Serge Nikolayvich Grigoriev

He was Diaghilev's right hand and, from what I have seen of him, I should say that no man was better served. His responsibilities were so vast and so all-embracing as to be almost illimitable. It may be said that short of actually composing the choreography of a ballet, he was responsible for the efficiency and smooth running of all future performances, once the details had been determined.

. . . .

He kept a watchful eye on the company's wardrobe, decided whether such and such a costume should be replaced or repaired, and to what extent, whether new embroidery or stage jewellery were to be purchased, or whether what was required could be adapted from a certain costume in store. He exercised a very strict economy upon all such expenditure and would not sanction the outlay of a shilling unless he deemed it necessary.

I remember just before a performance of L'Apres Midi d'un Faune, Mme. Chamie, who was one of the nymphs, approached Grigoriev with the entreaty that she might have a new costume.

"It is so ragged that I shall soon appear naked," she declared.

Grigoriev gave a swift glance at the costume and, turning away, observed:

"That will be charming, madam."

Diaghilev Ballet in London: a personal record by Cyril W Beaumont. 1940. Pages 238, 239-40.

Diaghilev and lighting

Another evening there would be a lighting rehearsal. I remember how thrilled I was when the curtain went up on the setting for the first scene, with its suggestion of the Palace of Versailles. Here was true grandeur and magnificence, without vulgarity or ostentation. Then began the business of lighting. Diaghilev would remain hunched in his seat with an electrician to relay his instructions to the stage, first, pink in this flood, amber in that, then the whole "washed" with white. He would spend hour after hour dimming this, "bringing up" that, until he was satisfied and the weary light-men could plot the lighting. Even then he would have the curtain lowered and, after a few minutes' interval to banish the memory of the lighting from his mind, would order the curtain to be raised again so that he might judge how the effect appealed to him, when revealed afresh.

Those who had never been present at one of Diaghilev's lighting rehearsals did not know what they were in for. The rehearsals went on half the night if need be. At such times he cared nothing for the mounting cost of overtime, the passing of the hours, or the fact that he had not eaten for a long period. If the men showed signs of revolt, he would grant a ten or fifteen minutes' rest interval. As soon as the interval was up, he would utter a curt, "Continuez, s'il vous plait". The men would glare and curse under their breath, but they did his bidding.

Diaghilev Ballet in London: a personal record by Cyril W Beaumont. 1940. Pages 195-6.

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.