Beyond the Dance

by Chan Hon Goh

  “Your audition has convinced us you would do well in the company,” said Lynn. “In fact, there is an immediate opening in the corps.”

  The offer did not thrill me as much as they naturally expected it to. I still had a strong interest in attending the School of American Ballet and, besides, the position was in the corps. I flew back to Vancouver, unsure of what to do. Shortly after my return, a letter arrived from Valerie Wilder. She wrote that the National Ballet of Canada was offering me a contract as a corps de ballet member beginning in the middle of June. But the letter also stated that she saw in me the potential to rise quickly through the ranks of the company. I knew that she was telling me I wouldn’t remain in the corps for long. It wasn’t a guarantee – every dancer has to prove herself over and over again – but it gave me the expectation I needed to overcome my reservations.

  So nervously, I signed the contract. I would now become a member of the National Ballet of Canada. Many new dancers to the National came up through its own school, but for me joining the company meant working with directors and ballet masters and other dancers who were all strangers to me. No longer would I have the security of studying with my father and mother, and working with dancers I had known for years at the Goh Ballet. And it meant that Che and I would be separated for a year before he could come. I would be alone in a city twice as large as Vancouver, four thousand kilometers from everything I knew.

  Was I ready? Well, I would just have to find out. I certainly felt that, once I had made up my mind to join, I was ready to do my best. Along with my fears and reservations was an even stronger determination to prove my worth. Just as the young girl had needed to show that she could do well in school, so did the suddenly grown-up woman need to prove that she could succeed. Besides, I wanted to get out of the corps. Only then would I really be able to dance.

  PHOTO GALLERY

  As Juliet in John Cranko’s Romeo and Juliet.

  With Aleksandar Antonijevie in “Diamonds” from George Balanchine’s Jewels.

  With Ryan Boorne in James Kudelka’s Cruel World.

  Living a fairy tale, from the ballroom scene of Ben Stevenson’s Cinderella.

  From James Kudelka’s The Four Seasons, the Spring pas de deux with Rex Harrington.

  With Geon van der Wyst in James Kudelka’s Swan Lake.

  As the Sylph in Erik Bruhn’s La Sylphide.

  Kitri solo in Act I of Don Quixote.

  As Cio-Cio San in Stanton Welch’s Madame Butterfly.

  As the Swan Queen in Act IV of Erik Bruhn’s Swan Lake.

  In Act I of Peter Wright’s Giselle.

  The Finale of “Diamonds” from Jewels.

  Trying to match my position with the rest of the corps.

  CHAPTER 9

  ONE OF THE CORPS

  Che accompanied me to Toronto, although he would have to return to Vancouver after two weeks to fulfill his teaching and choreographic obligations. Family friends had helped me find a condominium in Toronto’s Market Square, just two minutes away from the St. Lawrence Hall where the National rehearsed. But as the condo wasn’t ready, we had to stay for the first two weeks in an apartment hotel that the company had found for us. We arrived two days before my first work day, and our friends Flora and Chia Seng toured us around the city and took us out for dinner. I made sure to go to bed early that Sunday night so as to be ready in the morning for my first class.

  Taking class does not end for a dancer once she becomes a professional. Every work day begins with a class of an hour and fifteen minutes, in part to act as a warm-up, but also because dancers must constantly work to improve their mastery of the steps and increase their wide vocabulary of movement. So I got up and, with the television on as soothing background noise, I sat at the kitchen table while Che made me a couple of pieces of toast. Who would teach the class? I wondered, What other dancers would attend? And afterwards? I knew that the company was going to be doing the ballet Onegin, a very dramatic and emotionally complex ballet set in 19th century Russia and choreographed by John Cranko. No one had told me what minor part I was to dance or when the rehearsals would be. I hadn’t known enough to ask beforehand for a copy of the schedule.

  Sitting at the kitchen table, I suddenly began to tremble. It felt very strange, as if the blood were draining from my body. I turned to Che and said quietly, “I’m … not feeling … well.”

  He looked at me and I saw the panic on his face. “You’ve turned pale,” he said. “Are you all right?”

  “No, I don’t feel good.”

  And then everything turned white.

  The anxiety of my first day had caused me to pass out. I knew nothing more until I heard Che calling my name and felt his hand on my face. He must have carried me to the bedroom where I was now lying. How much time had passed? An hour? No, only a minute. But I felt as if I had just awoken from a wonderfully refreshing nap. I sat up, feeling absolutely fine, but poor Che was worried sick about me. “I should call an ambulance,” he said.

  I looked at the clock; it was almost nine. “I’ve got to go.”

  “You’re not going to go now!”

  “But I’m fine.” I got up from the bed, feeling brand new. I put up my hair and Che accompanied me on the subway and the short streetcar ride through the sweltering June heat to the St. Lawrence Hall. We said good-bye, Che still worried, and a secretary showed me where to change. To my surprise, the dressing room was very cramped. The other dancers were talking among themselves, but I just found a corner to myself. I went to the studio where the women’s class was being held. As I was early, I started to warm up at the barre while more people came in, none of whom I recognized.

  As frivolous Olga in Onegin, with Sally-Ann Hickin (left) and Lisa Jones (right).

  After the class, the director’s assistant called a short meeting and introduced me and three other young dancers to the rest of the company. The dancers began coming up to welcome us. From the assistant I had found out my role in Onegin – a girlfriend of Tatiana, the main character – and what my rehearsal schedule was. After class I worked with a ballet mistress, Lorna Geddes, one of the original members of the company from the early 1950s, who showed me the steps for my role. It wasn’t a difficult part, but I had some interaction with the principal female dancer, and I was happy to be in a real story ballet. The day turned out to be short and I was done by mid-afternoon, when Che met me and we began to walk home. On the way he said smiling, “Chan, stop dancing in the street,” and I realized that I was going over the steps of the choreography as we walked.

  During the next two weeks, I rehearsed more. I had some partnering in the second act of the ballet. The male dancer was also new and far less experienced than the Chinese partners I had danced with in the Goh Ballet Company. It can be frustrating to work with a partner who is hesitant or unsure about lifting or catching or supporting you, and who doesn’t give you the confidence you need to do your own best.

  Learning this first role did not change my mind about wanting to move up from the corps as soon as possible. I could see that corps dancers worked hard, sometimes even harder than the principals, and that their roles could be equally stressful. But while some dancers might be satisfied in the corps or even as a soloist – with more interesting parts but still without the responsibility of leading the company or having the success of the whole performance depend on her individual performance – I simply could not. My goal of one day becoming a principal dancer became even more unshakable, and I thought that if I did not reach the top I would be a failure. Even learning this first small role meant a great deal, because I felt that management would be watching me closely and judging whether I deserved to move up. I would have to prove myself.

  The two weeks of rehearsal were a particularly anxious and exciting time for two reasons. For me personally, everything was new. I was constantly afraid of missing a rehearsal or showing up at the wrong studio – the company had four studios in two different buildings, and it wasn’t always clear from the
schedule which dancers were in which scenes. Also, I was trying to fit into the new company, making my first tentative contact with other young dancers but still feeling lost and friendless as just one small person in a huge organization. But the whole company was also expectant; we were about to leave for a short season at Lincoln Center in New York City.

  New York was to me the dance capital of North America. It seemed a wonderful, if frightening, stroke of luck that my debut with the National Ballet of Canada should take place there. The production team and crew had to prepare the set and scenery, the costumes had to be readied, even the orchestra had to prepare. At the Goh Ballet, I was used to dancing to taped music, not the playing of real musicians. And then the day of departure arrived and I found it intimidating just to gather with the other dancers in the airport. We all stood in a loose group while the company manager called out our last names to give us our tickets. When he called out “Goh,” one of the male dancers shouted, “Goh-gone!” making everybody laugh and me blush with embarrassment. The dancer was Rex Harrington, a young principal dancer who I had decided was the best male dancer in the company and who was already partnering Karen Kain a good deal. But that was the first time he had ever directed a remark towards me.

  And so I arrived in New York – age nineteen, a dancer with the National Ballet of Canada, about to make my debut on the stage of the Metropolitan Opera House at Lincoln Center. And I was absolutely homesick. My parents and Che were back in Canada; Vancouver seemed so far away; I was surrounded by people who were supposed to be my fellow artists but were virtual strangers to me. We were scheduled to take our classes in the studios at the Met. Walking in, I saw the wonderful dancer Natalia Makarova, who was our guest artist for the season, at one end of the barre, and the spectacular ABT dancer Fernando Bujones chatting with some other dancers nearby. Of course I remembered coming to New York with my parents and my late uncle, Choo San, who had taken us backstage. How long ago that seemed! Despite my loneliness, I could not help being thrilled that my dream of dancing on the stage of the Metropolitan Opera was coming true.

  The season in New York went well for the company, and my sense that management was watching my performances must have been true. Towards the end of the week, a cast list for the company’s upcoming Ontario Place program was posted and I had been chosen to dance the first solo from La Bayadère, a role that had in fact been promised me by Valerie Wilder in her letter offering me a position in the company. Two second soloists would dance the part as well, the three of us alternating nights, as is customary. It was an exotic ballet set in India and in this scene, The Kingdom of the Shades, the prince imagines that he sees the beautiful temple dancer Nikiya, who has been murdered. He sees a row of dancers, all of whom look like Nikiya, and then three dancers in turn perform solos, each of which represents an aspect of her personality. My solo was quick and precise, with a lot of hops on pointe, the most playful and effervescent of the three. Everyone in the company was surprised by the casting and a few eyebrows went up, especially from corps dancers who had been with the National longer than I had. Their reaction was understandable, for a ballet company is a very competitive environment. On one level, the members of a company act as if they are a large family; certainly they spend as much time together as any family does. But underneath the warmth, other more difficult emotions simmer. Every dancer constantly wonders what management thinks of her dancing, and whether she will get a good role or be promoted to the next level. And the other dancers around her, who are supposed to be her friends, are also her competitors. This is just one of the many stresses that a dancer lives under every day. No wonder emotions can run high, and unhappy dancers, feeling as if they are not valued enough, sometimes decide to leave a company.

  Every year the National held free summer performances of short works and excerpts from longer ballets at Ontario Place, a waterfront park in Toronto with an outdoor theater. These shows were a way to bring attention to the upcoming fall season, acting as a public showcase for the talents and repertoire of the company. As I was soon to discover, there is almost never enough time to rehearse, and even while we were still in New York I had to begin learning my solo. My coach was Magdalena Popa, the principal ballet mistress who was responsible for rehearsing all the principal dancers and some of the soloists. After just a couple of rehearsals she picked up on the same weaknesses that my father had been trying to correct in me and that I always had to be reminded about. In any company a dancer is at the mercy of a coach, who can choose how much she wants to give, and I am thankful for Magdalena’s help in making me a better dancer. Later Magdalena would guide me through virtually every major role I performed with the company.

  We returned to Toronto. Besides the solo, I had a corps de ballet role to perform in La Bayadère in the shows when another dancer had the solo. Most of the other seventeen dancers already knew the corps choreography so the second soloist taught it to me. I had a difficult time in rehearsals using my peripheral vision to match my own placement – a little too much to one side or another would ruin the pattern – within the line of dancers. Nor did I like having to worry about, say, placing my hand at the same level every time to be in exact coordination with the others. Dancers who had come up through the National Ballet School would have had some corps training, but I had done more solo and pas de deux work instead. I kept thinking, How am I supposed to dance well if I have to worry about such things? To me it felt like dancing in a cage. So all the time that I was trying hard to fit in, deep down I felt that this was not what dancing meant to me.

  During the week before Ontario Place, I came down with what I thought was the flu, my stomach in such turmoil that I could hardly keep down food. I began to feel weak and dehydrated. Only later did I realize that it was nerves.

  The night of the first performance came. We warmed up on the open-air stage while families that had come early laid out their picnic meals on the grass. Kids with posters shyly approached Karen Kain for autographs. The informal setting took a little of the pressure off, but I could still feel my own excitement building at the thought of performing in the National’s home town – my own new home. Before long the surrounding slopes were crowded with people, among them my parents, who had flown in from Vancouver to see me.

  My solo came off well. Afterwards, my parents came up to congratulate me. My flu symptoms had mysteriously disappeared, and I said to them, “Let’s go out to eat. I’m famished.”

  During my first year in the company, I learned a great deal by watching. Whenever I could, I watched the principals rehearse and take class, admiring Karen Kain’s beautiful footwork and musicality, Veronica Tennant’s acting ability, Yoko Ichino’s strong technique and coordination, and Kimberly Glasco’s beautiful ballerina quality It seemed to me that all the prima ballerinas breathed a purer air. I watched the men too – Frank Augustyn, Rex Harrington, Raymond Smith, Gregory Osborne, and Owen Montague – and saw how individual were their styles.

  Happily signing autographs at a Ballet by the Water performance.

  In some dance companies there is an overly competitive, “glass-in – your-pointe-shoe” attitude among the members. But at the National the other dancers were mostly friendly and helpful. During my first fall season we toured the Maritime provinces, and I came across Karen Kain in the change room of the hotel gym. She said to me, “I just want to tell you that everything you’re doing on stage and in class is so right. It’s wonderful to see, and don’t ever lose it.” I was grateful for her words, not just for the encouragement but because of how lost I was still feeling. The company still felt like a massive organization and I just one small dancer, and I couldn’t help contrasting the feeling with the individual attention that all of us had received as part of the Goh Ballet Company. Perhaps it was because of feeling so close to my family – along with my upbringing with its values of politeness and modesty, and my own natural shyness – but I had real trouble making close friends or feeling as if I belonged to a group. Touring was
particularly difficult for me, because I often felt alone and even dreaded the days off when I rarely knew what to do with myself.

  As for the dancing, we were doing a mixed program and I had both demi-soloist and corps work to do. The only real unfriendliness I encountered was with the older corps dancers, twenty-five or twenty-six years old, who had been with the company for a few years but were not being given any solos. As a result of their own frustrations, they couldn’t help being a little impatient with me as I learned the corps work. And despite my difficulty in matching the other dancers, I found the steps themselves technically unchallenging and too often more mechanical than artistic. Corps members don’t get individual coaching, and I had always liked one-on-one attention from a teacher to refine my technique and style. After a while I began to worry that my technique was slipping. And how does an ambitious young dancer stand out in the corps when the whole object is to blend in? How could management see my potential and give me more solo work?

  When I joined the National, the company had been searching for a new artistic director for some time. I did not think about how important the choice would be for me and all the other dancers, but the simple truth is that any dancer’s career is in the palm of the director’s hand. Large ballet companies are run in a traditional manner – the artistic director is like a king who makes decrees and hands them to the dancers. He decides, sometimes in consultation with other members of the artistic staff, not only the repertoire but also which dancers will dance which parts. We dancers have little if any choice in the matter. I am not against this approach; an artistic director with a strong vision can make a great company. But any dancer needs to feel that the director understands and appreciates her talent.