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CHAPTER 11 Leningrad Photo: The Octiabrskaya Hotel, Leningrad The relentless radio wouldn’t change stations. You couldn’t shut it off either, but you could at least turn down the volume. I didn’t mind. I took it as an opportunity to listen to the Russian language. There were wonderful afternoon radio serials for children, very much like the ones I listened to as a child – Dick Tracy, Captain Midnight, The Lone Ranger, but from what I could gather, these Russian serials were stories about children participating in the October Revolution of 1917 and a fascinating one about a girl and a robot in Mongolia. The hotel restaurant was not to be believed. Any place you sat would turn out to be the wrong place. The service was atrocious. A Canadian lady who often sat at the same table with me, and who spoke far better Russian than I, made continuous complaints about the service but to no avail. This was 1969. The Soviet period was at its peak and Leonid Brezhnev still in power. Every other foreigner complained about the food but I didn’t mind it at all. I happen to like black bread and cabbage. It was the time of ‘Byeliye Nochi” [the White Nights] when it never really got dark. From my window I could see young lovers walking hand in hand at any hour of the night
Photo:
Nevsky Prospect, the city’s famous main street, running from the
square to the Neva river and the Hermitage Museum, formally the
Imperial Palace.
At least Volodya seemed to have plenty of time to show me around Leningrad. The Kirov Theater [now back to its original name: The Maryinsky] was one of my very first stops. I got lost several times on my own by wandering and taking trains outside the city. There was always someone who would kindly give me directions or even personally take me back to the subway station across from my hotel.
More Shady Characters The Kirov was closed for repairs. The company, both opera and ballet were instead playing at the “Lensoviet” theater, located quite a distance away on the island. I had to take a street car nearly every evening to get to it, and often got lost. Fortunately I was able to take some classes with Anatole Borzoff, a former dancer with Moiseyev’s company and so was able to notate some of the Moiseyev technique. It was soon time to make the return trip across the Baltic and North Sea by another ship. I said my goodbyes and left presents. Volodya seemed to like American cigarettes so I gave him several cartons I got in the Beryozka [foreign currency] shops plus a pair of jeans. He gave me a porcelain figure of Popov. Popov was a famous clown in the Moscow circus who I had seen when they were on tour in New York. For myself I bought several record albums and a balalaika [a Russian musical folk instrument]. Little did I know then that the balalaika would become so very much a part of my life in years to come. Leaving the Soviet Union was nearly as bad as entering - when my Russian language tapes were highly suspect at customs. Just as I was to board the ship back to London, the officials investigating my luggage came across my notation of folk dances, and it caused quite a stir. Puzzled by the strange symbols, they seemed to think I'd been notating troop movements, or was up to some other suspicious activity. Just as they were about to seize them, I explained the only way I could - by demonstrating a few dance steps, right in front of them. Because the Russian people are so fond of dancing - and especially their own national dances, their suspicions suddenly disappeared. I boarded the ship amidst their laughter and cheers. The ship left for England, not the Nadezhda Krupskaya but the Maria
Ulyanova, another Soviet hero. A few days in London then back to New
York. The Met was still on strike. There was still Tucson in
November but I had to make a living. There always were regional
ballet companies where I could stage productions or be a guest
teacher. I did engagements in San Francisco, Tampa, Birmingham,
Detroit and others, then by surprise, a telegram arrived from the
Institute in London. The Harkness Ballet was looking for a
choreologist. It was suggested I get in touch with them immediately
if I wanted the job. Rebekah Harkness was the Standard Oil heiress whose enormous wealth and eccentricity dazzled New York. She spent millions on the arts, mostly through her own dance company, the Harkness Ballet. Here was a woman who had everything. Her town house just off Central Park was where she had her school and where the company rehearsed. It rivaled the splendor of the great royal ballet schools of Europe. A magnificent entrance foyer with crystal chandeliers, a marble circular staircase, no less than five beautifully and richly decorated dance studios, offices, a library, an in residence masseur and a doctor and on the top floor. A bejeweled golden urn designed by Salvador Dali was on display in the foyer. This urn was to one day hold her ashes. I was entering a palace. She had just fired her company while they were touring Europe and was starting a new one, using the trainees as replacements. The whole place was in a turmoil. These young trainees were certainly a lucky bunch in my opinion. Not only did they receive free dance training but medical and therapeutic aid plus a small weekly salary to live on. Nothing even remotely like that existed during my own struggling student days. She also had just fired two directors and hired a new one, Renzo Raiss. Being German and familiar with European ballet companies, it was really he who wanted a choreologist, along with other changes he was making.
At that time she was deeply into Spanish dancing. Don Jose de Udeata was brought from Spain to teach her privately. She had a whole collection of bata de cola [a dress with a trailing gown] used for Flamenco dancing and would sit in the back of her chauffeur driven limo with her feet up, practicing her castanets. I once asked David Howard, who was the school director, why she did not try East Indian dance for a change. He answered in a jaded tone that she, as well as the staff, had already been through that phase! My first assignment was to notate Brian MacDonald’s “Time Out Of Mind”, then Todd Bolender’s “Souvenirs” and Walter Gore’s “Eaters Of Darkness”. Walter Gore, who had been one of Marie Rambert’s principal dancers during the 30s, was one of the kindest men I’d ever met. Quiet, sensitive, even to carrying to his rehearsal an injured pigeon he had found in Central Park and setting it on the piano. After two months of rehearsals the new company had a repertory and was ready to go tour with it. All of us, dancers and staff, flew to Barcelona, Spain where Mrs. Harkness had rented Spain’s leading opera house, the Liceo, for a full month just to rehearse in every day. Then followed a tour throughout Spain. Lisbon, Rome, Paris followed, then a few weeks rest in Switzerland where Mrs. Harkness had one of her opulent homes in Gstad. It was a good company. The philosophy was to develop a repertory where there was no corps dancers, where every dancer was strong enough for at least semi-soloist roles, and where individuality was encouraged in each dancer.
Why was it that I so often made such bad
decisions? Photo: Still from German film made of
"Eaters". Zane Wilson and Linda DiBona Photo: Walter Gore rehearses "Eaters" Photo: Can you imagine notating this pile-up?!
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A giant of a hotel, it reminded me of a big city YMCA. The door to
my utilitarian room had a heavy lock and key. Each time I went in or
out I had to get or deliver the key with a visit to the ‘dvornaya’
[lady caretaker] who sat firmly and sternly at a desk. There was one
on every floor.
any job, or was he merely a friendly person wanting to know a
foreigner? At any rate, I couldn’t get rid of him and every day for
weeks he would ring me up for us to get together for a visit. As I
was attending a performance every night, he would have to tag along
with me but he didn’t seem to mind. He spoke no English but being
with him, my Russian vocabulary grew by leaps and bounds as I asked
him to identify various items that were strange to me. He also liked
teaching me dirty words, and enjoyed hearing me speak them back to
him. Of course, to me they were just meaningless sounds.
Photo:
The famous ‘Theater Street”. Here (on the right in the
image) is the Vaganova
Ballet Institute where Nijinsky, Nureyev, Baryshnikov, Pavlova,
Makarova and many other famous ballet stars studied and graduated.
The three in the middle of the street were fashion models as they
were doing a fashion shoot when I took the picture.
After the interview he took me to meet Mrs. Harkness in her salon on
the fourth floor. She was cordial and talked about her musical
training. She liked to consider herself a composer as well as a
dancer and had studied orchestration with the famous Nadia Boulanger
in Paris. Before I knew it I was hired.
Resident choreographers Ben Stevenson and Vincente Nebrada created
works of beauty. There were other choreographers, some good, mostly
bad, who managed to somehow get the ear of Mrs. Harkness. She was
easily led.
of
how a young bride, though completely normal, is committed by her
husband to an asylum, where her encounters with the inmates drive
her insane. Walter’s wife, Paul Hinton, danced the leading role.
"Eaters"
back at Harkness House, he had found an injured pigeon in Central
Park and - filled with a tender heart - brought it to his rehearsal
and later, I suppose, to his hotel room to nurse it. His taste for
eccentric and violently dramatic ballets sometimes overshadowed his
true gifts of gaiety, tenderness and deep pity for the human
condition.
offered
what could have been an exciting career change for me. Why not leave
Harkness to stay in Lisbon and join them and his very successful
company? They could have also been impressed with my work and
considered I was wasting my time with Harkness, but I decided to
stay on course. Wrong! Walter Gore was a famous choreographer. I may
likely have ended up staging his works all over the world!