Irina Baronova.on Learning Swan Lake - 1933

Halfway through our season, Danilova became sick. The morning she informed Colonel de Basil she would have to take a few days off, he came in towards the end of our class and I observed him in earnest discussion with Papa Grigoriev by the side of the stage. The class over, they asked David Lichine and me to join them. Colonel de Basil told us that Danilova was indisposed, that the program was set for that week and could not be changed, and that he was asking me to help out and dance Swan Lake the next night.

'You must know it pretty well,' said Papa Grigoriev. 'You've watched every rehearsal and every performance.'

'Yes, but I've never rehearsed it.'

'David will rehearse with you all day today and tomorrow. So, will you do it?'

What a challenge! By now my mother had joined us, to discover what this little conference was about. Lichine stood in silence all this time, looking at the floor, but then all hell suddenly broke loose! David started screaming that he would not dance Swan Lake with someone only 'three inches higher than a chamber pot' (a Russian expression used to slap down a cocky youngster). I was only fourteen, but his comment was unfair. I burst into tears, Mama started screaming at Lichine, Colonel de Basil tried to pacify everyone, and Papa Grigoriev offered me his hanky.

At that moment Anton Dolin appeared -- at what must have looked and sounded like a Turkish bazaar. He approached us and asked what the matter was, so Colonel de Basil explained the situation. Dolin, looking Lichine up and down, exclaimed, 'I never heard such nonsense! I'll dance with Irina myself.'

Everyone looked happy except Lichine. I was overflowing with gratitude for Dolin's generosity, After his vote of confidence, I could not refuse the challenge. It was settled -- I was to dance Swan Lake the next night.

Dolin took me to his studio, having phoned ahead to ask his pianist to meet us there. We rehearsed all day. His partnering was a wonderful new experience -- he made it all so easy and let me into the 'secrets of the trade', as he laughingly called them. I was learning far more than just Swan Lake.

Irina by Irina Baronova. 2005. Pages 108-9.

Mukhamedov's audition at the Bolshoi -- 1970

And so to the final and most crucial test: an assessment of his musicality and his basic potential to be a dancer.

Yet again, ten o'clock in the foyer and another hour's wait, then follow the clipboard up two flights of stairs and change into trunks and singlet with nine young colleagues. Out of the changing-room, along the passage and back into the brightly lit ballet studio to face Golovkina. This time the boys all knew their fates would be sealed before they bowed farewell to her.

Golovkina's secretary asked each one what they would dance, and which piece of music they would require the pianist to play. Irek had prepared a solo, 'Chapaevtsi', to a traditional tune and confidently told the secretary so. He could scarcely believe his ears when he was informed that the pianist could not play it. 'Can you manage without music?' he was asked. 'No,' he mumbled in reply. 'Then you will have to dance to one of the tunes we are going to play,' they said.

Irek sat and waited his turn in a sweat of fear. He knew he could do 'Chapaevtsi', and do it well; everyone had told him so. He had never improvised, certainly not in public, since his five-year-old capers in hospital. What would he do? What would happen when they called his name?

One by one the boys were called to the piano to clap, run and jump in time to different rhythms, then to dance their solos. Luckily for Irek, they nearly all chose to dance to the same piece of music, a folk tune adapted by the composer Gliere from his ballet Red Poppy, called 'Yablochko, the sailor's dance.

Now it came to Irek, still in a state of shock. For him keeping time to changing rhythms was instinctive, achieved through feeling, not thought. The solo, though, was another matter. The music started, so he had to do something. The panic-stricken boy somehow managed to string together the steps he had watched the other boys do, improvising sequences he had desperately memorised as he waited his turn.

He sat down white and shaking. His first and most crucial audition, he felt, had been a fiasco. Rasheda, when he finally made it back downstairs to tell her the news, agreed. What a disaster!

They hardly considered it worth returning the next day to study the list of successful entrants, but they did. Which was just as well, because Irek Mukhamedov had won one of the eighty places on offer and was therefore accepted as a pupil of the Moscow Ballet School and would start his studies in September.

Anatoly Yelagin, Irek's first teacher at the school, was a member of the auditioning commission, and picked him out almost at once. 'He was a little boy, not very tall. When he came into the audition, he sat quietly on the chair and almost against my will I found myself looking at him. He made a very clear visual impression on me. He was a quiet and very balanced little boy.

'It's not possible to say that he had very good feet, and his build was slightly stocky, but when we asked him to dance something, they played the music and he improvised, and he danced so well that we said, "Yes, he must study with us."'

Irek Mukhamedov by Jeffery Taylor. 1994. Pages 16-17.

The Tsar and Sleeping Beauty

Modelled, albeit loosely, on French courtly entertainments of the seventeenth century, Sleeping Beauty may be interpreted as an apostrophe to the reigning monarch, expressed through the analogy of Florestan/Louis XIV. There are hints of magnanimity in the King's forgiving the misdeeds of his subjects, and he weathers the tribulations of destiny to emerge at the end having fulfilled his original task. One presumes that some such objective motivated Vsevolozhsky, the experienced courtier, in the choice of time and setting. And the ballet is filled with glorifications of the King, though if the Director truly sought to reproduce in some way the theatre of Louis XIV, there is surely something amiss in this portrayal: Lully and his collaborators forbade the inclusion of anything not flattering to Louis XIV. Vsevolozhsky's Florestan has an incompetent Master of Ceremonies and cannot even make sure that the laws of his kindgom are obeyed -- extraordinary breaches of etiquette if such a parallel were intended (especially considering how much of Russia was under martial law during Alexander Ill's reign). The Tsar, who reacted coolly to the new work, may well have thought that if Sleeping Beauty were somehow an allegory of his realm it was uncomplimentary, if not wholly undeserved.


Tchaikovsky's Ballets by Roland John Wiley. 1991. Page 149.

The dance master's kit

The kit, otherwise known as the pochette (Fr. small pocket or small fiddle), or sordine (It. mute), was a pocket-size violin widely used in Europe by dance masters during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Praetorius refers to the instrument as a gar kleinen Geiglein mit dry Siiiten bezogen, off Franzosiscli Pochetto genant (very small violin with three strings, often called the French pochetto) and illustrates two examples, one shaped like a medieval rebec and the other like a narrow boat, that are captioned kleine Poschen/Geigen ein Octav hoher (small pochettes/violins an octave higher). Mersenne refers to the instrument as la Poche (the pocket) and depicts a boat-shaped version fitted with four strings with the lowest string tuned to G.
Because of the kit's slender shape, a dancing master could slip it into his jacket or waistcoat pocket while demonstrating a step and then quickly withdraw it to play a tune. They were made in a variety of shapes, like that of a boat, medieval rebec, miniature viol, viol, or viola d'amore, the latter equipped with sympathetic strings. Because the kit was the essential accouterment of court dance masters, they were often made of exotic woods, ivory, or tortoiseshell, and had elaborately carved heads, festooned outlines, and staved backs. They were equipped with short bows and often tooled leather cases. Despite the efforts lavished on their appearance, kits produced a muted sound.


Stradivari by Stewart Pollens.  2010.  Page 136.

An Ambassador's memory of Mathilde Kschessinska -- 1916

Thursday, April 27, 1916.

This evening, at the Marie Theatre, Tchechinskaïa was dancing Gisela and Paquita, masterpieces of old-time choreography, the conventional and acrobatic art in which the genius of the Fanny Elsslers and Taglionis once triumphed. The archaic character of the two ballets is heightened by the defects and qualities of the principal interpreter. Tchechinskaïa is entirely without charm, feeling or poetry; but her formal and cold style, the tireless vigour of her pivoting, the mechanical precision of her entrechats and the giddy agility of her pirouettes make all the enthusiasts wild with delight.

During the last interval I spent a few minutes in the box of the director of the imperial theatres, Teliakovsky, where the prowess of Tchechinskaïa and her partner, Vladimirov, was being celebrated in terms of rhapsody. An old aide-de-camp of the Emperor said to me with a subtle smile:

"Our enthusiasm may seem somewhat exaggerated to you, Ambassador; but Tchechinskaïa's art represents to us, or at any rate men of my age, something that you don't perhaps see."

"What's that? " He offered me a cigarette, and continued in a melancholy tone:

"The old ballets, which were the joy of my youth -- somewhere about 1875, in the reign of our dear Emperor Alexander II., alas! -- presented us with a very close picture of what Russian society was, and ought to be. Order, punctiliousness, symmetry, work well done everywhere; the result of which was refined enjoyment and pleasure in perfect taste. Whereas these horrible modern ballets -- Russian ballets, as you call them in Paris -- a dissolute and poisoned art -- why, they're revolution, anarchy ! . . ."

An Ambassador's Memoirs by Maurice Paléologue. 1923-5. Vol 2. Page 242.

The pressure of performing live -- Deborah Bull

. . . the way a dancer feels as she steps out, alone, on an empty stage. That moment of no return – familiar to me from two decades spent dancing – when years of struggle and physical endeavour combine at a deadline that cannot be deferred; that sense of the world waiting to see whether you really can do it, well-wishers leaning in, eyes alight with hope, naysayers resting on their heels, arms folded across chests and knowing glances exchanged.

Harnessing the learning from years of failure to a single goal and summoning every ounce of emotional courage to dance the first step; the faltering start and then the gradual cresting of the wave as you realise you can do it – you’re doing it – and hardly daring to believe it lest the spell is broken; and then the moment of silence that follows your final flourish, launching a crescendo of applause which, however loud, can never compete with the roaring emotions in your head as the doubts, the hopes and years of wanting spin like the reels on a slot machine before they finally come to rest, three golden bars lined up in a row. You’ve hit the jackpot. You did it.

"The Truth About Ballet" by Deborah Bull in The Telegraph. (Wednesday 26 January 2011).  Full article.

Henning Kronstam and musicality

Every dancer who worked with Kronstam mentions his extraordinarily sensitive musicality. Kronstam was not a musician; his musical training consisted of those two years of piano lessons in childhood. However, he had an instinctive sense of both rhythm and melody. Julian Thurber, one of the company's rehearsal pianists who played for Kronstam for more than twenty years (and with his wife, Ingryd Thorson, also a rehearsal pianist, is a concert musician in his own right) described one aspect of Kronstam's musicality: "There's a connection between breath and dance. You can dance with a fixed diaphragm, where you sort of hop around, and probably do it all right, but where nothing happens, or you can dance with a free diaphragm, where certain things happen, and where you remain up in the air for longer periods, and where certain movements suddenly become worth something. That is the breath, and that breath is also a musical thing. He would choose slow tempi to work with until he got the breath inside the movement, and then he would work it." Thorson spoke of Kronstam's way of responding to music and how this was linked to the action in a dramatic ballet. "He pulls the tempi back when you're rehearsing with him. Where James first feels the Sylph coming in the window, Henning hears the music and responds to that, so it's like the music comes first, and then the response comes, and then the feeling that something is there, and then he moves. He doesn't move on the music, which normally people do. It's a response."

Many Danish dancers refer to this as "dancing through the music." Lis Jeppesen described it as a natural rather than regimented musicality: "The whole corps doesn't have to be on the beat, like soldiers," and added: "In one sense, it is singing the dance. You have to hear the music, and what is the soul of the music and what is the melody. And then you have to transfer the melody to your movements. The other thing you do is to extend the movement out as long as you can before you go further, and that is the phrasing."

Henning Kronstam: Portrait of a Danish Dancer by Alexandra Tomalonis. (2002). Pages 453-4.