I Was a Dancer - Jacques D'Amboise [166]
After Balanchine died, Joe and a small group of dancers conducted séances on the stage of the NYST. They’d gather in the empty theater and create ceremonies to call on Balanchine and ask what to do. Not long after Balanchine’s death, Joe took off all his clothes, did a grand jeté out the window of his apartment, and fell to his death.
I felt guilty that I’d ignored Joe’s pleas, discounting him as a wounded psyche that wanted me to indulge him with stroking—and was relieved to hear from Chris that he, too, felt remorse over ignoring Joe’s cries in the wilderness. That spread my guilt around. I imagined the secret terror Joe must have felt when Lincoln cornered him, insisting, “You’re the one!”
I didn’t even realize how much I was hurting, and had little patience for anyone else’s angst. The world I knew, and was so much a part of me, had faded away. Scarlett O’Hara felt the same way when Atlanta burned down. I was on my last legs as a dancer. Thank God NDI and its programs were filling my hours.
When it appeared Jerry was going to be left out, he threatened to take all his ballets out of the repertoire and go to the press. A stew of egos boiled, intrigue fomented behind the scenes, and, after board meetings galore, a solution evolved. Jerry Robbins and Peter Martins would share the powers of artistic director. Peter would assume responsibility for the day-to-day administration of the repertoire (outside of Jerry’s works), and Jerry would enjoy doing whatever he wanted. Lincoln, chewing his tongue at the sound of the name Jerome Robbins, realizing he had no choice, added ulcers to his physical problems.
Peter, kowtowing to Jerry, achieved an amazing feat of diplomacy, dancing carefully around Jerry’s periphery and giving him everything he demanded.
Being the curator of the Balanchine museum would doom anyone for life, an Atlas, bound to carry the burden of Balanchine’s legacy. I admire Peter for assuming the mantle. Like Atlas, he can never drop it; the weight of the icon that was Balanchine forever hangs over him, the company, and the school. No matter what Peter does, no matter the ballets he (or anyone else, for that matter) choreographs, everything is compared to Balanchine.
The mastery of moving people on- and offstage was long ago achieved by Balanchine, and as he continued to choreograph, he invented and surprised his audiences with new ways of using his materials. (The ballets Serenade, The Four Temperaments, Ballo della Regina, and Liebeslieder Waltzer are a few examples.)
But the true essence of Balanchine is not in his supreme choreographic skills; instead it is found in a subtle and mysterious presence that seems to permeate his ballets and is part of the makeup of the artist himself.
You never knew what you would get if he turned on you. (image credit 17.2)
His art was his life. “If I couldn’t move, I couldn’t choreograph and I would be nothing,” was a lament he often voiced.
As a whiff of an exotic perfume transforms an environment, experiencing his ballets seems to enhance the finer qualities in us. Viewing his ballets, we recognize that Balanchine is a person of sensibilities and taste.
There is humanity at work. Harmony is in the company of beauty and not one drop of false sentiment exists. A visual autobiography, his ballets are a description of himself, with morality and spirituality at their core. He knew what mattered, and it had to do with good manners.
Of course he was jealous, at times greedy, devious, and willful. Vindictive, too! Hooray! Human! His life was a roller coaster of success and disappointments, loves and losses; but the center of him was unshakable, not a tremor. He had no doubts. He knew himself. His world sat with him.
It drove Lincoln nuts!
If you can’t erase it, use it. So, over the years, Balanchine has been marketed, and turned into a fashionable brand name, claimed by everyone. Playboy bunnies even boast in their résumés, “I was in Balanchine’s company.”
Balanchine had been dead