The Art of Falling

by Kathryn Craft Narrated by Devon Sorvari

Overview

One Wrong Step Could Send Her Over the Edge



All Penny has ever wanted to do is dance-and when that chance is taken from her, it pushes her to the brink of despair, from which she might never return. When she wakes up after a traumatic fall, bruised and battered but miraculously alive, Penny must confront the memories that have haunted her for years, using her love of movement to pick up the pieces of her shattered life.



Kathryn Craft's lyrical debut novel is a masterful portrayal of a young woman trying to come to terms with her body and the artistic world that has repeatedly rejected her. The Art of Falling expresses the beauty of movement, the stasis of despair, and the unlimited possibilities that come with a new beginning.

Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher

"Strikes universal chords in all of us who yearn, who love, who fail and fall, and struggle to find our way back home." — Elizabeth Benedict, author of Almost, Slow Dancing, and The Practice of Deceit

"Unfolds with grace and truth…refreshing and piercingly honest." — Kelly Simmons, author of Standing Still and The Bird House

"The Art of Falling is a story of friendship and personal growth, and a helluva good read." — Elizabeth Zimmer, dance critic, Metro New York

"Craft, a former dancer and choreographer, captures the entanglement of pain and despair and beauty and hope that often knits our lives and, through the character of Penny, illustrates how self-acceptance is one of the greatest gifts you can give yourself." — Booklist

"One need not be graceful or understand dance to be drawn into Penny's life and to experience the beauty of her self-expression. Craft’s fluid style shines in this story of denial, friendship, and redemption." — Bloggers Recommend

"An amazing story about the resiliency of the human spirit ... a must read." — Southern Fried Fiction

"A good yarn with an uplifting ending" — Philadelphia Dance

"In her engrossing debut, The Art of Falling, Kathryn Craft takes her long-damaged heroine on a quest for healing and truth—true self, true family, and true friendship. Craft's sharp and refreshing narrative will leave you pining for more." — Julie Kibler, author of Calling Me Home

"Beautifully written and strongly emotional, The Art of Falling will move readers deeply. Kathryn Craft has penned a winner!" — Jane Porter, National Bestselling Author

"Craft’s debut novel lovingly traces the aesthetics of movement and gently explores the shattering pain of despair.
A sensitive study of a woman choreographing her own recovery." — Kirkus Reviews

"In The Art of Falling, Craft weaves an eloquent story about an unhinged dancer, body image, true friendship, and finding the lost moments, which make us whole." — Priscille Sibley, author of The Promise of Stardust

"Book clubs, take note: it's not every day you find a story as moving, thoughtful and discussion-provoking as Kathryn Craft's The Art of Falling." — Shelf Awareness

"Craft presents her mesmerizing characters with depth, understanding, and ethos." — Lana Kay Rosenberg, artistic director, Miami University Dance Theatre

Kirkus Reviews

2013-10-01
The art of falling isn't hard to master, Penelope Sparrow discovers, when she wakes up in the hospital after a 14-story plunge that ended with her body colliding with Marty Kandelbaum's car. Remembering the fall is too dangerous. Remembering means facing the loss of Dmitri, the loss of dancing. Remembering means facing that she may have tried to commit suicide. Kandelbaum's arrival is the first obstacle in Penny's path toward self-wallowing. Determined to protect her from further harm, Kandelbaum brings fasnachts from his bakery, hoping food may begin the process of healing. A lifetime of being criticized for not having the stereotypical dancer's body, however, has left Penny vigilant about every morsel that passes her lips. She doesn't have an eating disorder, she tells herself; she simply must be careful. Her roommate at the hospital, Angela, has no such qualms. Battling cystic fibrosis, Angela embraces every pleasure life allows her. Dance critic Margaret MacArthur arrives soon after Marty. Unbeknownst to Penny, MacArthur has followed her career, and now she is certainly interested in the accident, but she is clearly also interested in something more. No matter how hard Penny tries not to recall or discuss why she fell, everything reminds her of Dmitri--their love, their partnership at Dance DeLaval, her joy in dancing his choreography--yet at the edges of her memory she sees the shadows of his rejection. While her mother and friends try to buffer Penny's recovery, it is MacArthur's blunt persistence that forces her to confront the damage exacted on her body and soul well before the fall. To see the truth, Penny will have to recognize the lies and rough condemnation of the dance world. Craft's debut novel lovingly traces the aesthetics of movement and gently explores the shattering pain of despair. A sensitive study of a woman choreographing her own recovery.

Product Details

BN ID:	2940178981733
Publisher:	Tantor Audio
Publication date:	02/04/2020
Edition description:	Unabridged

Read an Excerpt

Chapter One

My muscles still won't respond. It's been hours since they promised a doctor, but no one has come. All I can do is lie on this bed, wishing for some small twinge to tell me exactly what is wrong. My body: a still life, with blankets.

I'd settle for inching my foot back beneath the covers. I command my foot to flex. To point. To burrow beside its mate. It ignores me, as do my hands when I tell them to tend to the situation.

Why has someone covered me so haphazardly? Or—could it be?—that in my dreams, I had somehow moved that foot? I will it to move again—now.

It stays put.

This standoff grows more frightening by the moment. If my focus weakens, I'll fall prey to larger, hungrier questions. Only motion can soothe me; only sweat can wash away my fear.

From somewhere to my right, I hear an old woman's crackling cough. My eyes look toward the sound, but I am denied even this small diversion; a flimsy curtain hides her.

I close my eyes against this new reality: the bed rails, a constant beeping over my shoulder, and the device clamped to my index finger. In my mind, I replace the flimsy curtain with a stretch of burgundy velour and relax into its weight. Sink. Deep. I replay each sweep, rise, and dramatic dip of Dmitri's choreography. My muscles seek aspects of motion: that first impulse. The building momentum. Moments of suspension, then—ah, sweet release. When the curtain rises, I will be born anew.

• • •

"Is time. Merde." The half-whisper I remember is intimate; Dmitri's breath tickles my ear. With a wet finger, he grazes a tender spot on my neck, for luck, then disappears among the other bodies awaiting him. My skin tingles from his touch.

The work light cuts off, plunging me into darkness. On the other side of the curtain, eleven hundred people, many of them critics and producers, hush. We are about to premiere Zephyr, Dmitri's first full-evening work.

I follow small bits of fluorescent tape across the floor to find my place. The curtain whispers as it rises. Audience expectation thickens the air.

Golden light splashes across the stage, and the music begins. Dmitri stalks onstage. I sense him and turn. Our eyes lock. We crouch—slow. Low. Wary. Mirror images, we raise our arms to the side, the downward arc from each shoulder creating powerful wings that hover on an imagined breeze. One: Our blood surges in rhythm. Two: A barely perceptible plié to prepare. Three: We soar.

Soon our limbs compress, then tug at the space between us. We never touch but are connected by intent, instinct, and strands of sound from violins. I feel the air he stirs against my skin.

Other dancers enter and exit, but I don't yield; Dmitri designed their movements to augment the tension made by our bodies.

I become the movement. I fling my boundaries to the back of the house; I will be bigger than ever before. I'm a confluence of muscle and sinew and bone made beautiful through my command of the oldest known language. I long to move others through my dancing because then I, too, am moved.

Near the end of the piece, the other four dancers cut a diagonal slash between Dmitri and me. Our shared focus snaps. Dissonance grows as we perform dizzying turns.

The music slows and our arms unfold to reduce spin. Dmitri and I hit our marks and reach toward each other. We have danced beyond the end of the music. In silence, within a waiting pool of light, we stretch until we touch, fingertip to fingertip.

Light fades, but the dance continues; my energy moves through Dmitri, and his pierces me. The years, continents, and oceans that once held us apart could not keep us from this moment of pure connection.

Utter blackness surrounds us, and for one horrible moment I lose it all—Dmitri, the theater, myself.

But when the stage lights come up, Dmitri squeezes my hand. His damp curls glisten.

Applause crescendos and crashes over us. Dmitri winks before accepting the accolades he expects.

I can't recover as quickly.

No matter how gently I ease toward the end of motion, it rips away from me. I feel raw. Euphoria drains from my fingertips, leaving behind this imperfect body.

I struggle to find myself as the others run on from the wings. We join hands in a line, they pull me with them to the lip of the stage—and with these simple movements I am returned to the joyful glow of performance. We raise our hands high and pause to look up to the balcony, an acknowledgment before bowing that feels like prayer. My heart and lungs strain and sweat pushes through my pores and I hope never to recover. I am gloriously alive, and living my dream.

The dance recedes and the applause fades, but I'm not ready. My muscles seek aspects of motion—where's the motion?—I can feel no impulse. Momentum stalls. I am suspended and can find no release.

The curtain falls, the bed rails return, and I am powerless to stop them.

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