In the Shadow of the Greats

I continued to work in Pittsburgh from Monday through Thursday, but after the last class, I headed for West Virginia. I was on the go seven days a week. It was a hell of a difficult job. I enjoyed it, but did not realize the toll it was taking on my health--my hip was already hurting.

I focused on developing a dance division at Elkins College, which was a charming school on the green. The buildings were old and of gothic style. The campus was absolutely gorgeous. I thought that working in this lovely environment that was far from city distractions, would be an ideal place to teach and develop dance (though I was unsure if I wanted to live there permanently). And, there were students here, who wanted to study the arts.

Dean Clarence Coffendaffer was interested in my concepts. With my eye on launching a department, I eagerly agreed to do anything they requested. I was asked to choreograph a musical theater production--The Fantastics. Following the show’s success, it was suggested that I speak with the chairman of the theater department, as a dance program would be under the theater department’s umbrella. Unfortunately, the chairman was intimidated by me and felt that dance would consume the budget. The dean and president both supported my ideas, but the curriculum committee rejected my proposal by a narrow margin. My two-year residency ended.

For two consecutive years, Frank produced The Nutcracker in Clarksburg. For the first venture, I negotiated for Jean Gedeon’s the Pittsburgh Youth Ballet to perform, along with guest artists. (If I remember correctly, Bahiri was the Cavalier.)

The succeeding year, I arranged for Misha Korogodsky’s Philadelphia-based school to appear, but owing to transportation problems, only his nine Soviet-trained soloists--all, excellent dancers--were available. Students from Peter Degnan’s and Kristen Schleich’s Wilkes-Barre school filled the corps positions. The Degnan/Schleich school owned good costumes and had the resources to build nice décor, as they were based at the college where Kristen’s father taught. Unfortunately, the house did not sell. While the performance was a triumph, we barely filled two-thirds of the Rosebud Theater. This was my last enterprise with Frank Marinaro. We stayed in contact and dreamed of opening a school in Clarksburg, but that never materialized.

I continued guest teaching in West Virginia for former PPC students Stephanie Lopez, who operated Movement in Dance, a school based in Fairmont and for Nina Scatteregia in Buckhannon. I maintained an affiliation with Mid-Ohio Ballet until some Hungarian dancers whom I had recommended got into romantic hot water with the students. I briefly taught at Schrader’s school, where I furthered my friendship with Duncan Noble. I really liked the guy and we spent time discussing everyone we knew.

After my hip operation, I continued to make the trek, but I enlisted Claudia Morris to substitute for me. On one occasion, I chauffeured a New York-based pianist, whom I imported for the gig, while Claudia provided transportation for Schrader’s daughter. En route, I purchased a large carpet at a discount store and stowed it in the car’s back seat. For the return trip, Claudia headed off to visit her boyfriend and stranded her passenger. Consequently, the Schrader’s were irate and I was never invited back. Overall, my West Virginia stint was not gloriously successful, but I left behind a few traces.

This special event was organized during the first year of James Prescott’s chairmanship of the Fine, Applied, and Performing Arts division. He appointed Roberto Munoz, as the director of the evening classes, replacing Myles Marsden, who had succeeded Kamaletdinov. Roberto developed into a popular and loved teacher, became known as a coach, and re-established the policy of importing guest teachers. That summer, he invited a roster of Latin American guest teachers, including Laura Alonzo, Haydee Gutierrez, and Miguel Campaneria. Prescott must have felt uncomfortable about my situation at the college and approved the Vaganova Festival, which ran simultaneous to Roberto’s summer ballet program.

I had not seen Asaf Messerer for many years. We had been introduced to each other by Mikhail Lavrovsky during one of the Bolshoi’s visits to the Paris Opéra. I had stopped by to say “hello” to Lavrovsky, whom I had known since 1955, when he staged Giselle in Belgrade. He in turn introduced me to Galina Ulanova and Asaf Messerer, who was teaching company class on the third floor of the Opéra building. Asaf was a nice guy, slightly bald, but with a lot of energy. I liked his class and it crossed my mind that I could have joined the Bolshoi, had I gone to the Soviet Union.

While Asaf remembered the Paris engagement, he did not remember me, but both of us had changed in thirty years. He was now a diminutive old man, with lively blue eyes hidden behind coke-bottle spectacles. He had lost a little bit of weight and was less energetic, but paradoxically was a vigorous and active teacher. He had just celebrated his eightieth year of artistic life, a milestone acknowledged by the Bolshoi Theatre. I respected his knowledge and artistry. During his time at the college, we became friends.

His niece, Maya, was supposed to arrive during week two of the program, but she was a no-show. I met her many years later in Pittsburgh, but she had no recollection of the contract with the college.

Gabriella Komleva, who had long been a leading dancer with the Kirov, was an excellent teacher. (I actually have a film of her, dancing the principal female role in Le Corsaire.) She was an extremely pleasant lady. I had the opportunity to work with her in Philadelphia the following year.

Sharapova was a Moiseyev dancer and excelled in character. I watched her classes, which were physically challenging to the students, and these encouraged me. I compared mine to hers and realized that even if character dance had evolved since my time, I was not too far behind.

This festival was very successful and the quality of the classes was top caliber. We drew students from all over America, which offered the college’s dance division excellent exposure. It was not a break-even venture, but extra funding from the Pittsburgh Foundation supported the guest teachers.

Afterwards, I did some guest teaching for Misha, who was a fair director and a fair businessman, but he had much competition in Philadelphia.
Jean-Pierre Bonnefous, an acquaintance from Paris, was now based in Charlotte North Carolina and operated a wonderful summer school at the Chautauqua Institute in New York. He had great support, excellent facilities--four studios--and a fine faculty, including Patricia McBride; Violette Verdy; former PBT member Mark Diamond, who became his resident choreographer in both North Carolina and Chautauqua; and former colleagues from the New York City Ballet. While I had cut back on guest teaching, I could not refuse him. Jean-Pierre was one of the best directors that I have worked with, as he knew how to do his job. Everyone on staff respected everyone else. This was such a change from the tense relationships at Point Park College. I was working, but in this environment, I felt like I was on vacation.

Mostly, I taught male technique to a dozen or so boys, character dance, and company classes. Several of my former students were involved with the Institute, including Jill Keating, who had her own school in the area and served as secretary for the Chautauqua summer program. I continued to teach there annually, until I developed some physical problems.

I ignored my condition, took students on tour to Budapest, as usual, and while there was careless about nutrition. I ate greasy food and swam in hot mineral baths all day, not realizing the health risks. As usual, I went to Chautauqua to teach. Even with a slight pain in my chest, I was fine.

One evening, Violette and I went to dinner in the nearest city--Bemus Point. En route back to Chautauqua, I suddenly heard the car hit something soft. Violette yelled, “Nicolas, you have run over a cat!”

Well, I slowed down and looked back. There was a black cat lying in the road. We drove a couple hundred yards. I stopped and turned the car around. The cat was gone. I assumed that it had just passed out and after regaining consciousness, had run away. I was very superstitious and felt this was an omen.

The pain in my chest remained after the teaching engagement had ended. Back in Pittsburgh, Grandis sent me to the hospital for a heart cauterization. At the hospital, they explained the procedure--they would go in with a wire through my vessels to see if there was any clogging. If there was, they would insert a little balloon to force open the artery.

They put the wire, which was almost like a big needle, into the upper part of my thigh. We watched on the monitor as the little light floated in my body. I was told that when they pulled out the wire, I would feel heat. The doctor looked very serious. I thought this had been a very simple thing. I expected to get up and walk out. That was not the case. According to the doctor, several of my arteries were well clogged.

He explained that cauterization worked on veins that were fifty to sixty percent clogged. Mine were eighty to ninety. I needed heart surgery. An operation! I was not prepared for that.

I was transferred to a temporary room and there, the procedure, which was set for the next morning, was explained to me. I did not know how to reply. I asked what my options were. The doctor replied that there were few. I was so badly clogged that if I had a heart attack, I would drop dead. This was like being hit over the head. I asked the doctor how much time I had. He admitted that it was difficult to predict, but there was no solution aside from surgery. The operation had a ninety percent success rate, with an eight percent chance of complications and a two percent mortality rate. My mind was racing three hundred miles an hour--and I wondered if I would be among the unlucky two percent. The odds were good however. I called home and told my family that I was staying in the hospital and would have surgery the next morning.

A nurse administered a tranquilizer. They woke me at 5:00 a.m. to shave my chest. I was dazed and figured whatever happened would happen. I was in the OR by 6:00 or 7:00 a.m. I awoke in the early afternoon. I was completely out of it! I had pipes coming from my mouth, my nose, and my stomach. I looked like a creature from a science fiction movie. I could not talk. I could only move my eyes. I realized how difficult this operation was.

Mary and Alex visited me. They were upset. They were in the waiting room during the surgery, worried about me. I could not communicate very well--I could only lift my finger. For the next three or four days, I was plugged in like a recharging battery.

After three days, they eased me off the heavy drugs. A gorgeous blonde nurse ran into the room every morning and asked, “How are you?” How was I to answer with my mouth completely stuffed? I wondered why she asked, as I could not respond.

The rehabilitation from this operation was atrocious. When I came out of anesthesia this time--unlike after hip surgery--I felt terrible. After three days, I could not stand the pipe in my mouth anymore. I pulled it. That created a big commotion with my gorgeous nurses, but the doctor did not insist on putting it back in.

I was put on a breathalyzer, which is a little gadget to breathe into and then blow into at graded levels, ranging from three hundred to twenty-five hundred. I could barely blow the ball up to three hundred. It took almost a month before I got to two thousand, which is the rate for a normal person.

I spent two months sitting in the garden, as driving was prohibited, but I was required to walk for five minutes every hour. My out-patient rehab consisted of cycling and weight lifting. In three months, I was back to normal and realized that the surgery was successful--the pain was gone. I had exchanged my rusty pipes for new ones so that the blood could flow normally again. I regained pink cheeks and looked healthy. I was anxious to return to normal activities.

Between the 1979-80 and 1985-86 school years, my salary was updated and correct. However, when I became co-chair of the department with James Prescott, I lost the summer salary. There were no summer classes, which translated as a loss of almost six thousand dollars. No one on campus would listen. I hired a lawyer and presented a grievance, winning a settlement of five thousand dollars, most of which the lawyer took. I was left with one thousand dollars.

Oddly, as director of the dance program, my request for supplemental money was rejected and I was asked by Prescott to step down. My successor, Ron Tassone received a supplement as dance director. I wondered why I was discriminated against.

Since 1985, I have not received any special raises or considerations for my work and efforts done in behalf of the department or the college. I cannot retire because my TIAA/CREF has only been paid since 1982. I worked at the college for fourteen years without any retirement contribution. The administration failed to inform me about the retirement plan. I learned--too late--that it was my responsibility to request and pay into the retirement fund. The college only paid a part of it and I was required to contribute the remainder. Consequently, it was not paid from either side. I have since asked the college to compensate me for those lost years through supplements, but have not received any understanding or sympathy for this problem.

Since Nolte liked to have a little drink here and there, we stopped for drinks after work. (The bars gave us VIP service.) We became friendly and talked about his home state--West Virginia. As I had been teaching there, I told him that I would just have to pay him a visit, which I never did. During the filming, I also became acquainted with Peter Ustinov, famous for his narration of Peter and the Wolf. In this film, he played a research scientist. Talking in Russian and French, we often lunched together.

I revived Peter and the Wolf in 1995 for the Playhouse and again worked with PYBC on The Nutcracker. In 1997, I created a comical ballet Scat set to a score by the Pittsburgh New Music Ensemble and later that year, staged Stravinsky’s Pulcinella, which was a big job because we re-worked Picasso’s original designs.

In 1999, I staged Divertissement for Mary Lorrain Dance Studio in suburban Pittsburgh. Two years later, I produced a series called Green Apples that utilized a musical collage--Lagzi, Joplin, Mozart, Paganini, and also staged a suite of character dances for the Playhouse. Green Apples II, produced in 2002 was a comical approach between Mozart and Offenbach, and Degas and Toulouse-Lautrec that used slides and commentary. I also staged Kit Kat to Rossini’s Cat Meow’s and a Mozart Divertissement for Ballet Westmoreland, at the Community College North Campus Theatre.
In June of 1999, while I was teaching at Chautauqua, sharp pains shot through my right hip, but I ignored them. As they persisted, I scheduled an appointment in Pittsburgh with Dr. Freddie Fu, a University of Pittsburgh Medical Center physician, who had a reputation for treating PBT’s dancers and professional athletes.

We first met while he was an intern at the University of Pittsburgh. He was always interested in dance and he along with several colleagues, provided advice and care to the college’s dancers and athletes. I often turned to him for advice and suggestions.

He recommended Dr. Cohen, head of Presbyterian Hospital’s Orthopedic Association, who in turn, referred me to Dr. Senha. The decision was reconstructive surgery on my hip. Consequently, I was left with one leg shorter than the other. While this was not a huge problem, the hip constantly popped out of its socket. After the third or fourth displacement, he thought that it would be wise to extend the stem in my thigh bone. Looseness in the area was causing the hip to pop out of place.
After more surgery, I received a longer stem, but consequently a shorter leg. The discrepancy between my legs was now two and a half inches. I wore a platform shoe to compensate for the difference. I was no longer slightly handicapped--I was really handicapped. Walking was challenging. It was almost impossible to push the car’s gas pedal with the platform shoe. While I am not easily discouraged by small problems, this was a big problem. During an eight-month period, I experienced three or four additional hip displacements; this time the cap loosened and could not be replaced.

I was tremendously disappointed. I complained to Fu and Cohen, who recommended Dr. Nicholas Sotereanos. In the meantime, I saw several other physicians, including Dr. D’Antonio. All were shocked and concurred that correcting the damage would be difficult. Amid my exam with Sotereanos, my hip popped out and an ambulance transported me to Allegheny General Hospital’s ER. While Sotereanos had suggested Dr. Poprosky, a specialist in Chicago, destiny changed my plans. In December, my hip popped out on the way to Allegheny General, where I was scheduled for surgery. The plate inside was too loose to replace.

Sotereanos offered two options--wait until after the holidays (three or four weeks) and then be transported to Chicago or agree to immediate surgery in Pittsburgh. The former would keep me in bed during the waiting period; the latter, could--if successful--solve the problem.

After discussing the options with my son, Alex, I opted for the immediate solution. The operation was scheduled for two days later. This confined me to the rehabilitation center for the holidays--a repeat of December 1999. It was almost becoming an annual custom.

In 1999, I had a mishap on my birthday. As I was descending the stairs for dinner, I became entangled in my crutches and tumbled down a whole flight of stairs, hitting my head and my hand on the opposite wall. My hand was completely displaced--I remember that it was distorted and I was on floor, with Alex and Mary looking on in absolute shock. I was more surprised by their expressions than by the pain in my elbow, shoulder, and left hand. This was how I entered the new century--with a disabled hip and my left hand in a sling. A straight jacket is nothing! I was immobilized without one. Now, it seems funny, but at the time, it was not.

By December 2000, I already felt like a veteran. I prayed this would be my last operation. Naturally, the repeated surgery around my hip and in the upper part of my thigh had chopped up my muscles--which are now more like hamburger.

My recuperation was slow. The college’s directors lost confidence in my health and recovery capacity. I taught from a chair, which reminded me of Edward Caton. Issuing instructions without demonstrating was a completely new experience. Two years elapsed before the pain abated and my leg became stable enough to use normally.

I considered retirement. However, my financial investments were affected by the September 11, 2001 terrorist attack on the U.S. and the Yugoslav and Iraq wars. This impacted my retirement income as well.

Throughout my career, Plisetskaya’s well-known family and I had crossed paths under various circumstances, but we did not maintain correspondence.

During my school days, I had admired Maya’s dancing, which I had seen on celluloid--a black and white film that was one of the first to utilize dance as part of the plot; and a color film of Stone Flower.

We met at the Paris Opéra in the sixties. At the time, she probably regarded me as an enthusiastic fan, who offered a hand shake and compliments. In the early seventies, when a contingent of Bolshoi soloists was on tour, we briefly crossed paths in front of New York’s Empire Hotel. At the time, she was engaged in a heated argument with Nikolai Fadeyechev. Consequently, she was cold and disinterested in speaking with me.