In the Shadow of the Greats

Maya and her husband arrived on September 25, as the September 11 terrorist attack on the U.S. had postponed Shchedrin’s engagement with the PSO. They lodged at the Renaissance Hotel, a block away from Heinz Hall. I was invited to dine with them and to serve as an interpreter, if needed. In the meantime, I invited her to guest teach at Point Park College. She hesitated and then declined--as she was retired. Instead she proposed a book signing with a question and answer session. She asked me to phone the following day, after her husband’s itinerary was set.

En route to Curtain Call (the PSO store) to purchase her book, I met both Maya and Shchedrin on the street. I recognized her immediately, as her face had not changed over the years. I did not know him. I was fascinated by this seventy-five-year-old ballerina, who instead looked much younger. I struck up a conversation.

It was windy and she held her coat tightly. She wanted to know where they could buy fruit. As there were no longer any grocery stores in downtown Pittsburgh, I offered to take them to a supermarket, but they opted to walk a bit and see the city. We said “good-bye” and I agreed to phone them at five o’clock.

When we next spoke, by phone, she explained that their schedule was too full to permit a visit to the college. She welcomed our students to the book signing at Curtain Call. She had another scheduled for the following day at Pittsburgh Ballet Theatre. Apparently, she was eager to promote the English translation of her book, I, Maya Plisetskaya, which was in its second edition.

I attended the book signing at PBT, where chairs and a video monitor had been set up for a screening of Serenade, in rehearsal. The students watched videos of Maya performing The Dying Swan, Carmen (to the Shchedrin score), and her legendary interpretation of Raymonda.

Bob Vickery, who was Terry Orr’s assistant, chauffeured Maya and her husband. The couple was introduced to the PBT dancers, artistic staff, and Patricia Wilde, artistic director emeritus. Numerous photos were snapped. Dancer Dmitri Kulev, (who knew her from Moscow) and I served as translators for the question and answer session.

One student asked how she retained her youthful appearance. Maya smiled, obviously unwilling to disclose her secret. Instead she replied, “I will tell you a story. I love flowers very much, so I have plenty of flowers in my room. I water them, talk to them, feed them, and give them supplements. After all that, they all collapsed--except for one flower that stayed erect.”

There was silence. Not everyone grasped that she lived naturally, without any special diet or regimen, which was the meaning of her story. The audience erupted into laughter when I explained that she was the flower. Agitatedly, Maya asked what I had said to them. To some questions, she replied that the answer was in her book. That sounded a bit commercial to me. She pitched it throughout her entire Pittsburgh visit.

Her book did answer one question. During a private conversation, I learned that Maya disliked her cousin Misha Messerer. When I started to tell her about my experiences with him, she cut me off, stating that we should not discuss him. Only after I read her autobiography did I understand.

Following the book signing, Terry invited us to Café Sam for dinner. We spent a charming evening, with an abundance of red wine and cheerful conversation. During dinner, Maya said that she hoped to visit Point Park College when she returned to Pittsburgh in early December.

Sydelle Kessler, who is a symphony fan and friend of the Jansons’, invited me to the PSO concert. (She was influential in including me in the event.) Backstage, Sydelle introduced me to many musicians and to Mrs. Jansons, who had been sitting beside me during the program. I also met Mariss, who was friendly and communicative. He had conducted that evening, and the performance was a big hit. As a composer, Shchedrin borders between traditional classical and modern contemporary composers. I will let the experts judge the works however.

I stopped by Curtain Call to say “Good-Bye. See you in December!” to Maya, who was busy autographing her book. I lingered to chat with Shchedrin, who was friendly and personable.

However, during their next Pittsburgh visit, I was in Europe and when Rodion was acknowledged as the PSO’s “Composer of the Year,” I was not notified of their arrival. We only had one telephone conversation. Maya was disappointed that I had not contacted them sooner to arrange her tour of the college. Rodion gave me their Moscow telephone number, as I was planning a trip to Moscow in May, but they were slated for a residency in Munich, Germany and were unsure if they would be at home.
I always enjoyed visiting Hungary, Austria, and Czechoslovakia and decided to organize a study tour for students. The response was positive--the students were delighted. We flew to London, England where we visited monuments and important sites. As Aleksandr Agadzhanov was ballet master at the Royal Ballet, I arranged a Covent Garden and the Royal Ballet tour.

I had maintained a friendship with ballerina Alicia Pastorova, who had been one of PBT’s first guest artists. She was still based in Bratislava, Czechoslovakia, where Massine had taken his cure in the mineral baths. I was anxious to visit. Unfortunately, when I made the trip, Alicia was out of town, but mentioning her name to the denizens, opened doors for me. On a subsequent visit, I took the students to Bratislava, where it was possible to live for three days on twenty dollars. Alicia gave us the grand tour of the city. We visited the beautiful tower/apartment with secret corridors and exits where Queen Maria Theresa--a rather ugly woman--maintained a love nest, far from the prying eyes in Vienna. We stopped by the ballet school, which had very good students and attended a ballet performance. I realized that the Czechs were very good choreographers (especially Jiri Kylián, whom I admired).

We spent time in Prague, which resembled a picture from a children’s storybook. It sustained little damage during World War II. Many old houses that are 150 to 250 years old are still standing, as are churches from the fourteenth century. These have gorgeous stained glass windows that when hit by the sun, radiate with a heavenly glow. The restaurants and museums were very good, and I was impressed with a huge mechanical, musical clock in the center of the city. Here, we also visited the ancient Jewish cemetery that was desecrated during the war. The carved limestone monuments which were smashed and toppled have been propped up, but not necessarily in their original positions. There was a long wait to enter the site, which was not large. The first time I visited--I was with Mary and as I remember, the weather was cold, but it was worth waiting to see. On subsequent visits, I brought the students.

Tourists were attracted to the Czech Republic, as it was very inexpensive to visit as compared to other European cities. And The Czechs were very enterprising in terms of tourist trade and had a knack for selling reproduced icons at very reasonable prices.

Sites in beautiful Vienna included St. Stephens Church, the Royal Garden, and the wonderful bakery, Sacher Chocolat Torte that is world famous.

Visiting Warsaw and the nearby city of Krakow also taught the students about the Holocaust and provided understanding of the tragic fate of Poles during World War II. We vacationed on the Croatian seaboard in Opatija--an unforgettable opportunity to swim in the quiet, transparent blue water of the Adriatic Sea.

In Hungary, our accommodations were inexpensive, as we stayed in private homes. We visited Heiviz, a resort and spent time in Budapest, which was comfortable and centrally located. I was particularly enticed by the mineral baths. While in Budapest, the students enjoyed classes at the State Ballet School, which honored me with several awards.

The Hungarian dance magazine published a four-page article about my life and association with the Hungarian dance world. I had an excellent relationship with Ivan Marco’s Hungarian Festival Ballet. He was a charming person and invited me to guest teach. I was impressed with the company, but efforts to import them were unsuccessful. Perhaps Paul Szilard had an impact on my plans. He had strong ties to the Budapest Opera and I sensed a rivalry between it and the Hungarian Festival Ballet.

Kaan Zsuzsa, the editor of the Hungarian dance magazine, asked me for a favor--she was eager to interview actor Tony Curtis for the magazine and asked me to contact him. Curtis the Brooklyn-born son of Hungarian immigrants was extremely respected and of great interest to musical theater-loving Hungarians. As Curtis had danced in numerous shows, the magazine wanted to feature a dancing actor, especially one who at nearly eighty-years-old was still performing.
In May 2001, with a subsidy from the college and a visa, I embarked on my long postponed trip to Russia. I flew from the warm, rainy weather in Budapest to snowy Moscow. Luckily I toted my leather jacket--otherwise I would have frozen my butt off. I had roamed the world, but Russia had never been on my itinerary, especially after I developed a phobia about flying.

I stayed a few miles from Moscow in an enormous American-style hotel. My room, decorated in European style with a single bed, provided a view of the Moscow River.

Shortly after my arrival, my hip began aching and I relied on public and privately operated cabs for transportation. One of my private drivers was a nice older Russian named Vitalli. He resembled Stalin--and was an admirer of the Stalinist era. I ignored his political slant and enjoyed his camaraderie. He and his son drove me around town, pointing out the most important landmarks. I was impressed with Vitalli’s son, a boy of twelve, who knew much about the city’s history. We spent a day at Red Square, where I took photos galore, but was disappointed that Lenin’s mausoleum was closed. We visited churches and shops, which displayed European goods and stopped at the Memorial Park, where World War II heroes are buried. I was unimpressed with the sprawling city; its enormous four lane highways, and great distances between destinations.

I was more interested in getting inside the Bolshoi Theatre than in seeing Spartacus, which was on the boards. The ballet was sold-out, but a hotel worker scalped a ticket for sixty dollars. When I received it, I noticed that the original price was sixty-seven rubles (about two and a half dollars). I had paid thirty times its original cost. I was further taken for a ride by the cab company (as Vitalli was busy). At the taxi station, I inquired about the two-mile fare from the theater to my hotel. The reply was “the taxi meter will show it.” The thing ticked away like a typing machine and in the end, the meter “showed” seven hundred and fifty rubles--the equivalent of twenty-five dollars. By comparison, I had given Vitalli twenty-five dollars and his son, five; they had driven me around for five hours. (I had been gouged by a taxi driver once before--when Mary and I had visited Prague and Budapest. That time, a little man stepped forward at the depot, offering to carry our bags for free. But the two kilometer ride to our rented apartment cost twenty dollars, as he took a roundabout route.)

The hotel’s food and drink were extremely expensive and comparable to New York prices. Naturally, that created a social and economic divide between those who can afford luxuries and those, like Vitalli, who work two jobs to make ends meet. With a somewhat sour taste in my mouth, I left for St. Petersburg by train.

My departure was at half past six. Traveling between 110 and 160 kilometers an hour, which is approximately one hundred miles an hour, it arrived in St. Petersburg at eleven o’clock on a “white night.” I checked in at the old fashioned Grand Hotel Europe, an internationally high class hotel, which had nice rooms. The stained glass windows in its restaurant were designed by Benois.

St. Petersburg is significantly more centrally located and easily situated between Vienna, Prague, and Budapest. From my father’s stories and descriptions, I had, since childhood, imagined how St. Petersburg should look. Unfortunately, many of the monuments and buildings were repainted or under reconstruction to recapture czarist St. Petersburg. I appreciated the green colored Winter Palace, which is now the Hermitage Museum. The Museum, situated near the Neva River, is enormous and houses a fabulous art collection that takes two days to see.

My grandfather’s house, which was across the river from the Hermitage, should have been visible. I searched for it, based on my father’s description. However, on that side of the river, there stood many houses of the same construction--two-story, with twenty to thirty windows and ten to fifteen rooms on the front side. They differed in colors, but none was distinctive of the nineteenth century and I failed to determine which one had belonged to my family. I was disappointed. If my guess was accurate, the house with the most potential is now a university.

When I peered inside, Tony’s eyes lit up. “Come in, come in!” he said.

Addressing him in English, I introduced myself, then lapsed into Hungarian, not certain how fluent his Hungarian was. It was quite good. Those around us seemed surprised and raptly watched the verbal ping pong match.

Curtis had been among my favorite actors, which I told him. (And his onstage dancing ability, at his age, was remarkable.) He was quite generous and very supportive of Hungary and Hungarians. He readily agreed to a phone interview with the magazine.

Our conversation was brief, as it was nearly curtain, but he took a moment to proudly introduce me to his young wife and her mother, whom I had mistaken for the wardrobe mistress. His wife, I estimated was in her thirties, which meant a half-century age difference. I think that Tony achieved the dream of most old men.

I caught the show, which was adequate. The older crowd had come to see Curtis, who had a secondary role. Afterwards, I congratulated him and also ran into Marisa and Lenora. I took a photo with Tony’s wife and later another with Marisa and Tony, who was wearing his cowboy hat.

Plans to meet with him the following day fell through, as bad weather hastened his departure for Chicago. And so my acquaintance with Tony Curtis ended.
I usually spent the Christmas holidays with my family in Yugoslavia. On one such visit, I decided to see my cousins in Zagreb, Croatia. These relatives are now my only remaining family in the Old Country, as my mother, who lived her life in Novi Sad, has passed away. My father and mother wanted to die in their own home. Father kept his promise and my mother did the same.

Old friends--Pera and Buba Dobrievichis, a former classmate and cast mate of mine, were also enjoying Christmas in Zagreb. We met at a café for espresso. Our paths had parted in the sixties. They looked a bit older and heavier, but still carried themselves like dancers. They had built their post-performing careers and financial security by staging Maurice Béjart’s ballets worldwide and now could afford a summer house on the Adriatic Sea, a house in Switzerland, and a place in Zagreb. Buba and I reminisced about our school days in Belgrade and our travels to Asia and the Far East. She hoped to have our graduation photo published in the national newspaper.

While in Zagreb, a newspaper caught my attention for an entirely different reason. The front page headlined a dispute between the dancers of the local ballet company and their artistic director, whom they accused of cruelty and disrespect. The director in question was Dinko Bogdanic, who had danced with PBT in the mid-seventies and had since succeeded Milko Sparemblek as director of Zagreb’s ballet troupe.

Dinko, as I knew him, was an easy going personality. I was shocked by the accusations and decided to visit him for his side of the story--and also to meet with Milko to hear his spin. After an unsuccessful attempt to phone Dinko, I just went to the Croatia National Theater and asked to see him. The doorman immediately called his office and instructed me to wait, as he was on his way to meet me.

Smiling from ear to ear, Dinko invited me to his office. He gave me programs of the ballets that he had staged for the company--an impressive repertoire, amassed during his year and a half tenure. Interestingly, the playbills also included CDs that offered snippets of the ballets. I was surprised that I had to go to Zagreb to discover something that is internationally very valid.

That evening, the company performed his adaptation of Swan Lake, built on traditional choreography for Acts II and IV, but set in eighteenth century Austro-Hungary instead of fourteenth century Germany. The production was sold-out, but he invited me to see it and provided me with a chair, which he brought to one of the boxes. The ballet was excellent. The dancers were excellently trained and disciplined, performed well as a unit, and were well-rehearsed. He had obviously raised the artistic bar and under his directorship, audience attendance jumped from fifty percent to full-capacity. People stood in line for tickets.

His predecessor always had a penchant for modern ballets. I suspected that the public had become saturated with these works. Consequently, with a shortfall at the box office, the theater officials decided to hire new blood. And really, Milko is a few years my senior, he had to stop sometime. Instead, he was jealous and bitter. Most likely, he had instigated the insurgency.

I was proud of Dinko and congratulated him on his work and award-winning achievements, but asked him about the controversy. He answered, “Well…you know me. All in all, this brings me even more publicity.”

I was surprised when he added, “You know Nicolas, I just followed your programming system of giving the public what it wants to see. I do not force feed the public ballets they dislike. I don’t try to satisfy myself.”
Chapter Twenty: You Know What You Know…

After many years of work devoted to the college, which produced good dancers and choreographers, I puzzle over whether or not I reached my goals. Yes, there were successful moments, but I never assembled a class of promising, talented students who were focused on ballet alone. I worked with thousands of students, but never produced the ideal dancer. Jordeen Ivanov, JoAnn McCarthy, and their generation were the nearest to that ideal. The university’s dance program is revitalized and enrolls 250 full-time students annually, who come from studios where standards are higher than in 1967. Yet, I must inform some students that unless their poor placement is corrected, their work will lack classical quality. My attempt to establish professional middle and high schools on the Kirov model was initially a paradise, but it collapsed with the college’s escalating financial crisis. In 1973, when the college and PBT separated, I suggested establishing a new PBT school. However, we were required to teach underprivileged children, as a city project. These children were completely uninterested and undisciplined. Most came for poor families and were brought up on the streets. The PBT School was established after my tenure ended.

Perhaps I should have opened a private studio to nurture and develop students from their early years through their teens. I never had that luxury and probably never will. I had a great wealth of experience to share. Teaching was also a self-awareness process as it reaffirmed, crystallized, and clarified my knowledge. I have been teaching for thirty-eight years. It has become second nature. I love teaching those who are interested. I hate teaching those who do not want to learn, who are uninterested, or are resistant. However, it is rewarding when former students--like Rob Ashford--who may have been momentarily resistant, change their minds, and develop into successful artists.

I unfortunately, do not think that I fully achieved my artistic goals.

In Pittsburgh, I started from nothing. Without help from Mark Lewis, Arthur Blum, and Loti Falk, I would not have progressed as fast or as effectively. However, I had to educate them first and that dominated the initial years of my tenure.

I wanted to gradually develop the audience and the company--by following the historical progression of ballet repertoire--and to eventually raise the standards of both. I knew how to lead the company towards its ultimate goal, but when I lost Loti Falk’s confidence, the company’s healthy growth diminished. She failed to understand that I was not doing what I wanted to do. I was instead adapting to the interests, needs, and understanding of the local audience, while slowly building the company’s quality.

Ironically, Patrick Frantz, who was PBT’s third artistic director, favored the Béjart-style that I had envisioned for PBT. Loti did not even realize that this was where we were going.

Instead, she blamed me for lack of artistic growth and artistic mismanagement.

I think the company achieved an international level and was enviable to competing companies. When I severed my relationship with it, I felt that my baby was not yet mature and had not completed the educational process to be a leading company.

Hiring Patricia Wilde was a positive move for PBT, but her vision was completely different from mine. Her experiences with Rebekah Harkness’ the Harkness Ballet had groomed her to accept Loti’s orders and to never say “yes,” but to never say “no.” She heavily depended on George Balanchine’s repertoire, which was dissimilar from the way that I had groomed Pittsburgh audiences. The corps improved and she had some very good artists on the roster. The company progressed slowly, but reached neither the level of Pennsylvania Ballet nor the Cleveland Ballet, its nearest neighbors.

In 2003, PBT celebrated its thirty-fifth anniversary with Swan Lake performances. I was invited to participate in an onstage ribbon cutting ceremony. Typically the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette’s Jane Vranish credited Loti Falk as the company’s founder. Without Loti, PBT would not have flourished, but without me Loti would have never become involved in ballet. Despite that, it was a good feeling that we started something that succeeded and survives. However, if I had remained with PBT, it would have achieved its current level of artistry much sooner.

Terrence Orr returned to programming popular story ballets, which long ago I discovered rang the cash drawer, while mixed bills played to empty seats. Yes, the company is in a bit better shape and under the influence of American Ballet Theatre. There are a couple of solid soloists and the corps is fairly good. They are heavy on administrative support staff, while dancers are shy in numbers. Consequently, PBT draws students from its school to supplement the cast in large works. Yet very few of those students are offered full contracts upon graduation. The policy of augmenting the corps with students has caused tension between the union dancers and management. From my perspective, the company is where I left it.