Christopher Gable on artistic integrity

You must be doing it for the people. That isn't to say you allow them to dictate artistic terms to you, or indeed, any terms at all. You are doing it for yourself and the person you're working with in that you are trying to find the deepest, richest truth you can. Oh, all these things sound so crappy. I'm sorry, but they are the facts. That truth is entirely for yourself and personal, because it has to do with your artistic integrity. But having found it, it's no use to anybody unless you can share it with the people who come to watch.

Ah, but the audience and the critics are quite, quite different. The critics are nothing whatever to do with the audience, and I never listened to them. I listened very carefully to a handful of people whose judgment I valued and whose artistic integrity I respected; primarily Lynn [Seymour], I suppose, but there were two or three others. But certainly not the critics -- last of all, them. Because if I spend three, four months preparing a ballet, as we did with Romeo, and then I spend two years refining it, changing it, adjusting, working, and thinking, I don't consider that somebody who walks into a theatre has the right -- with the price of that ticket -- to tell me how to do anything. They haven't put in anything like the thought, time, care, love, concern that I've put in. They have no voice at all.

I listened to my family too, and to all kinds of totally arbitrary people I would meet at parties. I was always very interested in what they thought, because ordinary people aren't diffused by what they think is expertise or by what they think they ought to say. Neither are they concerned with projecting their own sensitivity and awareness onto what they're seeing, or displaying their own gifts.

Striking a Balance: Dancers talk about Dancing by Barbara Newman. 1982. Page 283-4.

Partnering insights

While it may be difficult for men to appreciate pointe work, they have a great advantage over women when it comes to understanding partnering. The man is usually standing behind the woman or in another position where it is easy to watch her. He can study various positions and the effects they create. As a woman, I have great difficulty understanding what a man does in partnering. I know what feels right, but that is all. When a man is partnering a woman, he can feel her weight and may have ideas about other possible movements. He sees how her body falls and constantly has to adjust or fix things that go wrong. His job is to react and relate to what he sees. The woman is in a more passive stance. this may be one of the reasons so few women choreograph classical ballet.

Dancing for Balanchine by Merrill Ashley. 1984. Page 183.

The importance of performing

Even in my gloomiest moments, however, I never lost hope. I always maintained my belief that some day I would be a principal dancer.

At the time, I only dimly understood that my woes were due both to my status as a senior corps member and to the fact I had been taken out of many of my corps roles in a show of confidence. In exchange, I expected to get some better roles, as had happened to others before me. But that didn't happen right away, and I remained for what seemed an eternity in this limbo. Cast infrequently, I watched and waited, wanting only to be on stage. Often I danced less than four times a week. If one dances too seldom, regardless of the level, the stage begins to seem like alien territory. After all, there is only so much one can do in a class or a rehearsal room. some of the most valuable learning happens on stage.

Dancing for Balanchine by Merrill Ashley. 1984. Page 115.

Petersburg, 21 July 1839

At the Opera I saw what is called a gala performance. The magnificently lighted hall was large and beautiful in form. Neither galleries nor balconies are known here. In Petersburg, there is no placing of the bourgeoisie to hinder the architects in their plans; thus the auditorium can be built on simple and regular lines like the theatres of Italy, where the women who are not of high society go to the parterre.

As a particular favour, I had obtained a seat in the first row of the parterre for this performance. On the days of gala performances these places are reserved for the highest nobility, that is to say the most important officials of the court. No one is admitted except in uniform, in the dress of his rank and station.

I did not particularly like the spectacle; I was more interested in the spectators. Finally the court arrived. The imperial loge is a brilliant salon which occupies the back of the hall; this salon is even more brilliantly illuminated than the rest of the theatre, which is itself very light.

The Czar's entry was impressive. When he approached the front of his loge, accompanied by the Czarina and followed by their family and the court, the entire audience rose.

Journey for Our Time: The Journals of the Marquis de Custine. 2001. Page 90.

The Claque

Success being the elusive quality that it is, the Paris Opera didn't rely entirely on its artistic merits to attract a fickle public. Like many other Parisian theaters, it employed the services of an organization known officially as La Societe d'Assurance des Succes Dramatiques, more commonly known as the claque. This was not today's informal band of enthusiastic opera buffs who applaud loudly and scream "Bravos" at the end of their favorite singer's arias. They were a strictly regimented group of forty to sixty professionals whose function, so they claimed, was to heighten the emotional impact of a performance. This could be accomplished in a negative way by hissing, booing, whispering out loud, stomping one's feet, or creating other forms of distraction. More often, though, the claque performed in a positive way by cheering, clapping, throwing bouquets (which were later collected and returned to them for the following act), weeping audibly throughout the heroine's death scene, or shrieking uproariously at the comic basso's clumsy pranks. During intermission they carried on their trade in the lobby or a nearby cafe, where they made loud remarks about the faults or merits of the performance. These members of the Opera's claque were considered masters of their art, each having his own particular specialty such as the well-timed faint or the ear-splitting whistle. The "weepers" were especially adept at their calling since many served as professional mourners during the day. Although the claqueurs' behavior was often boorish, the Parisian ones never went so far as their London colleagues, who sometimes urinated from the balconies onto the audience below.

Quite the contrary, the claqueurs at the Paris Opera were said to be "the most civilized. . . in the world." The man responsible for their model deportment was Auguste Levasseur, the city's ranking chef de claque. Considering the cultural and social status of the Opera, Auguste insisted that his claqueurs dress and behave in a suitable manner. Those who didn't conform were dismissed and forced to proffer their services to lesser institutions like the Comique or the Vaudeville. August himself purposely wore gaudy outfits so he could be spotted easily by his crew, who took their cues from him during a performance. Gloves were the one item strictly forbidden in a claqueur's dress code because they muted applause. Rumor had it, though, that Auguste's real reason for prohibiting gloves was the impossibility of finding a pair large enough to fit his enormous hands.

The efficiency of the Opera's claque was due to its excellent organization, which August structured along the lines of a Roman legion with its hierarchy of generals, brigadiers, lieutenants, sergeants, and so forth. Auguste, in fact, referred to his men as "Romans." On the day of a new performance, he met with them at a wine merchant's shop near the Opera to provide last-minute instructions on the timing and extent of their demonstrations -- for example, moderate applause for a first act entrance, a standing ovation with wild cries of delight at the end of the last act finale, noisy cheers to cover up Mme****'s shaky high C and frigid silence throughout Mlle****'s performance (because she was behind in her payments to the claque). These instructions represented weeks of preparation by August, who attended rehearsals and conferred with the composer, the librettist, the director of the house, and all the major artists. Although largely self-taught, August had gleaned enough knowledge of opera for Veron and Meyerbeer to alter a production at his suggestion.

Members of the claque, after being coached in their duties, would enter the theater around 5:00 in the afternoon and take up their positions before the audience arrived. The seats they occupied were made available through tickets given to Auguste by the management -- and often by the performers as well. Most of Auguste's income (estimated at 20,000 to 40,000 francs a year -- more than many opera singers earned) came from these tickets, some of which he distributed to his claqueurs before selling the rest for his own profit. In addition he received further "gifts" of money from singers as well as composers, especially on the night of a debut or a premiere. One prima donna paid him 50 francs a performance for the fifteen years she sang at the Opera. Others were reported to have bestowed lifetime pensions on him. Once Fanny Elssler, put off by his "fees," hired Santon, the chief claquer of the Gymnase theater, with such disastrous results that she quickly returned to Auguste's protection.

As his power grew, August exploited it to the point of trying to banish the public completely from certain performances on the grounds that its spontaneous reactions could destroy the "successes" he had programmed.

The Parisian worlds of Frederic Chopin by William G Atwood. 1999. Pages 208-10.

Weeping Ballerinas -- 1938

. . . the general American public flocked to see the glamorous Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo and read eagerly of its endless backstage intrigues. Beyond his purely artistic duties, Massine had to deal with diva distemper on a daily basis. Collier's noted, "He has a weeping ballerina on his hands virtually every hour on the hour, and they weep in all languages and for any number of reasons."

Massine's most sensational personnel problems occurred during the first season at the Metropolitan in October 1938. When the cast list went up, Toumanova was livid to discover that Alicia Markova, not she, was slated to dance Odette on Swan Lake's opening night. By several newspaper accounts, Toumanova's father took revenge by storming backstage on opening night and landing a swarthy Russian fist on Massine's jaw. Massine responded by replacing Toumanova with Nathalie Krassovska as Odette Number Two. Krassovska and Massine rehearsed for two days and nights without sleep because "a sulking ballerina had to be taught a lesson."

Leonide Massine and the 20th Century Ballet by Leslie Norton. 2004. Page 196.

Monica Mason on learning to dance the Firebird

When I came to learn it a year or so ago, Michael Somes taught us. And then I said to Norman [Morrice], "I know the role now. I know how to dance the steps and I know what all the steps are. but I just have got to have a link with the past. You've got to get Margo or somebody to come and show us how it felt. You've got to show us what the ballet's about." This is not to knock Michael in any sense at all, but this I felt was the one role where you had to talk to somebody who'd danced it.

Margot had actually been coached by Karsavina, and I knew that Margot held the key for the Firebird because she had got it directly from Karsavina herself. And Margot of course, as always, was so busy and couldn't be reached and wasn't available and then couldn't do it and then she'd be in the building and couldn't stay and all this. But I just couldn't accept the fact that she was not available for half an hour at some point in her life. And eventually once day I appealed to Norman: I said, "You know, I have a feeling that if I can't get some time with Margot, I don't really want to do it, because I can't do it without that." I was passionate about it. And so he had another talk to her. and one day, I suppose literally she gave us about forty-five minutes or an hour. It was wonderful. From the moment she started, I knew that I'd been right -- I had really, really needed her.

She just used some of the words that Karsavina had used for her; what had been conveyed to her had really stayed. And they have stayed, they will stay, with me. On the very first entrance in Firebird, she said, "This is your territory, your domain, and you don't fly over it, you soar. You soar over your territory. Even a sparrow notices if another sparrow comes to perch on his tree, his branch. So imagine what it must be like for the Firebird to have a man invade her territory and actually capture her." And immediately one had a whole different picture. And then she talked about the viciousness of the bird. Apparently, according to Russian folklore, Firebirds actually ate men. She absolutely was a man-eater. So the Prince doesn't really know what he has caught, but the Firebird knows.

And she said that Karsavina had said that from the moment the Prince catches her, she hates him. She hates him for daring even to touch her. Nobody dares to touch her. And another thing Margo said was that when you plead with him to let you go, you still retain this hatred for him, that there's no softening in your feelings. You hate him, and you even hate the fact that you have to ask him to release you. You have to plead, but you plead without losing any of your dignity or your feeling of self-preservation. So all of that stirred one's imagination, which was really what I knew I needed for the role. Those were the things I latched onto and tried to understand. They all make it very fantastical, which the music is.

Striking a Balance: Dancers talk about Dancing by Barbara Newman.1982. Pages 300-1.

Sokolova's memories of Le Spectre de la rose

I enjoyed watching Fokine dance, and I loved to see him with Karasvina in Le Spectre de la rose. It was an entirely different sensation from watching Nijinsky. Nijinsky had been such a myth, and he had that miraculous elevation, so that one was dazzled by his performance and never thought of analysing or criticising it. Fokine danced with a complete understanding of the music and of the steps he had invented to go with it. Nijinsky had been sexless -- an elfin thing. Fokine dancing with Karsavina was very much the lover. When the beautiful Karsavina dance Le Spectre with Nijinsky, she seemed to show a certain detachment, as if he was merely a dream to her, and when he floated out of the window she really woke up. When she danced the same ballet with Fokine there seemed to be a secret affinity between them. I used to say to myself, 'He loves her. I know he does.' When he leaned over her as she slept in her chair and he brushed her forehead with a kiss, just before his exit leap, you could almost hear him think, 'Wake up and remember me.'

Dancing for Diaghilev by Lydia Sokolova. 1960. Pages 52-3.

Peter Martins on Balanchine

Dancers and writers often talk of Balanchine's stress on speed, speed and clarity. But my sense of his true priority, of what he is working for, is different. The word I'd give it is energy. Energy can be fast or slow, but, what Balanchine is demanding is that all parts of the dancing body be energized. There are no dead or resting limbs. Everything is active. Someone can be speedy and quick and still be dead. Speed in itself is not the point, although it is required. In adagio, Balanchine asks for energy that is slow, slow but intense, and full. Whenever you move your arm or your legs, you are saying this is my arm, these are my legs, and I am putting them there.

Far from Denmark by Peter Martins. 1982. Page 91.

Dame Ninette de Valois -- a memory of Nijinsky

After all of us settled into Merle's car, Dame Ninette related one more story from her infinite repertoire. She told us about the first time she saw the famous Nijinsky dance. Her mother had taken her to the theatre, when she was "quite a young girl" -- which meant this took place very early in the century.

"When I first saw him enter," she said, "I hid under my seat on the floor. My mother looked over and asked me, 'What are you doing down there?' I told her, 'I don't like that man!' He seemed more of an animal than a man. . . and he frightened me. . . I liked everyone else on stage, but Nijinsky scared me."

The Shape of Love by Gelsey Kirkland. 1990. Pages 167-8.

The Bow

It was my mother, the former actress, who, years ago, taught me the purpose of the bow was not to bask in praise or milk applause, but to conjure an image of sublime reverence for the theatre.

The Shape of Love by Gelsey Kirkland. 1990. Page 110.

Le Spectre de la Rose

This work, which Karsavina calls "blessed," was meant to be a trifling fill-in ballet, a brief contrast to the other works on the program, and its success took everyone by surprise. It was created spontaneously in two or three rehearsals, in what Karsavina remembers as a blissful mood, and even Diaghilev was calm about the entire production. The only moments of discord occurred when Bakst insisted on including a caged canary in the decor; wherever he hung it, it interfered with the dance--hence expediting its elimination. One fault found in this duet, which helped many audiences further understand and see Fokine's reforms, is that few of the many performers who have since attempted the roles have been able to achieve the fresh, spontaneous, dreamlike quality of Karsavina and Nijinsky. In writing of the poetic dancing of the latter, Fokine laments the apocryphal stories of his final leap and insists that this great artist needs nothing more than the truth told about his portrayal of "a spirit. . . a hope. . . a fragrance that defies description."

Michel Fokine by Dawn Lille Horwitz. 1985. Pages 30-1.

The RSPCA and Pavlova's Ballet Company

Also we often had trouble when we gave the ballet "Don Quixote". The large number of additional artists and supers made it very difficult to stage the ballet on a small scale. Another difficulty was that this ballet required a horse and a donkey. When we gave it for the first time in London the donkey brought to the theatre was a beautiful little animal, but the coffee coloured horse appeared far too smart and wellfed for the part. The matter was put right by an artist-decorator, who happened to be working in the theatre. What he did was very simple; he painted such prominent ribs and gave the horse such a wretched look, that on the day after the performance an inspector of the RSPCA came to the theatre. He showed us a letter received by the Society from some tender-hearted old lady, saying that she had been indignant to see at our performance in what a terrible condition we kept our horse. But when he saw the horse without the make-up, the inspector was completely satisfied. It was only very tiresome that this make-up had to be put on anew at every performance for the horse's owner refused to ride it home in that state.

Anna Pavlova in art and life by Victor Dandre. 1932. Pages117-8.