One of the few people I vaguely knew there, other than Natasha and Ivan, was Sergei Filin, previously a Premier Dancer with the Bolshoi Ballet who had just been made the company’s Artistic Director.
His ascension to the directorship had taken place a mere two weeks before my arrival. Sergei, at forty-one, had a buoyant, boyish energy. A romantic dancer, gifted with strength and good looks, he developed a great rapport with his Moscow audiences. Equally, he had the respect of his dancers and a knowledge of the ins and outs of the famously complex institution that is the Bolshoi.
Before his Bolshoi appointment, Sergei had directed the Stanislavsky Theatre, inviting me to dance there at times, though scheduling issues kept me away. Soon after I arrived in Moscow, his assistant approached me and asked if I had time to meet him for lunch.
“There is something he would love to discuss with you,” she said cryptically.
We set a time to meet and my mind raced at the prospect of what he could possibly want to say to me. Would he want me to dance at the Bolshoi with Natasha for one or two shows? Swan Lake perhaps, or Giselle? It seemed fitting that, in his first weeks at the helm of Bolshoi, he would ask certain dancers to perform with the company. And so I dreamed, even if the reason for the meeting wasn’t that at all, of dancing again with this company for a few performances. A hopeful wish.
* * *
THE AFTERNOON OF opening night was my dress rehearsal for Theme and Variations. Theme (as ABT calls it) is a ballet that will always let you know, in no subtle way, what shape you are in. It demands everything from you, never getting easier no matter how many times you have danced it. The male lead has a solo that finishes with a daunting seven double tours en l’air in a row. It engenders barely controllable stress. The music builds to a climax, phrase by phrase, until you prepare in the center of the stage for the double tours. Every time I dance this moment, I coax myself away from doubt and toward the optimism of executing the final phrase cleanly and confidently. You are naked onstage. There is no character to hide behind and no scenery. Just you, and your technique.
I danced the dress rehearsal as if it were a performance, acclimating myself to the raked stage and knowing, from previous experience, that its slanting surface is a major factor to contend with. It affects balance, the placement of the body, and the alignment of the spine, legs, and feet, and requires a subtle but imperative adjustment if you aren’t accustomed to dancing on one like it.
Under normal circumstances, if I were to dance Theme for opening night, I would save my energy during the afternoon dress rehearsal. But since I was slated, for the evening performance, to dance Ratmansky’s Seven Sonatas, a lyrical but less technically taxing ballet, I took the opportunity to dance Theme full-out in a coveted stage rehearsal. Everyone wants to have a full dress rehearsal of a ballet they’re soon going to perform. And dancing on the Bolshoi stage, with ABT, in a ballet as stress-inducing as Theme, I knew I was lucky to have the chance to rehearse the work. And so I blasted it out, not saving any ounce of energy, knowing I would have enough time to rest before Seven Sonatas.
That evening, thirty minutes before the show, as performance nerves began to rise backstage, I was lying on the physical therapy table getting checked up for some tiny ailments. Necessary ministrations, but nothing serious. Kevin’s assistant, Tina Escoda, came into the physio room looking concerned. She darted toward me. Immediately my heart, attuned to moments like this, rose to my throat.
“We need you to do Theme tonight.”
“I’m sorry?”
“The dancer who’s set to do it has a stomach virus. There is no other option.”
I couldn’t demur or argue. I had to adjust immediately: Theme was the opening ballet, starting in thirty minutes.
* * *
THERE IS A switch that turns on in any dancer. That switch has a name: adrenaline. When it pumps at full throttle a dancer propels himself forward, never looking anywhere but to the mission at hand. One minute before I saw Tina, I was just beginning to get into show mode. Adrenaline wasn’t yet pumping. I was looking forward to enjoying Alexei’s Seven Sonatas, and dancing a work that was created on me. A minute later, I was shot into action.
There was no time to question or doubt. No time to bemoan the fact that I had danced full-out in rehearsal and potentially wasted some much-needed stamina. Luckily, Gillian Murphy was the opening night ballerina, and I’d danced Theme with her many times before. I rushed into gear, throwing some makeup on my face, slipping into my still-sweaty costume from the dress rehearsal that afternoon, and bolting onstage to join the cast. I needed no warm-up; I didn’t need to review any steps with Gillian. Adrenaline took care of everything.
* * *
AS IT TURNED out, I had released all my nerves in rehearsal. The stress of the situation had the effect of calming me down and forcing me to be completely in the moment. Onstage I found, to my amazement, that rather than being exhausted, I had the perfect balance of mental and physical ease. It felt like one of the most solid attempts of Theme that I’d ever danced. Not that it was flawless. There were moments in the pas de deux where our lack of rehearsal was evident. I also couldn’t turn cleanly for the life of me, though more often than not my pirouettes worked in the studio (a continual frustration that has plagued my entire career). But that night, amid the pressure of producing at the last minute, I refused to obsess over those details. Yes, if they had worked, the overall show would have been marginally better, for myself personally and hopefully for the audience. But I had to allow myself a certain perspective, a sense of the whole picture. Gillian is always exemplary in that regard, and for once, I was able to let those details go. Too often, they have left me questioning too much, doubting too much. They have driven me mad.
* * *
THE FOLLOWING DAY I eagerly waited for Sergei while standing by the elevators of the vast Bolshoi Theatre administration building. Employees of the Bolshoi milled about; I knew not a single person. Dancers mixed with opera singers mixed with administrative staff, their foreign language echoing through the atrium. Then Sergei, followed by his assistant, came bounding out of the elevator with an intoxicating energy, as if he were swallowing up all that life brought his way.
“Hello, David!” he exclaimed. “You were so good last night. Very, very good.”
Sergei had a way of saying “very” over and over again. If something was “very good,” but he wanted to describe it more passionately, it turned into “very, very, very good.” It was a relief to hear him speak a little English, since my Russian was nonexistent. Even with his limited knowledge of my language, every word was uttered with passion and purpose. We walked across the street to a sushi restaurant (Sushi in Moscow? I thought) and installed ourselves in a “very, very” large half-circle booth. The restaurant attendants seemed to know who he was; I assumed this was not only because of his days dancing on the Bolshoi stage but also because of his new post as Artistic Director. Muscovites are up to date on the latest news of Bolshoi Theatre, as it’s reported on by the major Russian news channels, making someone like Sergei a recognizable public figure.
I mindlessly ordered some sushi, the kind of business lunch order one makes when there are more important things at issue. The smell of smoke from the other diners hung thickly in the air. At that time Russians could still enjoy a cigarette while they ate, and most did. We continued with our small talk for a while, but when the elephant in the room finally had to be acknowledged, Sergei switched to Russian and his assistant translated.
“Now, David, I have two offers to make for you.”
A pause for translation.
“The first one is something that doesn’t interest me so much, but you are to choose whether it interests you.”
Translation again.
I leaned in, my eyes fixed on him, impatient at the pauses between when he spoke and when I could actually understand what he said.
“The first one would be that you could come to Bolshoi and be a Guest Artist.
You could dance some of the classics of your choice. Come in, perform, and that would be it.
“The second offer I have is that you join Bolshoi Ballet as a full-time company member. You become the first American Premier Dancer in its history. But most importantly, you will become a member of Bolshoi Ballet. This is what I personally want to see you do. I see you in the company and I want to make a place for you here.”
Sergei stared straight at me as his words were converted to English.
I was dumbfounded. Shocked to hear an offer I never expected or sought out. From childhood, this was never on my near or distant radar. Moscow, the Bolshoi, Russia, a huge move like this. A life-changing offer made between courses of unagi and toro.
“This is your choice to make, of course,” Sergei continued. “I believe in your dancing and I want to give you some of the best opportunities I can. This is something that I want to offer you because of my belief.
“I have gotten all the approval I need to make this offer,” he went on. “I have approval from the general manager at Bolshoi Theatre, and I have all the approval from the government. Everyone knows I am offering this to you and everyone is behind me. We all support you joining Bolshoi Theatre and all that needs to happen now is that you say yes.”
I could see that he was certain of everything he told me. I could see it in his eyes and in the way he presented the offer. I immediately knew this was not something he would go back on. He was determined to make this happen.
“I don’t want you to be in a golden cage—I want you to be free,” he said. “But I do want you to make a commitment to the Bolshoi. I’m very serious about this.”
“Wow,” I managed to stammer out. “First . . . thank you. I’m stunned that you would offer this to me. But you know I’m very happy at ABT. I love the company and it’s my home. It’s where I was brought up. I couldn’t leave that company altogether.”
“I am not asking you to leave ABT,” Sergei said. “I am just offering that you come dance with Bolshoi and divide your time between Bolshoi and ABT.”
“What would I do if I came? Where would I live? Who would help me acclimate to the city and the company?”
“We will help you in everything. We will help you get your work papers, visas, and an apartment close to Bolshoi Theatre.”
He had a clear answer to each of my questions.
A sudden sense of dread came over me. I thought, This will never work out. To dance for the Bolshoi would inevitably mean ending my work with Yuri at the Mariinsky. Clearly I couldn’t do both. How could I set aside the deep connection Yuri and I had established or turn away from his inspiring belief in my potential?
I looked at Sergei with apprehension. “I have worked with Yuri for a while now,” I told him. “I have looked for a coach like Yuri for years. We have a very strong understanding of each other and of the work we do in the studio.”
“I know Yuri very, very well. He is an amazing coach, I know this. And I do not want any conflict between him and me. This is your decision to make. I am simply offering you what I came to offer today.”
I tried to take in all that he’d said. My career and life had just opened up in an unimaginable way. It was as if everything had changed: the direction, the focus, the pressure, the importance, the scope. I was exhilarated. We left the lunch in a celebratory mood. Sergei told me to take my time and think about it. It was a huge step, and he knew I would have to closely consider it.
As we made our goodbyes, he smiled and said, “I’m sure you will have a good show tonight.”
* * *
AFTER LEAVING SERGEI, I felt the need to discuss his overwhelming offer with someone who could help me sort it out. Alexei Ratmansky was in Moscow working on a new ballet for the Bolshoi and was the first person I confided in. After hunting him down in the theater, I asked him to meet me for a coffee the following morning.
Then I went back to the hotel, rested, returned to the theater, and danced Seven Sonatas, my last ballet of the tour. Sergei was right about the performance. His offer had given me an unbelievable sense of elation. I thought, This is the change I was craving. This is what I was searching for: the risk that scares me.
* * *
WHEN I MET with Alexei the following morning I told him everything that Sergei had offered. Because Alexei had been Artistic Director of the Bolshoi and knew what it was like to be a Bolshoi dancer, his advice held considerable weight with me.
“You must take this,” he said. “This is historical for everyone involved and you must take this opportunity. This is huge. It is a great moment for the company and for you.”
His answer stunned me.
Alexei had affirmed what I had sensed: it truly was a life-altering offer. Opportunities like this seldom presented themselves. I thanked him for his time and honesty and he went back to Bolshoi to finish creating his work. That day I boarded a train to St. Petersburg, my mind racing between two great companies, one in the city I was leaving and the other in the city I was traveling to.
CHAPTER 21
It felt strange to arrive at the Mariinsky this time, to meet Yuri again. I sensed his excitement and warmth at having me back. I was there to dance Swan Lake’s Prince Siegfried, and to do so effectively, I had to put Sergei’s offer out of my mind.
I realized on that trip that every theater has a unique scent, something that sets each one apart. The Mariinsky smelled of aged wood and generations of sweat and makeup. I felt I could literally smell its iconic past: Nureyev’s debuts, Petipa’s creations, Tchaikovsky’s music. It was all around me. I loved the fact that the theater was so old that it used to have traditional wood floors in the studios that needed to be moistened before each class. In those days, the lowliest dancer had the task of circling the studio, tin watering can in hand, sprinkling the floor as you would a garden.
When I walked in the stage-door entrance, it was like walking into history. I passed through wooden doors that must have been there since the theater was built in 1860. I thought about the artists who had touched those door handles: Prokofiev, Pavlova, Nijinsky, Balanchine as a young boy in the Imperial Ballet School, and, years later, when he returned to this theater in 1962 as the illustrious cofounder, Artistic Director, and chief choreographer of New York City Ballet.
Ascending the stairs to the dressing rooms, the side closest to the stage door was the men’s side; the women’s side was on stage right. My first time in the theater, I had been waiting for a ballerina on the women’s side and was promptly questioned by the women’s dresser as to what I was doing there. Her cool Russian stare let me know that my sitting in that side was not proper.
The dressing rooms were reached through a set of swinging doors whose paint was worn and showed through to the bare wood beneath, an emblem of the infinite cycle of performances: opera after ballet after opera, singers warming up their voices in these dressing rooms, dancers spending their careers and lives in this one theater. And as the theater fell deeper and deeper into disrepair, it became more and more alluring, its inhabitants consumed in their daily artistic routines.
The three Principal dressing rooms were bare, with feeble lights, wooden makeup tables, cloudy mirrors, and three chairs, two made of cheap metal, one of dark wood. No photographs. No warmth. If you looked at it objectively, the place was falling apart. Xander Parish, an elegant British Principal in the company, recalled having arrived at the theater for the first time and being shocked at how astonishingly worn it was. Granted, his previous theater was the newly refurbished Covent Garden in London, where no expense was spared in a complete overhaul. But the Mariinsky is such a significant and lauded historic house that, in my view, there is no other way it should appear.
* * *
WHEN I FIRST danced on the theater’s raked stage, it hadn’t intimidated me as much as I feared it would. Raked stages, common to older theaters throughout the world, including the Bolshoi, are raised at the rear of the stage and tilt downward toward the audience. During my initial
rehearsal on that stage, I stood in the middle of it looking out at the theater. I marveled at the golden, gleaming Tsar’s box, centered at the rear of the orchestra and separated from all other seats. Bedecked in statuary, topped off by a golden crown, it remains a fitting reminder of the generations of tsars and tsarinas who established the Imperial Ballet, then personally funded it, their love of ballet and their largesse ensuring that an art that had always been French would become irretrievably Russian.
Most impressive to me were the side boxes placed over the orchestra pit, dividing the theater and the stage. They make for some interesting connections during the performance when you can run to the front of the stage and catch the eyes of an onlooker only three feet from you, both of you behaving as if this fugitive moment of contact has not occurred.
As legendary as it is, the theater felt remarkably intimate. Even when I was at the top of the stage, gazing at the whole scene and into the house, I still felt that the audience was part of the action. I sensed that the audience and performer were one while I danced.
* * *
I PLUNGED DEEP into rehearsals with Yuri once again. True, I was there dancing yet another prince role, my Mariinsky debut a year earlier having been Prince Désiré in The Sleeping Beauty. But whether it was the environment or Yuri’s ability to push me beyond my boundaries, we stripped Swan Lake bare and then rebuilt it.
A Body of Work Page 16
