I Was a Dancer - Jacques D'Amboise [46]
Maria Tallchief, Balanchine, and Marc Chagall
In 1945, the Russian impresario Sol Hurok commissioned the visual artist Marc Chagall to design several drops and floor cloths, as well as costumes, for Ballet Theatre’s production of Mikhail Fokine’s Firebird, to be staged by Adolph Bolm. Chagall was reputed to have painted much of the scenery and costumes himself. In the fall of 1949, Balanchine planned to mount his own version of Firebird, starring his wife, Maria Tallchief. He persuaded Hurok to sell the Chagall decor to him, since the Bolm ballet had been dropped from Ballet Theatre’s repertoire and the Chagall creations had been languishing in storage.
Stravinsky had rearranged and shortened the score—there were no long passages of music that allowed a choreographer to linger on character development. Balanchine’s choreography was concise and direct. Bang! You’re onstage, and within the first few gestures, the dance movements had to convey exactly who you are and what you’re doing. From the Prince’s first entrance to the Firebird’s electric appearance—she zoomed out of the wings—Frank Moncion and Maria Tallchief were stunning. The spooky lighting, murky and evocative of the depths of the forest, reflected lighting designer Jean Rosenthal’s genius. Firebird was the smash hit of the fall 1949 season.
I was in the monster scene, along with most of the corps de ballet. We popped out of the wings on a crashing chord, and burst into dance, to find ourselves slipping and tripping on Chagall’s painted floor cloth. After a few performances, Balanchine eliminated the floor cloth.
It was also my first performance in a world premiere, and, to this day, Firebird resonates in my heart and memory. Toward the end of the ballet, just as the monsters are about to destroy the Prince and his love (the Maiden), the Firebird comes to the rescue. Holding a golden sword aloft in her hands, she dashes across the stage, and, after an enormous leap, gives the weapon to the Prince. Maria Tallchief’s eyes flashed red and gold, and she whirled in a blur of piqué turns, riveting a circle around the Prince. He then slashes away with the sword at the monsters, knocking us left and right, till we collapse to the floor, vanquished.
Panting, we would lie on the floor, grateful for the respite. As if to an icon, the Prince bows to the Firebird in gratitude and obeisance, and, hand in hand, departs with his Maiden, both of them climbing and stepping over our monster bodies littering the stage, and leaving the Firebird alone. During what is called the berceuse in the music, she dances an exquisite solo in a golden follow spot.
This was my opportunity on the darkened stage floor. I would pillow my head in my arms, wrap myself in the haunting music, and, half dozing, prepare myself for a journey into the Firebird’s realm. She floated above me, the glow from the follow spot reflected on the artwork of Chagall’s extraordinary scenery—birds, bouquets of flowers, and trees in deep, rich colors. Depending on where Maria moved in her follow spot, Chagall’s colors and images appeared and receded, ghostly, taking on a movement and life of their own, art pulsating.
Maria covered her tawny Native American skin with gold glitter, highlighting her cheekbones, arms, and upper torso. She even glued gold dust to her toe shoes. Her Firebird became a mysterious, metaphysical force. As she glided in her dance, I imagined regret in her eyes. This mythic bird—not for her, the love of a human Prince. Maria’s performance evoked a feeling of ancientness, carrying the heavy weights and sorrows of thousands of years. You didn’t think small-time watching her. It was eons, a fairy tale, archetypal.
At the end of her solo,