Valery Panov meets Vladimir Vasiliev in 1973

Of the people who continued to see us now, those with no connection to the dissident or emigration movements had a special courage. They were not crusading to change anything in Russia and didn't dream of leaving it. They simply refused to abandon friends, no matter how many times they were interrogated and intimidated.

It came as no surprise that the one dancer who felt for us was from Moscow. This was my old Bolshoi friend Vladimir Vasiliev, now dancing more spectacularly than ever. When I bumped into him, he had won every prize going and was a Deputy to the Supreme Soviet. He suggested a walk.

"In your position, aren't you scared to be seen with me?" I asked.

"You're damm right I'm scared, who isn't?"

But he went on to say what he thought of our treatment. On trips abroad, while others were calling me "an unknown, third-rate hack, an invention of the Western press," his remarks to Western journalists required real bravery.

To Dance by Valery Panov. 1978. Page 360.

Relationship of critics and dancers

The asymmetry of the relationship between critics and dancers, where critics de facto have more power, is thus quite obvious. Dancers are vulnerable, since critics review them in public and have an impact on their professional identities and careers, but not the other way around (unlike what happens with academics and writers who review each other).

. . . .

Dancers often felt called upon to state, firstly, that 'critics don't understand how much power they have' and, secondly, that 'critics don't know anything about ballet'. Dancers' knowledge is an absorbing, bodily one, the knowledge of an insider. Many dancers have performed various roles in certain productions over a long period of time. Critics know other things: they tend, for example, to be more versed in dance history than dancers. Many critics have moreover seen a larger number of companies in different productions that the dancers have. After all, since the latter have to concentrate on their own dancing all the time, they do not have very much time to go to other performances in their city or abroad. Those critics who used to dance on one level of course remember what it was like, but are now involved in a different kind of career project.

It is the discrepancy between doing ballet and watching ballet that is at work again.

Ballet Across Borders: Career and Culture in the World of Dancers by Helena Wulff. 1998. Page 134, 135.

Doing versus watching ballet

A central dichotomy in the ballet world is the one separating the act of doing ballet from watching ballet: 'You have to do it in order to understand what it's like.' It seems primarily to be the physical exertion of dancing that makes dancers distinguish themselves from the audience in general, and from critics in particular. The vulnerability is another important feature of the stage experience. A leading woman dancer explained to me: 'You're completely naked out there. They see what you have inside!' There is also a subtle boundary between dancers who have danced a particular role and dancers who have not. All this goes into a scepticism of translations of dance to other symbolic modes - be it text, photographs, video or film. Something inevitably gets lost on the way. This elusive quality is, however, still a part of the experience of ballet art - in fact often the heart of it. Watching themselves on video, dancers note that the dancing does not look from the outside like it feels from the inside when doing it.

Ballet Across Borders: Career and Culture in the World of Dancers by Helena Wulff. 1998. Page 8-9.

Villella on partnering

For over three years I worked--struggled--to become a good partner. In the beginning, I thought about it all the time. I tried every tactic possible to improve. And when I began to show progress and felt that I had mastered the basics, I concentrated on the subtleties and began to attend to those. One day I just stopped thinking about it, stopped trying so hard, and because I was thinking about it less often, my fears about it began to diminish. I became comfortable. I was able to place my ballerina on pointe in an arabesque at arm's length with one hand during a performance and feel relaxed. One evening after a performance I said to myself, well, you got through that ballet without thinking about it. You weren't terrified. It just came together. And then I realized, I know how to partner! It was remarkable. I never thought it would happen. This problem that had plagued me for over three years now seemed like my best friend. I suddenly loved it.

. . . .

Some dancers don't like partnering, don't like performing a service to the ballerina. But I grew to like being a cavalier. Looking after a woman onstage, projecting the sense of caring, of giving something to a woman, is a wonderful, masculine feeling, and it became one of the great sensations of my life.

Prodigal Son: Dancing for Balanchine in a World of Pain and Magic by Edward Villella. 1992. Page 70, 71.

Edward Villella on preparing for Prodigal Son

It was also important for me to check the stage, especially the areas where I had to move on a diagonal or cross from one end to the other. Because there are such abrupt movements in the ballet, I really had to have a very secure sense of the floor. During a performance the stage can become a slick. I didn't want to push off and have my foot slip and slide and twist in the opposite direction.

By now "Places, please" was being called, but a part of me would still resist. There was always one more thing I wanted to do. Making a last-minute check of the stage, I'd remove the towel and the robe, but not my leg warmers. I'd wear them until about twenty seconds to curtain. By then I'd be in my place onstage behind the tent waiting to make my entrance. I tried to get the time I stood behind the tent down to a matter of seconds. But in those remaining seconds I'd eliminate everything but the performance from my mind. I'd be scheming, calculating, preparing all day for this moment, and now I'd narrow my concentration into a simple straight line focused solely on my physicality. I'd feel very alone and revel in the solitude. It wasn't a meditative or spiritual moment; it was just that I could stand there and, no matter who was around me, feel calm. I'd wait for the curtain to rise and the music to start, and I'd burst out onstage. Sometimes I had to go into overdrive and call on an extra reserve of energy to propel the performance because I was fatigued mentally and physically, or because I'd be dancing through a sprained ankle, a bruised toe, an intense backache, a stiff neck, or an inflamed elbow. But usually I had energy to spare now no matter how tired I was.

I love leaping into the air while simultaneously exerting the most precise control possible over my body. Onstage I get an exhilarating sense of abandon and freedom when I move. The sensation of piercing the air, of the air passing my ears as I jump, always thrills me. And I love the fact that the audience is watching me. Stepping out onstage, I would feel more alive than I had during the entire day. This is how it was.

Prodigal Son: Dancing for Balanchine in a World of Pain and Magic by Edward Villella. 1992. Page 201-2.

Vaentin Zeglovsky

This reminds me of a really genuine mishap I had when dancing at a small cinema in Riga with Tania Raievska, Liev Fokine's wife. We were appearing in duets and solos. I had only been at the Opera school a few months. The small stage had a decided rake and as I took enormous preparation for a pirouette I didn't realise I was so close to the orchestra pit. In the middle of the pirouette I seemed to feel myself getting nearer and nearer the footlights, so I took a tremendous leap right over the orchestra into the front stalls! I was extremely lucky not to hit anything or anybody, and the applause was thunderous. The manager offered my double salary to repeat the leap every night, but I wasn't keen on risking my neck in this way. Soon all the Opera knew about the famous leap, and my friends swore I had done it as a trick to get applause.

Ballet Crusade by Valentin Zeglovsky. 1944. Page 57.

Lydia Lopokova and Maynard Keynes

A great part of Lydia's charm for Maynard, as we have seen, was her extremely individual use of the English language, or what Keynes called 'Lydiaspeak'. Her emphases, pronunciation and unerring choice of words and phrases were a constant joy. Her friend Sokolova recalls a toast she once gave to Florrie Grenfell: 'And let us not forget dear Florrie's mother who compiled her.' After attending a wedding party she spoke of 'Jesus fomenting wine out of water at Cannes.' Having seen a hostess's famous collection of birds, she reported, 'I had tea with Lady Grey. She has an ovary which she likes to show every one.'

John Maynard Keynes: The Economist as Saviour 1920-1937 by Robert Skidelsky. 1992. Page 211.