I Was a Dancer - Jacques D'Amboise [41]
I was seventeen on tour in Spain. Five years earlier, for Ballet Society, I had been coached in flamenco footwork by Lew Christensen for our angel-versus-devil dance in Pastorela, and subsequently attended many flamenco performances in New York City. When I danced in the Liceu opera house in Barcelona in 1952, the curtain went up at ten p.m. and came down after midnight. Ravenous, I would head for Las Ramblas, the boulevard and heart of Barcelona, to find some lamplit restaurant, a cave, to drink vino blanco, gorge myself on tapas, pollo, and fresh sardines, while listening to flamenco guitarists and singers. The patrons were neighborhood. Seven years after World War II, there were few tourists in Franco’s Spain. A fat lady diner, while being served by a waiter, would abruptly jump to her feet, push her chair aside, and burst into dance. The waiter, in turn, would gleefully set his tray on her chair and swirl in challenge as her partner. The flame caught, and soon other patrons joined, accompanying the couple with wild vocal outbursts, rhythmical clapping, and snapping fingers. Flamenco better than anything I had ever seen! The wine and music of a culture coursing like blood, and spilling out in dance. Great theater, and primeval. I was experiencing the real thing, and it wasn’t painted fire. It seemed to be coming through the ground into the feet of the waiter and the patron, resonating through their bodies, their skin and bones, the gestures and expressions on their faces, and their speaking fingers and hands. Heat programmed on a cellular level, and transmuted through thousands of years of culture.
On the Iberian Peninsula and in parts of southern France—deep in caves where prehistoric art festoons the ceilings and walls—large, flat stones have been found covered with patterns of scuffmarks. The residue indicates that our prehistoric ancestors strapped the hooves of animals to their feet and stomped rhythms, patterns, and dances, vocalizing God-alone-knows-what kind of chants. In Barcelona’s gypsy cave restaurants, in the wee hours of the morning, an umbilical cord stretched from the caves of 25,000 B.C. to the floor under my feet, reverberating millenniums of rhythms.
What culture does classical ballet come from? It really derives from dances the Italian/French aristocracy developed in the courts, with folk influences, but it is unique in the world because it jumps national barriers. Danilova once told me, “You are American boy—but when ballet dancer you are international, belong to the world, representing high art.” It is bigger than any particular cultural or folk dance. It has been studied—what are the most economical movements, the most pleasing line—order, symmetry, and precision based on the principles of geometry. Classical ballet transcends the cultures—and Muriel Stuart epitomized that transcendence, with her aristocratic carriage and demeanor.
Muriel Stuart heading for me, 1959 (image credit 3.12)
At SAB, Muriel Stuart9 was an anomaly—neither Russian nor American. She was British, and a superb teacher. A former soloist with Pavlova’s ballet company, Muriel brought her elegant beauty, grandeur, and nobility of carriage to the dance studio, and transformed it into a salle royale. A vision of pastels, she smelled of lilacs, and wore flowing skirts and pink ballet shoes, with little flesh-colored callus pads on the backs of her heels so the shoes wouldn’t rub them. Her long neck and slim, elegant torso were accentuated by the way she kept her shoulder blades drawn back and squeezed together, raising her chest and head. It made her appear glorious and heroic. I always thought of her as “heart-lifted.” Wherever Muriel went, even in the streets of New York City, her feet glided.
Her class emphasized arms and placement, precise and demanding. “You will