I Was a Dancer - Jacques D'Amboise [66]
A curtain dropped. I was filled with teenage hurt. A switch went off, and I refused to talk to her, ignored her in class, avoided her in the hallways, and wouldn’t look at her. As we were the highest jumpers in the company, Balanchine cast us together in the airborne third movement of Symphony in C. We would dance together, rehearse, and perform. Carrie smelled of the outdoors, healthy, fresh, clean, wet straw, and touching her onstage was thrilling. I would partner her beautifully there, and present her during the bows as a precious flower, but as soon as the curtain closed on the last bow, I would strut off without a word—as if the intimacy of partnering meant nothing. Jekyll and Hyde!
However, I stalked her secretly. In ballet class, I’d spot where she was at the barre and take a place on the opposite side of the room, yet watch her the whole time. I learned her rehearsal schedule and would peek into the room to ogle her. Outside the stage door, I would lurk across the street and follow her home or to a restaurant if she went out, to see who she was with. At night I shadowed her, gazing up at her apartment in the brownstone where she and her roommate (Arlouine Case) lived, trying to figure out which window was hers. I learned who her best buddies were, and then I wouldn’t talk to them, either. Poor Carrie. I snubbed her and her friends … for a year!
That spring, Lew Christensen revived his ballet Filling Station for me. It was a superb role, and I had a delicious success. At the premiere, I was doing a series of leaps in a circle and heard the audience starting to cheer and applaud. I was amazed. I had never heard that before—for me. At the end of the ballet, waves of applause came from the audience, and I was called on for bow after bow. Dozens. Finally, I came offstage and had only minutes to change my costume for the next ballet. People crowded around—Virgil Thomson (the composer of Filling Station),1 Paul Cadmus (costumes and decor),2 and the celebrated modern choreographer José Limón (whom I had never met, but whose work I admired).3 They had rushed backstage to meet and congratulate me as I exited the stage. I made excuses: “Thank you, thank you, I gotta change costumes. I’m in the next ballet.” In subsequent days, fan letters arrived, among them, several from Charles Goren, the bridge master. As a result, I took up bridge. For years, I kept and treasured the superb actress Eileen Heckart’s note, and still have the city planner Lewis Mumford’s letter. The script and substance form the shape of a diamond, with my name at the apex and his at the base. One newspaper headlined its review, “Rookie Hits Home Run!”
Paul Cadmus’s drawing for Filling Station (image credit 8.5)
Costume as rendered on Jacques, 1953 (image credit 8.6)
Every morning Balanchine taught class. Occasionally, he would give private lessons to a chosen few. Nicholas Magallanes, Tanaquil LeClercq, Maria Tallchief, and I were a regular quartet. As scientists will test out their theories and hypotheses in experiments, Balanchine used these private lessons to test new ideas on technique. The exercises he developed on us were integrated into daily company class. Skills in speed and strength developed as a result, with emphasis on precision and extreme extensions, and maximum turnout.
Russian ballerinas are trained so that arms, head, hands, and torso fully participate in every movement. The entire body is integrated to communicate the full expression of the drama of dance. Balanchine was reminded of this when the Bolshoi Ballet first performed in New York in the 1950s. For several months after, our classes doubled in length, with a full hour devoted to simple, repetitive exercises using the arms, head, and upper torso.
Balanchine was always analyzing movement, and his style and technique changed as he experimented. There is still controversy over many of Balanchine’s techniques. Here’s an example. You know how you keep your heels