Nina Ananiashvili has been the object of a rare form of universal adoration. During her 16-year career as a principal dancer at American Ballet Theatre, Ninochka—or “Nina Ballerina,” as she is still lovingly known—was frequently greeted with midperformance standing ovations and showers of red roses from loyal fans in the balcony. Her performances were like interactive displays of affection—audience participation and devotion were part of the theater.

When I was eight, I met Nina. My mother and I were at the Freed of London shop on 58th Street, where I’d been begging my mom, in Russian, for a tutu. During my meltdown, Nina walked in, and my mom immediately recognized her; she’d seen her win the gold medal at the Moscow International Ballet Competition in 1985. They started to talk—Nina seemed enamored of a little girl who wanted to dance—and within minutes she went to the cashier and returned with a gift: a one-of-a-kind hair piece adorned with five pink roses. Days later, we accepted Nina’s invitation to meet in her dressing room after a performance of Swan Lake. It was then that I became ridiculously infatuated—with ballet, with the Met Opera House and most of all, with Nina Ananiashvili.

Nina’s farewell performance on June 27 marked the end of an era. At the conclusion, she stood at the center of the stage with a mound of roses at her feet. She was at least a generation older than the dancers cheering her on, but as she cavorted with a baton (given to her by conductor Ormsby Wilkins), she seemed younger than any of them. This video captures Ananiashvili during the 25 minutes of curtain calls from that final performance; accept my sincere apologies for the slight camera wobbles— it was hard to remain still.—Erica Sheftman