In the Shadow of the Greats

Mary and I were never in Paris for long. We eagerly signed contracts which took us to Aix-en-Provence to rehearse la Comédie en Provence au XVIIIe Siecle’s production of La Comtesse Cathleen. This was a musical comedy based on a work written by William Butler Yeats, featuring Joseph Lazzini’s contemporary choreography. The French were experimenting with total theater--Essai de Theatre Total-- a concept embracing triple threat performers who could sing, dance, and act, plus demonstrate a comic flair.

I knew Lazzini, director of the Marseille Opera Ballet, from my stint in Belgium where his ballets had been popular and successful. (Actually, the Aix-en-Provence gig was a wise decision, as he subsequently invited me to dance in Marseille--he liked to include guests on his programs. I have an old poster from 1961 that has Colette Marchand on top with seven other stars--including me. Among his leading dancers were Janine Monin, who was Peter van Dijk’s girlfriend; Adolfo Andrade, a colleague of mine from Balletto Europeo di Nervi; and Luis Diaz, who danced with me in French television.) His Maurice-meets-Milko style produced usual works, among them Ace de coeur and Hommage á la Jérôme Bosch (1961), which I performed. In Bosch for instance, which had a score by Meyrowitz, he tried to illustrate the artist’s strange, beautiful, and sinister paintings. These reminded me of plain sand dunes with a few bones jutting out. As I remember, there was a large ball constructed of tiny pipes placed center stage and it was possible to dance inside of it. The choreography was very sensual--we rolled around on the ground with our partners and could feel every breath and every ripple of the abdominal muscles. His works were always challenging, but I was eager for return engagements, as the public was enthusiastic and in appreciation, we were wined and dined. (I liked Marseille, birthplace of Petipa and home to the best fish bouillabaisse. I was honored to dance in the same studios and stages as the former and delighted to inhale the spices of the latter.)
During the rehearsal period for La Comtesse Cathleen, we resided in the same Aix-en-Provence hotel where I stayed when I performed with the Avignon Opera in 1961. (That time, I injured a muscle and was grounded, forced to rest while it healed.)

The show’s six-week tour was partially successful--but certainly, not a hit. The fusion of different disciplines did not mesh smoothly enough. Then again, it is very difficult to judge what the public sees while you are onstage.

We expected a return engagement, but I immediately landed a television gig while Mary was cast in an operetta at the Theatre Port St. Martin.

In early autumn, Massine summoned me for a Milan television production of The Three Cornered Hat. I decided to drive my two-year-old Renault Dophen to Milan, which was cheaper than buying a rail ticket. This popular little car lacked body durability and dented easily--it “gave” to thumb pressure, but it was economical and had a good engine. Regardless, I liked my car, which was my second vehicle. (My first car, a four-horse quatre chevaux was smaller than a Volkswagen Beetle, which was popular then. And, incidentally, I remember having trouble passing my first driving test.)

It was a relatively easy trip to Milan, but it required crossing the Swiss Alps. At the top of the mountain, which seemed to be as high as the clouds, I stopped. The view of the mountain and surroundings was breathtaking. I wanted to enjoy it outside of my car. I felt like I was on the doorstep of heaven.

On reentering my car, I lost my grip on the handle. The door slammed on my thumb, as I was not fast enough to catch it in time. The pain was tremendous; the swelling instantaneous.

The injury would not have been a great catastrophe if my role in Massine’s ballet had not been the comic Corregidor. I had to jump through a window and fall on a mattress. Generally, that jump would have been a snap. Instead, it created a throbbing pain in my thumb that felt as if someone was lopping it off. The ache brought tears to my eyes and consequently hampered my comedic abilities.

My partner was Tatiana Massine, who was cast as the miller’s daughter. When she saw the expression on my suffering face, she burst into uncontrollable giggles. Whenever possible, I held my thumb up higher than my head.

Well, this tour was far from over. On the second or third day, we dined in a restaurant that served breadsticks from a glass container on the table. I was nibbling on one with a glass of wine and as I bit into it, my capped front tooth broke. So here I was with a tooth missing and with a thumb in the air--I looked a mess. I never saw the film, but hope these problems were invisible on screen. As much as I enjoyed Italy, I was very happy to finish this job and return to Paris to repair my tooth and pamper my thumb.
Chapter Seven: Grounded for Life
My thumb was nearly healed when I signed on with Irina Grjebina for a North African tour. We were engaged to perform for the Green Berets, an offshoot of the French Foreign Legion--professional soldiers of all nationalities, tough killing machines. The political situation was quite tense between France and Algeria, which was in the state of revolution. Large numbers of the local Algerians never confronted these soldiers, but instead planted mines and blew up anything connected to France or the French army. Popular targets included post offices and cinemas. The locals called themselves “freedom fighters,” but they were the personification of terrorists at that time.

In Tunisia (or maybe it was Oran), I entered a post office to purchase stamps for postcards. Seconds after I exited, the post office exploded. While in a cinema, something triggered an evacuation from the theater. People were yelling and pointing to some chairs, indicating that a bomb was beneath them. The intense panic nearly triggered a stampede, so powerful that people nearly trampled each other to death. It was a false alarm. The “bomb” was merely a bag of forgotten tennis balls.

I liked the climate, the food, and the local French, known as Pied Noir (Black Feet), who made our stay pleasant. On the downside, performances began at 5:00 p.m. as la loi martiale (marshal law) was enforced from 9:00 p.m. until 6:00 a.m. We were frequently invited to post-performance parties, but if we missed the couvre-feu (curfew), we were forced to sleep on the floor because we could not return to our hotel. At night, grenade explosions in the streets echoed through the empty avenues and awakened us.

I was uncomfortable when the Green Berets escorted us. Two of them sat like sentries at the front of the bus. I felt that we were sitting ducks. Otherwise, we personally did not feel like targets.

Capping this tension, we flew from Algiers to Oran in a twin engine, ninety-seat crate. People stood in the aisle with chickens and other animals in their hands. The plane flew through a hurricane on the Mediterranean Sea. As we hit air pockets, the plane “fell” instead of moved forward. An incessant squeak gave me the impression that the wings were about to snap off. I broke out into a cold sweat. I kept telling myself, “If I get down in one piece from this plane, I will never take another again.” I repeated this mantra until I hypnotized myself.

Consequently, I vowed to sail to Marseilles and then finish the trip home via the train. My friend Karoly Drach decided that was quite a stupid thing for me to do, so he bought a box of Valium (an over-the-counter drug at that time) and insisted that I swallow a lot of it. The Valium calmed me down--and put me solidly to sleep. I spent the three and a half hour flight to Paris unconscious. I made only one more roundtrip during my domicile in France, plus the flight from Paris to Pittsburgh.

A phobia literally paralyzes you. Thoughts of flight induced a sweat. I was overcome with an uncomfortable, suffocating feeling and from the moment I consciously realized that I would have to fly, I felt sick. It was out of the question to accept any job where flight was necessary. Immediately, after that Algerian tour, I even had difficulty taking a train or a bus. I felt restricted and closed-in, a sensation that fortunately dissipated six months later.

I joined tours with dance companies that traveled by bus, train, or car. I often drove to summer jobs. I accepted numerous film gigs and submerged myself in the cinema-television medium, accepting offers ranging from “extra” to eventually producer and choreographer. Later, when I founded Pittsburgh Ballet Theatre, I realized the great value of these acquired skills.
Grjebina’s company embarked on a summer tour that took us from the west of France--around Bayonne--to Lucerne, Switzerland. There were highways from Paris to Marseilles, but nothing from western France to the eastern part of the country, which was largely obstructed by the Swiss Alps. We were supposed to sleep on the bus as we traveled all day and all night from Bayonne to our next destination in Switzerland. The route was extremely exhausting and difficult.

Owing to poor planning or lack of options, we just rushed onward--with only a few pit stops and food breaks. When we reached the Swiss Alps, the bus had to climb the mountains on a steep, narrow, serpentine road. It could only accelerate to fifteen or twenty miles per hour. This tripled the travel time. The road, which was barely twenty-five feet wide, was cut into the side of the mountain. Consequently, the bus could not drive too near to the left edge. Over the right side was a drop waiting to swallow us. One car could barely pass beside another. We had reached the peak of fear.

We were tense. We prayed that the brakes would hold and that our driver was a good one. We eventually reached an old-fashioned arched stone bridge that resembled the gates to heaven, as both sides of it rose above a several thousand foot drop. Some of the stones looked loose. I wanted a parachute.

The bus driver stopped. The bridge had a fourteen ton limit--our bus was probably about double this weight. We had to cross.

My nerves kicked. My impulse was to get out, jump in front of the bus, and help to guide it. Many of the dancers opted to just walk across. The driver speculated that an empty bus would be nearer to the weight limit. As we walked ahead, the bus inched across this bridge. I walked backwards--step by step--beckoning the bus driver, whose eyes were bulging. I sensed his enormous tension and fear. Since the bus could not drive itself, he had to risk his life. About five minutes elapsed before the bus was safely across.

Re-boarding the bus, I noted that the driver was dripping with sweat. We decided to call that bridge Price of Fear, after a film that was very popular at the time.

Our arrival in Lucerne was scheduled for mid-afternoon. Curtain was at 8:00 p.m. We arrived an hour late. I was surprise that the public was waiting for us. We hurriedly unpacked, dressed as fast as we could--skipping the make-up, and flew onstage.

Everybody was on edge and charged with pent up energy, as we had been sitting on the bus for almost twenty hours. We caught a collective second wind and--feeling guilty about making the public wait--we outdid ourselves onstage.

I was surprised by my performance. I had to execute a series of relevé double tours for sixteen consecutive counts. Even when I was well-rested, this was challenging. This time, I executed it effortlessly and finished the last revolution smoothly on one knee. In all of my other variations, I was electrified--even pirouettes, which were problematic, came easily, as I whipped off some eight turns without any major difficulties. My performance elicited bravos and tremendous applause from the audience.

I loved the excitement of the onstage experience. As a dancer, I derived self-satisfaction from it, especially when the public cheered and when I felt that I was performing well. I was pushed by adrenaline and felt no fear--no fear, unless I was under-rehearsed. However, I had an advantage. Sometimes, if I forgot something, I instinctively improvised the section, which developed my choreographic sensibilities.

Most of the time, I gave my maximum in performance. When I got offstage, I felt drained of energy and was ready for dinner or a drink. However, after this show, exhausted from the bus trip, and spent from the performance, I was ready to collapse--we all were. We headed for the hotel.

I bunked with Branco Urosevic, whom I had met in Belgrade. He was one of the best male Spanish dancers in the Olga Grbic Torez Spanish Company. (Before I mastered the castanets, I was quite envious of him.) Our accommodations were comfortable, but Branco thought that a bath would make him sleep better. I told him to go ahead and that I would shower afterwards. I collapsed on the bed with my legs hanging over the side. I dozed off. When I awoke I checked my watch. It was already 2:00 a.m. I looked around, but could not find Branco. A little disoriented, I dragged myself to the bathroom. There, my heart stopped!

Branco’s thin six foot frame was motionlessly slumped in the tub. Only his nose projected above the overflowing water that was spilling onto the floor. He looked dead. I froze for a moment, ran to him, and attempted to pull him out. At that point, he awoke. Dazed, he muttered, “What’s the problem? What’s happening?”

I was thrilled to hear his voice. I turned off the water and let the tub drain. I helped him to get out of the tub. He looked back at it and said, “Gee, I had a good sleep.” Maybe he did, but I almost had a heart attack.

Consequently, Branco, who still lives in Paris, became a target for jokes. When we arrived at a hotel, the company would tease him, “Branco, you don’t need a room--just a bathtub.”
During the next six years, I became a regular member of ORTF, as a dancer, choreographer, and assistant. I also contemplated self-producing dance concerts. I experimented with both contemporary and folk styles. In August 1963, I debuted as a choreographer at Paris’ Theatre Salle Pleyel with a pas de deux to Igor Stravinsky’s Scenes de Ballet. I was fond of this music, which had originally been composed for a ballet featuring Alicia Markova and Anton Dolin, with a small corps de ballet. My initial creation was constructed as a pas de deux for Cannsius, a dancer from Béjart’s company and Monique who worked with me at ORTF, where we also rehearsed for this concert. In the seventies, I re-choreographed it as a vehicle for Edward Villella and Violette Verdy.

I also presented my original version of this ballet at the American Center in Paris, which was sponsoring a competition for young choreographers. Both Pierre Lacotte and Merce Cunningham, who happened to be in town, were adjudicators. Back then, Merce was unknown in Paris. I had never heard of him, but he was extremely nice and we talked at length about the future of dance--which was a favorite subject for a young choreographer. Any feedback on my little pas de deux was extremely important to me. Lacotte was very encouraging and said that with experience and work, I could become a good choreographer. Merce concurred, but emphasized the modern influence in dance and suggested that I study modern dance technique. It was not until I arrived in the U.S. that I understood Merce’s perspective.

Young choreographers accept every opportunity just to present work. They lack negotiating power and even if the work is quite good, their output sells cheaply. Public opinion is crucial in establishing artistic credibility.

Dancers do not realize the problems and complications of producing dance. At first, it felt strange to be on the other side of the barre. Today, I realize that without managerial experiences--if I had not organized a few companies and run them for others and myself--I would have been incapable of building Pittsburgh Ballet Theatre. These experiences provided a new perspective on production. As a performer, I complained, criticized, and was difficult; the shoe was now on the other foot. I would warmly recommend dancers to experience the production side--I suspect that they would become much more manageable and much easier to work with.

A company’s survival depends on money for costumes and other essentials. I had to find employment that funded the troupe and covered my living expenses. Shoestring budgets and minimal costume expenditures are the norm for emerging choreographers--which is just the opposite of Diaghilev’s aesthetic. He assembled a perfect unit of the best quality available in dance, music, painting (including costumes and décor), and lighting. He believed that none of these elements could stand alone or if they did, the result was artistically inferior. I was of the austere generation that experimented with the bare minimum. Obviously, as an emerging choreographer, I did not have a Picasso, a Stravinsky, or a Karinska on call. Then again, every generation has its own great creators. The trick was to discover them before they became famous and unaffordable.

I experimented with contemporary ballet and tested the waters with an unincorporated folk company, which the French newspapers christened “Ballet Petrov.” While I might have named it something else, the moniker stuck.

Unfortunately, for the folk troupe, I needed authentic costuming that represented each nationality accurately. I spent some money on costumes with the proper trims for the dancers and instead of buying designer street clothes for myself; I bought blue jeans from the bargain basement.
I was never enthralled with long-running gigs that repeated their content everyday for years. However, my airplane phobia necessitated that I take whatever work was available, including the show Temps de Guitar. Tino Rossi, a great Corsican singer, already in his decline, was its star. The show’s format was similar to the television program “Café Concert.” Here, a vedette (star), in this case Rossi was surrounded by dancers and a comedian to underscore his importance.

My friend Jean Guelis may have choreographed Rossi’s show, which ran in a small theater located between Richelieu Drouot and Bonne Nouvelle. I lived just a couple of blocks from there, on rue Trevise, which was convenient, as after work, I walked home and collapsed in my bed.

Our dances were not great art, but I made a living. I was proud to have worked with the handsome and charming Tino Rossi, whose career began in Casino de Paris as a foil for Miss Tangette. Although his star was not as bright as Maurice Chevalier’s, he was popular and recognized.

After a successful gig in Nice, Rossi invited us to his wonderful villa in Ajaccio, Corsica. We were also scheduled to perform there for a week. Everybody was excited about it, except me--we had to fly from Nice to Ajaccio and back. That was absolutely against my better judgment! There was no way that I could pullout. It was a short trip via Air France. The weather was fine, but I needed to be coaxed to board the plane.

Rossi hosted a party in his home. His swimming pool was filled with baskets of black shellfish, indigenous to the Mediterranean region. These shellfish--with their antennas resemble “porcupines.” Grabbing a king sized one; I just cut the upper part off, put lemon on the top, and sucked out the pink flesh, which looked a little bit like salmon. It was not stringy though--it was like raw eggs. I still remember their fantastic taste.

On another evening, we were invited to Ajaccio’s most expensive restaurant and served an entrée of little birds on a bruschette. This house specialty and Corsican delicacy was delicious, though it now sounds cruel to eat little birds.

Overall--except for the flight--I enjoyed my visit to Corsica, an island surrounded by blue seas and enveloped in a wonderful climate. I still dream about the Corsican nights on the Mediterranean and promise to vacation there after I retire.
In 1963, our impresario, Madame Sarrade, booked us for a tour of Spain and Portugal, plus for summer theaters in France. The tour was cancelled because of an unfortunate political crisis--somebody exploded a couple of grenades in a hotel in Madrid. However, we proceeded with the gigs in France.

I amassed a company of about thirty-five technically strong dancers--my friends from ORTF (some of them danced in Irina Grjebina’s troupe), plus René Bon, as a guest artist. Most of the choreography was mine, but others also contributed. Zvonko Potkovac staged a Croatian shopsko, the Lezghinka was staged by Ismet Mouhedin and Karoly Drach helped me to set a Hungarian dance. The rehearsals went quite smoothly except for some minor discussions. We rehearsed for four weeks in Paris before we took off with a repertory including Quadrille de Village Rusee, Dance Noble, Russian Sailor Dance, Lezghinka, Danses Tziganes, Suite de Danses Moldaves, and Gopak.

Early in my career, I watched Charrat’s troupe, Fonteyn, Somes, and Massine in rehearsal or in performance and was fascinated. As a leading dancer, I was less impressed with others, but admired Rudolph Nureyev, Mikhail Baryshnikov, Violette Verdy, Natalia Makarova, and Peter Schaufuss, all who held my interest and won my admiration. As a choreographer and director, my attitude shifted again. I was extremely pleased with the success of my company. My dancers, who were also my friends and colleagues, made me proud. The enterprise held promise for the future, which gave us a good feeling.

I was honored to have René Bon dancing with my company, as I had idolized him during my youth and had followed his suggestion to move to Paris. He was also proud of me and of my success, which evolved from his invitation. My ensemble included Karoly Drach, who became a lifelong friend, Ismet Mouhedin, who later taught on my faculty in Pittsburgh, and Ella Jarozewicz, a Polish mime actress with a solid dance background. She and I danced a comical pas de deux, where I portrayed a staggering drunk Russian mujic (peasant). She was the wife, who attempted to sober me up. Many years later, I discovered that she had joined the famous French mime artist, Marcel Marceau, whom she married. Our first stage manger was Daniel Astier, who was trained by Petrus van Muyden and was a cast mate of mine in television. When I became explosive before a show, he would always calmly say, “Nicolas, you’re making everyone nervous, cool it.”