Vow of Stability

I have seen Megan Fairchild dance three times. The first was semi-unintentional—soon after moving to New York in the fall of 2024, I got one of those $30 for 30+ Under tickets and sat in the orchestra level on stage right. I’d been late getting back to Manhattan after a day in Philadelphia, and a combination of the 1 train being under repair plus my unfamiliarity with alternate transportation options led to me sprinting 58 blocks down Broadway in ballet flats and a summer dress.

Megan Fairchild in George Balanchine and Alexandra Danilova’s “Coppélia.” Photograph by Erin Baiano

My childhood ballet teacher in California, Miss Nina, had instructed us to always wear a dress to the ballet. It was important to honor the dancers, she’d explained, and as students we knew just how hard professional ballerinas worked. The longer I live in New York, the less I follow her instruction—theatres now feel magically commonplace, and I often attend shows at the ends of busy workdays which leave little room for changing into something special. But that night I wore a dress, and it swam with my body through the humid, buzzing streets. I arrived at Lincoln Center with three minutes to spare, blotted the sweat from my face in the bathroom, and scooted past the knees of fellow audience members in silk dresses and fine suits until I made it to my red velvet seat. As Justin Peck’s “Everywhere We Go” began, I recognized Megan and kept my eyes trained on her. My eyes had no choice but to follow her movement; I could have watched her dancing for hours, just as I could sit before a large painting for hours, the brushstrokes pulling my vision through endless paths. But bodies dance for mere minutes on a stage before disappearing, and soon she was gone. I kept my vision on the hazy, empty stage, her absence a different sort of mirage, and clapped until the clapping ceased.

Megan Fairchild in “George Balanchine’s The Nutcracker.” Photograph by Erin Baiano

The second time I saw Megan Fairchild dance was my partner’s second time seeing a ballet: “Nutcracker,” 2025. Despite frequenting the opera across the plaza, he’d never been to a ballet until I’d taken him to see Sara Mearns and Tyler Angle in “Swan Lake” earlier that year. I had spent my childhood dreaming of seeing these dancers, and he was seeing them on his first encounter with the art. My last “Nutcracker” in high school was my last time performing, and I’d only seen it professionally one other time in San Francisco, so nostalgia was not in short supply—though I didn’t miss the stage. Mine was a missing of studio windows foggy with body heat against the early fall nights, barres draped with plastic pants and sweaters, ears warm with waltzes coming in loud through speakers and directions from teachers to all lift our arms at the same swell of instruments and to notice the patterns between our crossings. I missed the humming between us girls as we speculated which tutu we’d be granted the privilege of wearing, calling each costume and each other beautiful as we stretched our feet. These days, I often drop my eyes shut and pull myself deep within my body to feel the strong reaching my muscles once practiced routinely, placing each bone in precise relationship with the rest of my skeleton. I felt that inward pull at the “Nutcracker” as I watched the Snow Scene and the Waltz of the Flowers and the Mirlitons. But when Megan stepped onstage to dance Sugar Plum, every bit of feeling in my body was pulled towards her presence. Watching her, I felt not what my body used to do but what my body could never do—that is the gift she and all other dancers give me. In watching her balance and stretch and leap and turn in a body perfectly gifted and trained and practiced, I felt a longing and a gratitude for the particular freedom and fierceness I would never embody myself.

Megan Fairchild and Jovani Furlan in Justin Peck’s “Everywhere We Go.” Photograph by Erin Baiano

The third time I saw Megan Fairchild dance was the last time any audience would see her perform in the Koch Theater. May 24, 2026: Her farewell performance at her home of 25 years. I stood in standing room behind the last row of seats at the top of the fifth ring. Directly in front of me, an older woman pierced a silver needle through a cross-stitch pattern of Doctor Coppélius’s doll and pulled a pink thread along the hem of the figure’s skirt. I guessed that she, at least, was there to see Megan specifically. I wondered at the percentage of the audience who was there for Megan. “Coppélia” is a story ballet, which draws a certain audience, but it doesn’t hold quite the universal tradition of “Nutcracker,” which attracts mothers and daughters the way Christmas attracts seldom churchgoers. I assumed most seats were filled by people who had marked her retirement on their calendars well in advance—yet I wished for an unrealistic number of people in that theater to be fledglings.

The ballet started the same as any other: the orchestra swelling, the curtains drawing back. But when Megan stepped out, all normalcy burned away. We all began clapping, and the clapping did not cease. It was 25 years’ worth of applause that began with her first entrance and hummed through the village square, into the toy shop, all the way to the wedding scene and erupted at the end, after the lights dimmed and regained their brightness, when Megan placed her final role aside and stood as herself on the stage that had held her body through a lifetime of work.

Megan Fairchild bows after her farewell performance. Photograph by Erin Baiano

Megan swore a vow of stability to Balanchine, to ballet, to New York, to Lincoln Center and the people in its seats, to the students of the School of American Ballet, to NYCB, to choreographers, to movement. She was faithful to her vow until the end. It is a rare and difficult thing in this world, staying in one place and mastering an art all the way to a carefully guided finale. I only needed to see Megan dance once to remember her gestures forever. To say I did not go to her farewell performance to see her dance once more would be ludicrous—of course I went to see her dance. But I had seen her dance before, and while even three times will never be enough, singular moments are beautiful for their rarity. Here is the truth: I went to Megan Fairchild’s farewell performance because I needed to witness the people who witnessed her final bow. I needed to hear the applause that is poured out on someone who has worked that hard and long for their art, for their audience, for their predecessors, for their colleagues, for themselves. I needed to see the people who walked onto the stage to kneel before her and embrace her in celebration: her friends, her co-workers, her brother, her husband and daughters. I needed to see her mountain of flowers, to stand there at the top where I could see everyone’s hands clapping, where my spirit could float there above the orchestra and vibrate with the enormity of awestruck gratitude that could only exist in that theater on that afternoon.

Fleur Van Woerkom

Fleur Van Woerkom was born in California. She believes in movement and seeks cold air.

comments

Lisa Mehigan agosto 13, 2026

This is a beautifully written review. I was there, too. I have seen Megan dance through her whole career, many times, and she has always been magnetic. Her last performance was extraordinary and Van Woerkom writes a heartfelt and accurate summation. I was struck by the entire piece.

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