To most balletgoers, the aristocratic foot of the dancer is the distinguishing feature of classical ballet. Strong and supple, and as sensitive as a hand, the foot is used by the dancer in a manner that, to the eye of the observer, departs distinctly from the ordinary mechanics of movement.
To a dancer the feet are servants of the first rank. Like the tiny feeder roots of a tall strong tree, on which the health and well-being of every leaf and branch depend, the feet are a source not only of strength and support, but also of propulsion and shock absorption and, most importantly, of perception. Sensations relayed from the foot inform the rest of the body of the level of its support, its trajectory, its orientation to space, and countless subtleties that are reflected instantly in every movement. It is no exaggeration to say that the quality of a dancer's movement is directly related to the level of sensitivity in the use of the feet.
Inside Ballet Technique: separating anatomical fact from fiction in the ballet class by Valerie Grieg. 1994. Page 95.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Friday, August 6, 2010
Arthur Saint -Léon's last years
So Saint-Léon came back to Paris in 1870 to savour his last and greatest triumph, Coppélia, which was created at the Opéra at the end of May. No doubt he, and others too, looked forward to a long and fruitful association with the Opéra, but that was not to be. For some years his health had been disintegrating, and it was a miracle that in his physical condition he could still produce a masterpiece so light-hearted and charming. In his younger days he had enjoyed good health, suffering only from minor ailments such as rheumatism, for which he took the waters at Bath in 1847, and this had given him more than a fair share of energy. As well as dancing and devising ballets, he concerned himself with all details of the production as well as musical matters, he coached his ballerinas, and he was capable of managing his own company. If he grumbled about his "position of a galley slave", it was his life and he would surely have had it no other way. But in 1866, exhausted by the demands made on him in Russia and frustrated at being unable to supervise the final rehearsals of La Source in Paris, his health began to fail. It was a moral as well as a physical crisis. "How I loathe my profession," he confessed to Nuitter. Assailed by rheumatism, headaches and stomach trouble, he began to find his duties a burden. By the winter of 1868-69 he was enduring "unbelievable pain" from "a complicated disease of the kidneys and the intestines," and for two and a half months he was able to sleep only for short periods crouched up in an armchair. Depression and fatigue took a heavy toll, and in the last summer of his life, 1870, he was a man grown old before his time.
Two weeks after the first night of Coppélia he went, on doctor's advice, to Wiesbaden to take the waters. The Franco-Prussian War broke out shortly after his return to Paris, and as the time for his return to St. Petersburg approached, news of heavy defeats and withdrawals was reaching Paris. The end came with merciful suddenness. He collapsed with a heart attack in the Café du Divan, in the Passaage de l'Opéra, on the evening of 2nd September 1870, and was dead before his friends could bring him back to his home in the rue de Laval, where he lived with Louise Fleury.
It was the end of an era in more sense than one. The Opéra had just closed for the duration of the war, and would not reopen until the following year, after France's defeat, the fall of the Second Empire, and the holocaust of the Commune. The great flowering of ballet, which had reached its peak under the influence of Romanticism in the 1830s and 1840s but had continued, with diminishing strength, until 1870, had passed. The repertory of those years was to disappear as its ballets, with only one exception, were forgotten. The exception was Coppélia, which has survived to enchant us still, one of the last brilliant flames of the Second Empire, reflecting all the confident gaiety of that vanished age, and a lively and fitting memorial to its creator, Arthur Saint-Léon.
from the introduction to Letters from a Ballet-Master: The Correspondence of Arthur Saint-Léon edited by Ivor Guest. 1981. Pages 33-5.
Two weeks after the first night of Coppélia he went, on doctor's advice, to Wiesbaden to take the waters. The Franco-Prussian War broke out shortly after his return to Paris, and as the time for his return to St. Petersburg approached, news of heavy defeats and withdrawals was reaching Paris. The end came with merciful suddenness. He collapsed with a heart attack in the Café du Divan, in the Passaage de l'Opéra, on the evening of 2nd September 1870, and was dead before his friends could bring him back to his home in the rue de Laval, where he lived with Louise Fleury.
It was the end of an era in more sense than one. The Opéra had just closed for the duration of the war, and would not reopen until the following year, after France's defeat, the fall of the Second Empire, and the holocaust of the Commune. The great flowering of ballet, which had reached its peak under the influence of Romanticism in the 1830s and 1840s but had continued, with diminishing strength, until 1870, had passed. The repertory of those years was to disappear as its ballets, with only one exception, were forgotten. The exception was Coppélia, which has survived to enchant us still, one of the last brilliant flames of the Second Empire, reflecting all the confident gaiety of that vanished age, and a lively and fitting memorial to its creator, Arthur Saint-Léon.
from the introduction to Letters from a Ballet-Master: The Correspondence of Arthur Saint-Léon edited by Ivor Guest. 1981. Pages 33-5.
Darcey Bussell on Conductors
One of the hard things about dancing -- particularly in classical ballets -- is that the performance doesn't just depend on us, the dancers. Conductors especially can affect us because they determine the speed of the music, and if they hear it differently from us it can throw our whole performance.
When we have a conductor like Victor Fedotov guesting from the Kirov it's a great luxury because he takes his speeds from the dancers, unlike many conductors over here who don't adjust their tempi at all -- they play the music as they would a concert score. In Russia dancers seem to wield more power though, so conductors like Fedotov will speed up or slow down the orchestra to suit the dancing.
When we work with him it's wonderful to get so much attention, but it can be unnerving. At first I couldn't get used to the way he'd virtually stop the orchestra whenever I took a balance, and wait for me to come down before he started up again. Because I'm so used to having to keep time with the orchestra I kept on balancing longer and longer as he slowed down, and both the music and I nearly ground to a halt.
Since most Opera House conductors don't indulge us in the same way we have to adjust our speeds to them. It's fine if everyone's rehearsed together but if a new conductor comes in or there hasn't been enough preparation time then the music may be played at an alarmingly different speed from the way we've rehearsed it. It's a terrible feeling -- you're being forced off the music and you can't do the steps properly. Dancers often come off the stage in tears because the conductor has spoilt their show. Being tall, I generally prefer conductors to take speeds slightly slow. If the music goes too fast I can't always fit in the steps and I'm in danger of tripping over myself. If it goes too slow I can always save something, I can always pull a phrase out longer -- except of course when I'm jumping. I can't actually fly.
Life in Dance by Darcey Bussell. 1999. Pages 66-7.
When we have a conductor like Victor Fedotov guesting from the Kirov it's a great luxury because he takes his speeds from the dancers, unlike many conductors over here who don't adjust their tempi at all -- they play the music as they would a concert score. In Russia dancers seem to wield more power though, so conductors like Fedotov will speed up or slow down the orchestra to suit the dancing.
When we work with him it's wonderful to get so much attention, but it can be unnerving. At first I couldn't get used to the way he'd virtually stop the orchestra whenever I took a balance, and wait for me to come down before he started up again. Because I'm so used to having to keep time with the orchestra I kept on balancing longer and longer as he slowed down, and both the music and I nearly ground to a halt.
Since most Opera House conductors don't indulge us in the same way we have to adjust our speeds to them. It's fine if everyone's rehearsed together but if a new conductor comes in or there hasn't been enough preparation time then the music may be played at an alarmingly different speed from the way we've rehearsed it. It's a terrible feeling -- you're being forced off the music and you can't do the steps properly. Dancers often come off the stage in tears because the conductor has spoilt their show. Being tall, I generally prefer conductors to take speeds slightly slow. If the music goes too fast I can't always fit in the steps and I'm in danger of tripping over myself. If it goes too slow I can always save something, I can always pull a phrase out longer -- except of course when I'm jumping. I can't actually fly.
Life in Dance by Darcey Bussell. 1999. Pages 66-7.
Diaghilev conquers Paris
One truly beautiful day I had a visit from Diaghilev, who asked me if I would come to Paris with him, where he was planning to organize a number of symphony concerts, in order to acquaint the French public with Russian music and its historical development. I agreed to take part in them since I knew how interested Europe was in Russian works. I was most enthusiastic about his idea. This for me was a new adventure, and I looked forward to it very much.
When we reached Paris I took up residence in the same hotel as Diaghilev. I soon understood that what we had embarked upon was work of the greatest importance, and everybody concerned was throwing heart and soul into the task. I will say this, that there was more life humming round Diaghilev than in all the streets of Paris. He told me that there was such an enormous interest in the forthcoming concerts that even the Grand Opera House would not hold the thousands who were already clamouring for tickets. He said that Rimsky-Korsakov, Rachmaninov, Scriabin, and many other composers would be taking part in the concerts, and that Rimsky-Korsakov, Blumenfeld, and Nikish were to conduct.
We began the first concert with the first act from Russlan and Ludmilla, and it was very well received. I myself sang excerpts from Sadko, Prince Igor, and Boris Godunov, as well as a number of ballads with pianoforte accompaniment. The French are erroneously considered to be frivolous, but they were very much drawn to us, liking particularly the Mussorgsky music, and spoke of this composer with great enthusiasm. The concerts were so successful that it gave us the idea of bringing Russian opera to France the following season. And this we did.
The mere announcement that Diaghilev was putting on Boris Godunov was sufficient news for the Parisians to acclaim it as a gala season. I shall never forget what feeling, what electrifying energy, the chorus and orchestra of the Grand Opera put into their work. It was simply wonderful. We produced the work in full, something quite impossible in Russia owing to the censorship. The work was most impressive, and in all my twenty-five years in the theatre I have never witnessed such a magnificent production.
Chaliapin: an autobiography as told to Maxim Gorky. 1967. Page 164.
When we reached Paris I took up residence in the same hotel as Diaghilev. I soon understood that what we had embarked upon was work of the greatest importance, and everybody concerned was throwing heart and soul into the task. I will say this, that there was more life humming round Diaghilev than in all the streets of Paris. He told me that there was such an enormous interest in the forthcoming concerts that even the Grand Opera House would not hold the thousands who were already clamouring for tickets. He said that Rimsky-Korsakov, Rachmaninov, Scriabin, and many other composers would be taking part in the concerts, and that Rimsky-Korsakov, Blumenfeld, and Nikish were to conduct.
We began the first concert with the first act from Russlan and Ludmilla, and it was very well received. I myself sang excerpts from Sadko, Prince Igor, and Boris Godunov, as well as a number of ballads with pianoforte accompaniment. The French are erroneously considered to be frivolous, but they were very much drawn to us, liking particularly the Mussorgsky music, and spoke of this composer with great enthusiasm. The concerts were so successful that it gave us the idea of bringing Russian opera to France the following season. And this we did.
The mere announcement that Diaghilev was putting on Boris Godunov was sufficient news for the Parisians to acclaim it as a gala season. I shall never forget what feeling, what electrifying energy, the chorus and orchestra of the Grand Opera put into their work. It was simply wonderful. We produced the work in full, something quite impossible in Russia owing to the censorship. The work was most impressive, and in all my twenty-five years in the theatre I have never witnessed such a magnificent production.
Chaliapin: an autobiography as told to Maxim Gorky. 1967. Page 164.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Michel Fokine -- Letter,"The Times", 6th July 1914
The Five Principles [of the New Ballet]
Not to form combinations of ready-made and established dance-steps, but to create in each case a new form corresponding to the subject, the most expressive form possible for the representation of the period and the character of the nation represented -- that is the first rule of the new ballet.
The second rule is that dancing and mimetic gesture have no meaning in a ballet unless they serve as an expression of its dramatic action, and they must not be used as a mere divertissement or entertainment, having no connection with the scheme of the whole ballet.
The third rule is that the new ballet admits the use of conventional gesture only where it is required by the style of the ballet, and in all other cases endeavours to replace gestures of the hands by memetic of the whole body. Man can be and should be expressive from head to foot.
The fourth rule is the expressiveness of groups and of ensemble dancing. In the older ballet the dancers were ranged in groups only for the purpose of ornament, and the ballet-master was not concerned with the expression of any sentiment in groups of characters or in ensemble dances. The new ballet, on the other hand, in developing the principle of expressiveness, advances from the expressiveness of the face to the expressiveness of the whole body, and from the expressiveness of the individual body to the expressiveness of a group of bodies and the expressiveness of the combined dancing of a crowd.
The fifth rule is the alliance of dancing with other arts. The new ballet, refusing to be the slave either of music or of scenic decoration, and recognizing the alliance of the arts only on the condition of complete equality, allows perfect freedom both to the scenic artist and to the musician. In contradistinction to the older ballet it does not demand "ballet music" of the composer as an accompaniment to dancing; it accepts music of every kind, provided only that it is good and expressive. It does not demand of the scenic artist that he should array the ballerinas in short skirts and pink slippers. It does not impose any specific "ballet" conditions on the composer or the decorative artist, but gives complete liberty to their creative powers.
These are the chief rules of the new ballet.
Michel Fokine and his ballets by Cyril W. Beaumont. 1953. Pages 146-7.
Not to form combinations of ready-made and established dance-steps, but to create in each case a new form corresponding to the subject, the most expressive form possible for the representation of the period and the character of the nation represented -- that is the first rule of the new ballet.
The second rule is that dancing and mimetic gesture have no meaning in a ballet unless they serve as an expression of its dramatic action, and they must not be used as a mere divertissement or entertainment, having no connection with the scheme of the whole ballet.
The third rule is that the new ballet admits the use of conventional gesture only where it is required by the style of the ballet, and in all other cases endeavours to replace gestures of the hands by memetic of the whole body. Man can be and should be expressive from head to foot.
The fourth rule is the expressiveness of groups and of ensemble dancing. In the older ballet the dancers were ranged in groups only for the purpose of ornament, and the ballet-master was not concerned with the expression of any sentiment in groups of characters or in ensemble dances. The new ballet, on the other hand, in developing the principle of expressiveness, advances from the expressiveness of the face to the expressiveness of the whole body, and from the expressiveness of the individual body to the expressiveness of a group of bodies and the expressiveness of the combined dancing of a crowd.
The fifth rule is the alliance of dancing with other arts. The new ballet, refusing to be the slave either of music or of scenic decoration, and recognizing the alliance of the arts only on the condition of complete equality, allows perfect freedom both to the scenic artist and to the musician. In contradistinction to the older ballet it does not demand "ballet music" of the composer as an accompaniment to dancing; it accepts music of every kind, provided only that it is good and expressive. It does not demand of the scenic artist that he should array the ballerinas in short skirts and pink slippers. It does not impose any specific "ballet" conditions on the composer or the decorative artist, but gives complete liberty to their creative powers.
These are the chief rules of the new ballet.
Michel Fokine and his ballets by Cyril W. Beaumont. 1953. Pages 146-7.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Ninette de Valois's memories of leaving her childhood home in Ireland
As a ripple on a quiet stream, we children began to realize that life was preparing a big change for us. Our parents and grandmother spoke more often of England; we began to hear something of the needs of big houses, and the necessity of only rich people living in them. Servants threw out hints, the younger ones spoke of emigration and the older ones were seen to weep.
A day arrived one very early spring when the last trunks were strapped and we were bidden to say our special good-byes. We were taken down the avenue to visit Mrs. Roberts, the lodge keeper's wife; she followed us as we returned to the house, crying as if her heart would break and raising her white apron to cover her face; for her grief was pagan in its stark simplicity and too immense for the duties of a pocket handkerchief.
I have one more clear-cut vision to recall of that strange day. I can recall it with all its undiminished and astonished sadness, for children can be astonished to find themselves sad. Change, with all its confusing upheaval, is thrust on them and in such events they play no particular part.
I was left standing midst the bustle of departure, at the window of our old nursery. My eyes looked on the lawns and paths of those gardens that I would play in no more. On that early gentle day in spring the sun was already making long shadows. A gardener was cutting a long strip of turf near the top of the centre lawn; slowly and quietly it was rolled. I watched, weighed down with an unhappiness that I could not analyse; I found myself thinking that the turf resembled nothing more than a gigantic green Swiss roll. I knew suddenly that never again, when such things happened to change the visual outlook of the gardens, would I be able to await the why and wherefore of it all, for the great sea was to come between us and the end of the Swiss roll would be someone else's concern.
I did not cry, nor did I ask any questions as to when we might be coming back; I knew the truth and I wanted no comforting grown-up lies. There and then I deliberately tore my heart out and left it, as it were, on the nursery window-sill.
Come dance with me: a memoir, 1898-1956 by Ninette de Valois. 1957. Pages 17-8.
A day arrived one very early spring when the last trunks were strapped and we were bidden to say our special good-byes. We were taken down the avenue to visit Mrs. Roberts, the lodge keeper's wife; she followed us as we returned to the house, crying as if her heart would break and raising her white apron to cover her face; for her grief was pagan in its stark simplicity and too immense for the duties of a pocket handkerchief.
I have one more clear-cut vision to recall of that strange day. I can recall it with all its undiminished and astonished sadness, for children can be astonished to find themselves sad. Change, with all its confusing upheaval, is thrust on them and in such events they play no particular part.
I was left standing midst the bustle of departure, at the window of our old nursery. My eyes looked on the lawns and paths of those gardens that I would play in no more. On that early gentle day in spring the sun was already making long shadows. A gardener was cutting a long strip of turf near the top of the centre lawn; slowly and quietly it was rolled. I watched, weighed down with an unhappiness that I could not analyse; I found myself thinking that the turf resembled nothing more than a gigantic green Swiss roll. I knew suddenly that never again, when such things happened to change the visual outlook of the gardens, would I be able to await the why and wherefore of it all, for the great sea was to come between us and the end of the Swiss roll would be someone else's concern.
I did not cry, nor did I ask any questions as to when we might be coming back; I knew the truth and I wanted no comforting grown-up lies. There and then I deliberately tore my heart out and left it, as it were, on the nursery window-sill.
Come dance with me: a memoir, 1898-1956 by Ninette de Valois. 1957. Pages 17-8.
Monday, July 26, 2010
Fokine's early ideas about ballet
At the time I had no idea that I would stage ballets someday myself. But the idea that the ballets should be staged differently from the way they were presented at the time took a firm hold of my mind. I mailed my libretto of "Daphnis and Chloe" to the Director of the Imperial Theater, Vladimir Arkadievich Teliakovsky, with an accompanying introduction. My main thoughts, described in this introduction -- what I could consider as my suggestions for ballet reforms -- consisted of the following:
The ballet should be stage in conformity with the epoch represented.
The dance pantomime and gestures should not be of the conventional style established in the old ballet "once and for all," but should be of a kind that best fits the style of the period. The costumes also should not be of the established ballet style (short tarlatan tutus) but be consistent with the plot. In this particular ballet, "Daphnis and Chloe," the costumes for the girls should consist of light tunics -- draped clothes such as were worn in Rome and in ancient Greece. The footwear should match the costume in its authenticity, and copies from ancient Greek life. There should be no ballet shoes, but soft sandals, or the dancers should appear barefoot.
The ballet must be uninterrupted -- a complete artistic creation and not a series of separate numbers.
In the interests of retaining the scenic illusion, the action must not be interrupted with applause and its acknowledgment by the artists.
The music should not consist of waltzes, polkas, and final galops -- indispensable in the old ballet -- but must express the story of the ballet and, primarily, its emotional content.
After receiving my libretto and suggestions for reforms, the Directors manifested no reaction to them, and probably forgot about my ballet and my plans.
Fokine, memoirs of a ballet master by Michel Fokine. 1961. Pages 71-2.
The ballet should be stage in conformity with the epoch represented.
The dance pantomime and gestures should not be of the conventional style established in the old ballet "once and for all," but should be of a kind that best fits the style of the period. The costumes also should not be of the established ballet style (short tarlatan tutus) but be consistent with the plot. In this particular ballet, "Daphnis and Chloe," the costumes for the girls should consist of light tunics -- draped clothes such as were worn in Rome and in ancient Greece. The footwear should match the costume in its authenticity, and copies from ancient Greek life. There should be no ballet shoes, but soft sandals, or the dancers should appear barefoot.
The ballet must be uninterrupted -- a complete artistic creation and not a series of separate numbers.
In the interests of retaining the scenic illusion, the action must not be interrupted with applause and its acknowledgment by the artists.
The music should not consist of waltzes, polkas, and final galops -- indispensable in the old ballet -- but must express the story of the ballet and, primarily, its emotional content.
After receiving my libretto and suggestions for reforms, the Directors manifested no reaction to them, and probably forgot about my ballet and my plans.
Fokine, memoirs of a ballet master by Michel Fokine. 1961. Pages 71-2.
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