I fail to see how the studio is still in business. Darcy's is regarded by most of the town as the…read moredance studio equivalent of Dracula - it drains your bank account and leaves you with nothing for it.
I danced with Darcy's for seven years. I left the studio because I learned absolutely no technique in all of those years. Through my last two, I was the only dancer in my jazz class who did not have ballet immediately before and was treated like a second rate citizen. The time I paid for was spent watching the other class practice, sometimes for even half of my forty five minute "lesson."
My parents paid for my dance lessons - I was lucky. However, it seemed all along that Darcy's felt I was not paying enough, as I was swept under the rug since day one. Largely without the help of the studio I've since become a strong dancer, but never had my talent been recognized. The solos were bought, places on the dance team were bought, and the entire studio was a plutocracy instead of a dance studio.
After leaving, I half-expected the studio to notice. It is a small town and when a patron of seven years vanishes, any business would take note. Unfortunately, the studio is not so much a business as a scam and a vanity project. I got no email, no letter, not even the newsletter they used to send out every year to encourage students to register for the next year. I left my studio, but it felt like it dumped me.
As mentioned, the studio is a vanity project. The environment is caustic, fed by the secretary and owner, who dance in every recital. Ultimately, the recital is about the students, most of which are young children. The townspeople go to the recitals for the children, not to see grown women dancing. The routines for the mature dancers are an embarrassment - any mature dancer considering Darcy's should hop over to one of the other studios in town for ballroom and the like, where your choreography isn't the same as the pre-kindergarten classes'. However, the aforementioned owner ends up in more than the dancers for older women; she dances with teenage girls - dances she doesn't belong in. My parents have pointed out time and time again that the production value drops radically with her in a dance as she stands out in all the wrong ways. Her pride is crippling all of her dancers.
I've done some performing outside of Darcy's, and have even been involved in television production. My experiences with performance have shown me that there is no reason the staff should be running around on recital day like they've never seen a stage before. The preparation is not there, and so the volunteers are stressed out. I've always helped out behind the scenes watching some of the little ones, and so have prime seating to see the real entertainment of the day - chaos backstage. Parents aren't told what the volunteers are responsible for, resulting in utter madness when a parent brings their child back to sit with them and no one knows where this kid could have gone. The owner and secretary, who should be taking on organizational roles, are too busy plumping their egos to actually manage the students. The volunteers have to fight to get any information out of some staff member as to how to costume the children, as no one is willing to take two seconds to explain the situation. This is just one of countless examples of the entitled snobbery of most of the dancers and staff.
Ultimately, though, I don't look back on my years of dance fondly. I've always been awkward, and Darcy's made me feel like I didn't belong doing something I loved. I was not informed that my awkwardness could make me an amazing dancer - that was something I learned elsewhere. I was not encouraged. I was not supported. I did not feel wanted. The studio took my parents' money, forgot about me entirely, and failed to provide any real service. What I paid for was insecurity and a first row seat to the chaotic vanity project that is Darcy's School of Dance.
I would definitely recommend this studio if you are a self-sadist/psychologist researching narcissists. Otherwise, steer clear.
