, Tanya Graafland?

When I was a younger dancer, there was no better way to pass two hours than to sit in the velvet hush of the State Theatre in Pretoria and watch Tanya Graafland dance. She was the star of PACT Ballet, and my ideal. A birthday treat was a ticket to see her perform Cinderella. Afterwards, though I've no recollection of how, I managed to brazen my way backstage to find her dressing room, whereupon I rushed in and hugged her. She was grace personified about this, despite being molested by some crazed fan while in her dressing gown. She even signed my program. Then, a bit taller, though no less unhinged I daresay, I was accepted into the ballet company as a Graduate and suddenly I was taking daily class mere metres from her. She was my passion. Her every extension seemed to me the visible personification of truth and purity. She couldn't move across a stage without setting the surrounding air into an echoing waltz. She was utterly lovely. And terribly humble and shy. Every morning she slipped into class to quietly go through her barre with the greatest care and attention. Other dancers moaned about men and shrieked to each other about their social lives; she ate her scone alone in a corner of the canteen. Leaving late one night, on a day I knew to be her birthday, I saw a light on in the main studio and there she was, endlessly repeating the same enchainment to her greatest critic, the mirror. It was perfect every time, but I tiptoed away, knowing that she would never allow herself the peace of believing that. But, for better or worse, I modelled myself on her as best as could. And now many years later, I suddenly realise I miss her dreadfully. She's retired; I know she loves to garden, and I always try to put her in a glorious rose garden when I picture her. But without her dancing in front of me, I don't seem to know which way is forward any more.