I first met Ann Danoff pirouetting by the Lake in Goldensbridge when she was 13 (I was 17). I was really taken by her Bohemian looks, her charisma, intelligence and talent. I fell in love with that 13 year old and that love has never abated. Over the fifty years since then Ann and I have had intermittent contact as she gracefully moved from being a dancer, to being a Tai Chi instructor, and finally (?) to being a physician. It was always very warm and gratifying for me to see her, even though we could never pull the trigger on coupling. I’m reminded of Leonard Cohen’s Sisters of Mercy: We weren’t lovers like that and besides it would still be alright. I’ve never performed the song. I wrote it so I could capture the few romantic moments we shared, and so I would always have someplace to go where I could be with her. It may be my best realized lyric insofar as it reflects so well my impressions of her. Still, listening to the song only underscores for me how unknowable this remarkable lady was and is, and evokes another lyric, this one mine from a different song and time: How can a poet talk of distance to a dancer. And finally, the lines from this song:
Ann moves her own way
There is no choreography
are taken verbatim from the program of a solo dance piece that I saw her perform ages ago. For me that sums it up.
Lyrics
Queen Anne’s Lace
Daily lured
Onto the forest floor
Fearing her gypsy lover
Will pass her way once more
Still she stays
Picking her wildflower bouquets
Bluebells and Scottish heather
Set off by Queen Anne’s lace
Spoke in the most peculiar style
Pirouetting all the while
If she talked she danced
Back in those first raggedy days
I was just amazed
The way she turned a phrase
Halfway done
She returns from where she’d come
God must be a dancer
Beating a toy tin drum
Clutching at space
Slowly slipping from her grace
Then caught in the fragile webwork
Of my Queen Anne’s lace
Dances in the most obsessive way
Shadows of repressive days
Permeate her moves
Dancing a prima donna part
Dismissing it as art
She puts on the Red Shoes
Desert in bloom
On this our stranded honeymoon
Flowers make liars of sunset
Rise fair camellia moon
Face to face
I’ve left my mask on just in case
Fearing my Russian tears
Would soil my Queen Anne’s lace
I will never know just where to stand
As her moves are never planned
She is the only one set free
I once heard a dancer say
Ann moves her own way
There is no choreography
Trying to get lost
Going under not across
Then stopped by the border trooper
For wearing an albatross
Queen Anne’s lace
Loosely fastened into place
Worn to divert my staring
Helplessly at her face
Queen Anne’s lace.