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By Root 1357 0

few bars of music, and have prepared several movement possibilities to present to him. Some combination he had designed for my partner would tell me that in the next section, I should be on the ballerina’s right side. So, when he’d turn around and look for me, I’d be standing stage right. And he’d say, delightedly, “You know, now you come from there. Right?” He would demonstrate a step, I’d copy, and then I’d take the movement and play with it, adding arms, enhancing the rhythms, contributing a turn, watching all the time to see his reaction. If he liked what I did, he’d leave it. If not, he would take the time to invent something else. I wasn’t the only one who collaborated and played with his choreography this way. We all did it in some way. Suzanne Farrell was great at it. And Tanny was a master.

When I saw a young dancer having difficulty in a Balanchine class, I would pull him or her aside, as if I was a teaching assistant and coach to Balanchine. It occurred to me, “Is what I’m doing rude?” Once, I asked, “Mr. Balanchine, do you mind?” “Oh, no, no. I like it, it’s fine.” He didn’t feel I was disrupting his class. He was so assured. “Good. You know. You help me.”16 I was practicing the skills of teaching Balanchine technique without any intention or desire to do so in the future, simply because his techniques were so interesting. His teaching and choreography all has to do with music and time. Betty told me Balanchine remarked to her, “Jacques, he knows. He really knows.” And I do.

Once again, I approached Lincoln, only this time, to ask for help with fund-raising for NDI. Immediately, he offered, “I know someone who’s crazy enough, you’ll be able to get money out of her.” In 1980, Frances Schreuder had given NYCB money to underwrite and commission Balanchine’s new ballet, Robert Schumann’s “Davidsbündlertänze.” So Lincoln brokered a lunch for us, and as we sat together, I thought, “She’s creepy. I don’t want to have anything to do with her.”

With Frances Schreuder, I sensed an unbalance, a turmoil of volcanoes in her.

A Close Call with Death

I was not quite seventeen, still a teenager, when Brad and Lobelia came into my life.

New York City Ballet, on a national tour, had stopped for an engagement in Los Angeles. Our performances would be at the Greek Theatre in Griffith Park, set in the middle of a forested glen. The complex held some two thousand green seats, sloping toward a grand stage, framed by a rectangular proscenium.

After opening night, two old friends of André Eglevsky gave a party for the cast at their home in South Pasadena.

Eglevsky had met the Bishops in Los Angeles years before, when he was a young star performing with the Ballet Russe. Lobelia, a devoted ballet fan, persuaded her husband, Bradford, to accompany her to a performance. The moment Eglevsky floated on stage in one of his famous leaps, Bradford was captivated. André seemed to move through the air in slow motion, alighting silently, feathersoft, combining the smooth feline grace of a tiger with the power and masculinity of a young Hercules. Bradford was transformed into a balletomane.

Eglevsky was an international superstar, and was now heading our company. I watched and studied him constantly, and tried to achieve the ease in dancing that was his hallmark. In particular, his multiple pirouettes in slow motion challenged me. He became a mentor and a friend.

At the Bishops’ party, André presented me to our hosts as if I were his gift. “Lobelia, Bradford, meet Jacques, the next generation. Reminds me of me when I was his age, only not as smart,” André smirked. “He’s our next star … as long as he takes my advice.” He passed me to the Bishops as a relay runner hands off a baton.

In a burst of generosity Lobelia said, “Why pay for a hotel? Come stay with us. We would love to have you.”

I moved into the guest bedroom of their home in South Pasadena, and became a participant in their family life. I loved their home, their pool, Lobelia’s cooking, and them. They had a teenage son, Brad Jr., who was maybe three years younger than