“How can you do that?” he demanded. “Now that you had a great first Swan Queen, you are just going to pull out of the pas de quatre?”
“No,” I replied, “it isn’t like that at all. The pas de quatre really hurts my old injury, and I just don’t think I should add it on top of Swan Queen.”
Peter actually pulled me out of his office and into the hallway. I’m not exactly sure why.
“How can you do this? What am I supposed to do?” he berated me loudly. “You are not thinking about me!”
I blinked at him, flabbergasted. Was I supposed to have been thinking about him? Whatever did he mean?
“Peter, if I do the pas de quatre, I’m afraid that I’ll be out for the rest of the season,” I repeated. “Then you’ll have to replace me in all of my ballets.” But I also knew there were already alternate casts for the pas de quatre, so I didn’t understand what the big deal was.
“I can’t believe you would do this to me,” Peter said, and stormed into his office. I walked away down the hall, shaken from the encounter, but also knowing that I’d been in the right. And I didn’t end up dancing the pas de quatre.
It was really an “aha” moment for me: Peter no longer had any power over me or my sense of self-worth. Because I’d come into the company so young, I had related to Peter as a child would relate to a parental figure. I’d desired to keep him happy and had relied on his positive opinion almost as if we were family members in a dysfunctional relationship. But in reality he was just my boss, and though I had to submit to him as I worked at my job, I could still keep my sense of identity safe from him and relate to him as one professional adult to another. The ballet world is a narcissistic world made up of circles of interlocking insecurities. I could break my own little circle, however, and refuse to feel insecure. I was my own woman, loved by God, and going forward the best I could with integrity and honor. In the past I would have assumed Peter was in the right, and would have taken all of the guilt and pain upon myself; this time I thought, Well, he was in a bad mood. And that was not something I needed to absorb into myself.
—
The arrival of the spring of 2006 meant that it was time for the biannual Diamond Project, a season filled with brand-new choreography specially commissioned for NYCB’s dancers. I was working on what would become Russian Seasons with a choreographer from Russia named Alexei Ratmansky, whom no one at City Ballet yet knew much about. Ratmansky was coming to choreograph for City Ballet after having been the director of the Bolshoi Ballet in Moscow and would soon be recognized as one of the most talented choreographers to appear on the dance scene in years.
I’ve always enjoyed the process of being choreographed on. Being a part of a new ballet is completely different from learning a ballet that is already choreographed. When I learn an older ballet, I often have preconceived ideas of how my part should be danced. The ballet might be one that I’ve watched for years and seen several other ballerinas dance, which influences how I’ll dance the role. I might like the way one woman danced it but not another; to my discredit, I might egotistically think that I have a better way to dance it than anyone who has ever gone before me (in which I’m invariably proved wrong). But I’m always eager to learn the steps and see how the choreography fits my body and how it complements or challenges my way of dancing. It is a chance to explore how I might bring something of myself to a role already laden with history while still being able to honor the choreography and the dancers who have gone before me.
There is no history, however, when I’m chosen to dance in a new choreography. I’ve probably never heard the music and rarely have any idea of the choreographic concept. I enter the first rehearsal with anticipation and wariness, not sure what is going to be asked of me but excited about the challenge and flattered that a choreographer wanted to work with me. Choreographers usually get to choose whom they will work with, sometimes with advice from Peter or the other ballet masters.
I’ve been in good ballets and bad ballets and often cannot tell which category a ballet fits into until after some time has passed. Much of what defines a ballet after it premieres has to do with timing and the reaction of both critics and regular audiences. For me to like a ballet as an audience member, I need to have some kind of emotional response or connection to the work. I want to be surprised by the steps and moved by how the performer makes the choreography into visible music. As a dancer actually involved in a ballet, I’ve found that some ballets have a certain invigorating feeling about them and the dancers know that the work is going to be good; others feel doomed from the start. I’ve felt that the choreography was either like my second skin or like an uncomfortable coat that I have to put on, but whether the choreography is comfortable to me seems to have nothing to do with whether the ballet is a success or not. It just means I have to work harder with the uncomfortable ones so that I inhabit them well by the time I have to perform them.
Every choreographer has a different style, and some I enjoy more than others. Some work very quickly, driving the momentum of the rehearsal forward so fast that by the end it is hard for me to remember the steps with which we started. Others move very slowly, painstakingly devising their steps one at a time in the studio while the dancers stand in silence, shifting their weight to stay limber and warm. My least favorite type of choreographer to work with is one who has already choreographed the ballet on himself or on another group of dancers and then arrives at our studios to teach us the steps. Often these choreographers are inflexible with their ideas and see only one way of interpreting their work; there is no sense of collaboration with the dancers. I usually cannot feel comfortable in these ballets because I feel that I’m dancing steps made for someone else’s body.
My favorite type of choreographer is one who arrives organized and with a plan but ready to work with the strengths and uniquenesses of the dancers he or she has in the studio. This usually produces a great work environment because the dancers feel affirmed and push themselves to give their all to the choreographer, who in turn feels inspired and energized by their commitment and hard work. These ballets are very satisfying to be a part of; while they are still the choreographer’s vision, the dancers feel that they have put a bit of themselves into the ballet as well.
Alexei Ratmansky fits into this last category of choreographers, and being in two of his ballets has been incredibly rewarding for me. The 2006 Diamond Project during which he made Russian Seasons was just as crazy as our other Diamond Projects had been—the seven choreographers making new works had to compete for studio space, dancers, and rehearsal time. I’m sure it was probably a frustrating experience for Alexei because he rarely had all of his dancers in the studio at the same time, but the dancers loved every minute of working with him.
That season, I’d been working heavily with two other choreographers, Elliot Feld and Christopher Wheeldon, at the beginning of our rehearsal period. Elliot, a well-established choreographer who had founded his own renowned company, Feld Ballets NY, was staging his 1969 ballet Intermezzo No. 1 with six of us in addition to the new ballet he was choreographing for the project. The rehearsals were long and intense. For Christopher’s ballet Evenfall, he had chosen Miranda Weese to be his lead, and I was to be her alternate. She was injured early on, however, and Chris worked with me on one section of the ballet until she was recovered enough to resume rehearsals. So between Elliot and Chris, my days were very full.
Once Miranda was recovered, it was no longer vital that I be at Chris’s rehearsals, and I was suddenly called to Alexei’s ballet. I didn’t know much about him at the time because it was his first ballet for our company. We were all very curious about him, and the word from the dancers already rehearsing in his ballet was that he was great to work with.
My first rehearsal was for a group section that included five women and five men. Alexei came over to me and quietly said hello, put me into my place in line, and then moved away to work with t
he men. He had already choreographed part of the section, and the other girls tried to quickly catch me up on the steps I’d missed. The music and movements were quick, and I felt like I was dancing as if I’d just been dropped into very cold water: wide-eyed and floundering.
I also felt a little anxious that first day because I wasn’t sure if I’d been called on purpose or not. The women’s group for that section included one other dancer of principal rank, Sofiane Sylve; one soloist, Abi Stafford; and two corps women, Gina Pazcoguin and Alina Dronova. I ended up toward the back of that group in the formation, which hadn’t happened to me since I had become a principal. Usually principal dancers were kept up front and separate from the group. Perhaps Alexei had me confused with another dancer? But I decided to put my ego aside and enjoy the process because the dancing was fun and Alexei’s manner was so gentle and earnest. I figured things would work themselves out, and I could enjoy being part of some good dancing in the meantime.
The ballet was eventually called Russian Seasons, and it is indeed in many ways an ensemble piece. There are six women and six men in the ballet, and every part is a good part. The music comprises twelve songs by Leonid Desyatnikov, some sung by a soprano in the orchestra pit, that follow the Russian Orthodox liturgical calendar. There is no real corps de ballet but a group of soloists and principals who dance in ever-changing groups and pairs and singles. And though there is no real story, it somehow depicts the journey of life, from youthful beginnings to mysterious endings. Wendy Whelan and Albert Evans were the center of the piece, and Sofiane and I were pulled out of the group for featured dances. In my role as the girl wearing the green dress, three of my dances were ensemble pieces while in four of them I was set apart.
As time went on, I became increasingly grateful to be a part of this ballet. Alexei was wonderful to work with. His demeanor was quiet and reserved, but it was obvious that his passion for choreography ran deep and his brain was always processing and assessing and moving forward. I felt more inspired in his rehearsals than I had in a long time. I had a huge desire to perform above even my own expectations because I wanted to please him and make him proud he had put me into his ballet. His standards were incredibly high; there were plenty of times I thought I’d executed a step perfectly well, only to have him quietly shake his head, say, “No,” and give me five corrections to make it better. He could also dance all of his steps better than any of us. With seemingly no preparation, he could suddenly move his body to the extremes of the movement, still maintaining his articulation, and all we could do was watch him and hope we could emulate his style in a satisfactory way.
The role Alexei gave me in Russian Seasons was a gift. Not only did I love performing the piece, I also loved the entire rehearsal process because of how it stimulated my imagination and inspired me to grow as a dancer. Alexei constantly pushed us to dance the steps better and to be more musical. He would have us pick up small musical details with just a gesture or a look, adding subtle layers to how both the dancers and the audience experienced the ballet. Even when I started to feel as if I were getting a certain technical or emotional concept, he would challenge me with another area to work on that hadn’t even occurred to me. My technique was improving, and the way I looked at ballet in general was being enriched. I often felt as if I would never match up to Alexei’s vision, but even when I’d obviously failed to do what he wanted, he just smiled and said, “Keep working on that. Maybe you will get it tomorrow.” And I was determined that I would.
—
The novelties in my life didn’t end with new apartments and choreographies. Even as I was being inspired anew by working with Alexei, James and I were talking about what direction to follow as we went forward with our lives. Close to a year after the premiere of Russian Seasons, in 2007, I learned I was pregnant. I was stepping into another new role, this time as a mother. With much prayer, James and I had decided to start trying to get pregnant; James felt secure in his job, and I was thirty-four years old and feeling that I didn’t want to be too much older when we had our first baby. I knew I would miss opportunities with the company and that returning to the stage after giving birth would be very difficult, but it seemed well worth it to both of us.
A month after we “opened the door,” I took a pregnancy test and saw the little window on the wand instantly change into a pink plus sign. I felt a thrill and went in search of James. We were both a little grumpy that morning for various silly reasons, and he had retreated to our bedroom to get ready for work. I walked into the room. He was tying his tie.
“Look,” I said, not at my most eloquent. I held up the white plastic wand. He stopped tying his tie and stared at the stick in confusion. I hadn’t told him I’d bought the pregnancy tests, and he didn’t know what it was that I held in my hand.
I saw realization dawn on his face as his jaw dropped and his face turned first white and then a bright red. He gave a big laugh.
“Wow!” he exclaimed, and then gave me a slow, gentle hug. We stayed that way for a bit, overwhelmed and probably both starting to freak out a bit at the implications of it all. We had figured we would be trying for a while before we got pregnant, but God had other ideas. Here we go, I thought.
How amazing to realize that there was a life growing within me, cells dividing and becoming organs and blood vessels and limbs, all while I walked around carrying on my everyday life. It was a precious secret that James and I treasured together, telling only our families and one or two close friends for the first three months. Almost every night we prayed for our unborn child, and I already felt so protective of the new person inside of me.
Dancing while pregnant was very different for me. Physically, I was extremely tired, which is typical for a woman in her first trimester. Not normally one who can fall asleep anywhere but at home, I found myself collapsing in sleep on my dressing room floor during my breaks and would wake up to a puddle of my drool on the carpet. Up until the moment a rehearsal or performance began, I would think that there was no way I could ever get through it, but once I was standing up and took to the stage, adrenaline would kick in and I’d be fine.
I also had a version of morning sickness that got worse as the day went on. By evening, I would be very nauseated, which wasn’t convenient during the performance season. There were many moments when I stood in the wings preparing to go onstage and eyeing the trash cans under the tissue boxes that were attached to the lighting booms. Well, worst-case scenario, I thought, I just run offstage to the nearest trash can. I never had to put my plan into action, but there were a couple of close calls.
Emotionally, I felt a sense of joy in dancing that was different from anything I’d yet experienced. It was amazing to know that I was dancing onstage with another life inside me. I felt a new freedom in my dancing. The sense of freedom possibly came from the fact that the second I found out I was pregnant, I felt my priorities shift into a new focus on my child. There was no role more important than caring for this baby, no step that needed to be executed to an extreme degree if it would endanger the baby. For the next nine months, my body was not my own but rather the vessel that God had chosen for the nurturing of the particular child that James and I had been given. So I would do my utmost to be a healthy and safe vessel for that child. Every day I tested it out: as a principal dancer, I needed to be able to do my job exceptionally well. If I felt I could do an excellent job safely, I danced another day, but I knew that the second I felt the slightest hesitation, I would need to stop.
During the first three months of my pregnancy I also came to terms with my own mortality as a dancer. I wasn’t thinking of retiring at the time, since I was thirty-four and I very much wanted to continue performing. However, the median age of retirement for all dancers is twenty-nine, and I knew that once this baby was born, I might be forced to stop dancing. I might not want to leave the baby, or I might not be able to get my body into dancing shape again after giving birth. A few other balleri
nas had come back to work after having children, one who had had twins, but I knew that it was very difficult, and I didn’t know how I was going to react to it all. It occurred to me that I needed to go through the thought process of preparing for retirement so that if the need did arise, I would be ready. So I danced those performances knowing that they could be my last, and I felt a bittersweet joy in them for that reason.
The company was in Saratoga Springs when I was in my third month of pregnancy. My waist was starting to thicken, making the costumes tight. I knew it was time to tell Peter, because I wanted him to know before the word got out. I was nervous about it—pregnancy is often looked at askance in the dance world—but Peter was extremely supportive and happy for me and told me stories about his own children.
“This is your time,” he said. “Take it and enjoy it and come back when you are ready.”
I did a couple more performances in Saratoga, changing a step here and there and dancing slightly larger and more out of breath than usual, and then I was done for a while.
I loved being pregnant. I loved feeling the baby kicking inside me. At the five-month mark we found out we were having a girl, and James threw back his head and laughed with happiness. We decided to name her Grace shortly afterward, named for the gift of grace God freely gives us. Her middle name would be Rebecca, after my sister.
The extra time I suddenly had on my hands while pregnant gave me an unexpected opportunity. The Robbins Rights Trust asked me to assist Jean-Pierre Frolich, a ballet master for City Ballet who specialized in the Robbins repertory, with staging West Side Story Suite at San Francisco Ballet and the National Ballet of Canada. This meant I would travel to these companies and work with the dancers there, teaching and coaching the ballet. I found that I really enjoyed the work, and loved collaborating with the talented dancers from these other companies.
Dancing Through It: My Journey in the Ballet Page 23
