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December 31, 2003Jose Limon’s An Unfinished Memoir begins:-- Early in the year nineteen hundred and twenty-nine I was born at 9 East Fifty-Ninth Street, New York City. My parents were Isadora Duncan and Harald Kreutzberg. They were not present at my birth. I doubt that they ever saw one other or were aware of their responsibility for my being. Presiding at my emergence into the world were my foster parents, Doris Humphrey and Charles Weidman. It was at their dance studio and in their classes that I was born. I had existed previously in human form for twenty years. But that existence was only a period of gestation, albeit a long one, longer than that of an elephant. My grandparents were equally illustrious. They were Ruth St. Denis and Ted Shawn. All this constitutes an impossible pedigree and, with the exception of Harald Kreutzberg, a very American one. Duncan was born in San Francisco, St. Denis in Somerville, New Jersey, Shawn in Denver, Colorado, Humphrey in Oak Park, a suburb of Chicago, and Weidman in Lincoln, Nebraska. Muy americano. Muy yanqui. The curious thing about this birth is its posthumous aspect. My “mother,” a lady of considerable and conspicuous gallantry, an incurable romantic as well as one of the formidable artistic figures in Western history, had, in the process of riding off to her latest and, as it proved, her final amorous adventure (with, of all people, a garage mechanic), had her neck broken when her trailing scarf became entangled in the spokes of the rear wheels of the automobile. Her valedictory was consonant with her courageous and indomitable spirit, “Adieu, mes amis, je vais a la gloire.” And there, indeed, she remains to this day. Her tragic demise took place in the fall of 1927, and since I claim to be her child and to have been born in the winter of 1929, one can only conclude that all this is one of those miracles of which only artists and philosophers are capable. Spiritually, they are fecund and procreative long after their earthly remains have returned to the native dust. -- :D Thanks Slav. Tonight, Mother and I watched the Kirov Ballet of the Mariinsky Theatre perform Swan Lake -- choreography by Marius Petipa, music by Tchaikovsky. I was particularly impressed by the Jester and the corps. Jester, one of the shorter men, and stocky, jumped incredibly high, completed what looked like 7 turns with a clean and confident stop, and acted his part more fully than any other character. The corps, a collection of ~40 white swans (later joined by 8 black swans), moved as one unit, heaved as one breath, filled the stage with a flurry of precise legs and arms (Busby Berkeley fans?), and stood still onstage for nearly all of the time they weren’t actually dancing. (Petipa is a bastard.) One swan fell. That poor girl is going to get hell from some teacher in the wings. I was disappointed by Prince Siegfried, danced by Igor Zelensky. Part of this feeling stemmed from the way he looked while partnering females (lifting, assisting in turning, flinging). The partnering itself was fine: he never dropped a girl, helped the lead swan regain her balance in assisted turns when it was clear she was teetering. The only problem: sometimes he just looked awkward (... ridiculous). Nikka and I talked about this sometime in November when we saw a dance conservatory in Boston perform three pieces, including one Jose Limon piece and an alarmingly bright new ballet piece. The ballet piece, not surprisingly, called for some partner work. There was one male who assumed a strange position when partnering: with his hands on the female’s body (waist/arms), he stood rather far away from her, feet shoulder width apart and turned in, rear end sticking out, body learning forward, head down. I caught our hero Siegfried in this very position several times tonight. What is this? Does the Kirov not teach their male dancers how to look presentable while partnering? One male that impressed me recently: the Cavalier from Ms. Laura’s (Baltimore County Youth Ballet’s) production of The Nutcracker. Not yet out of high school, this boy was POLISHED: always stood upright, feet in first position and turned out if standing still, feet pointed and placed precisely and gracefully if moving, always looking at the Sugar Plum Fairy. mm. Such fine, clean dancing. Another complaint with regard to Siegfried. Remember Rocky IV? Remember Ivan Drago, that huge, blond, boxing representative of the Union of Socialist Soviet Republics who eventually lost because, let’s face it, he just didn’t have the heart&soul of Rocky Balboa? Tonight, Igor was Ivan reborn as a dancer. The dancer wasn’t as bulky as the boxer, but as the night, the ballet, and his increasingly wooden performance wore on, all I could think of was Ivan Drago looking into a reporter’s camera and saying, “I must doo dees for my kantree.” My Mother commented that Siegfried doesn’t really have that much to dance, but I can’t believe that if Baryshnikov or Nijinsky danced the part of Siegfried that it would look even remotely similar to what I saw tonight. (Who wants to watch that "documentary" about Nijinsky with me? Nikka??) Tchaikovsky is as predictable as ever. At one point, Mother noted, “That sounds like the finale for The Nutcracker.” And Romeo and Juliet, and Eugene Onegin... For all you aspiring trianglists out there, Act I Scene 1 requires a musician who can take fucking CONTROL of that triangle. Lots of dance in town for the spring: Feb6-8: Hubbard Street Dance March11-14: Mark Morris! April13-18: Alvin Ailey May21-23: Paul Taylor Never heard of Hubbard or Paul Taylor, but now terribly tempted to check it out. In fantastic news, Slav&I picked out our NewYear’s movies: The Hulk and View from the Top. Originally, Slav had wanted to rent Apt Pupil, and I was considering Training Day. Slav mentioned Hulk, we both agreed that it might be better to aim for light action adventure/comedies, and here we are. Taking a total of 0 suggestions from the kindly film buffs. Thanks anyway kids :D |
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