In the Shadow of the Greats

Among the tourist curiosities, was a three-story high boot. We climbed it to the top. Oddly, it was a typical Biedermeier shoe of old Europe, yet there it was in India. We watched performances by snake charmers and street entertainers, including dancers. It was obvious that Indians were knowledgeable about their native dances.

The dancers unrolled an oriental style carpet to serve as a performance platform and prepared their instruments--finger cymbals, tambourines, mangiras, and sitars. They warmed up by stomping their feet to the rhythm of the jingles worn around their ankles, and chanting the desired rhythm: “Tay-tay-tah-tah,” or “Tay-tah-tah,” etc., depending on the type of dance to be performed. Each time of day required its own kind of dancing.

Enthralled with the richness of the styles and the finger language, which told stories, I was determined to learn as much as possible about these dances before my departure. I was familiar with Kathakali, a dance and drama form from Kerala in South India, Manipuri, a slow, sedate ritualistic form from Manipuri, and Bharata natyam from Tamil Hindu, which is the most popular form of Indian dance today.

Generally, the quality of the dancing was exceptionally good. Clarity of meaning was as important as technique--and the audience was very discriminating. The better groups attracted larger crowds. When dancers made too many mistakes or performed badly, the onlookers spit on the ground and walked away. As a professional dancer with experiences only in proscenium houses, I envied these high-level performers who had only to answer to the immediate reaction of an audience, not to paid newspaper critics.

A Shiva temple stood across the street from our hotel and I decided to attend a ceremony. I entered the building with much humility, as I was unsure about what to do once inside. First, I removed my shoes, as everyone was barefoot. Most of the people were kneeling, sitting on their heels, and repeatedly bowing to the command of an enormous gong that stood in the middle of the room. The gong, which was at least twelve feet in diameter, immediately reminded me of those used in an Arthur Rank film production. One man struck the gong with a huge leather mallet. An altar was before it, which held a four-foot by one-foot cylindrical column of white marble jutting from an eye-shaped basin in the floor, an analogy for the penis and vagina union that signifies creation. This is the Shiva Lingham & Durga Yoni (Lingha--Yoni). Women took turns placing flower garlands around the white column and dousing them with water. The water that collected in the basin was then used as holy water.

Submitting to the intense power of the gong’s vibrations, I slipped into a trance that compelled me to join the repetitive bowing. No church service, new, or ancient, ever affected me as strongly as that one did. Now, I can still close my eyes and vividly recall scenes from that single service.

Afterwards, I walked to the temple garden where a dozen barefooted women, clad in national dress, had been dancing for hours on the hot stones. This modern Indian dance troupe performed a new style that emphasized physical technique over expressive storytelling. Although I was very impressed with what I saw and enjoyed watching it, I realized that maybe Parlic was right about my Indian dance aspirations. I stuck with ballet, but carried a love for Indian dance and did study some of the systems. However, had I dared to perform in public, I am certain that my audience would have spit on the ground and walked away.

As we were again an anomaly, audiences were curious and receptive. Our residency was successful, but Islamey was panned. Critics disliked our ballet pantomime, which was simplistic, unpolished, and unsophisticated compared to the Indian standard. Consequently the movement in Islamey looked very contrived. I suspected they misunderstood that we were executing choreographed movement, which restricted our self-expression. I was just happy that they did not throw tomatoes or spit on the stage.

Bombay had a red light “chawl” district, frequented by sailors who docked in the bay. It held a curiosity for tourists too. Our hosts arranged a limousine tour for us. Here, groups of men sat around makeshift bonfires, cleaning each other’s ears, grooming nails, and administering massages. These men were pimps. We kept the car windows closed to prevent them from aggressively soliciting their women to us. We stopped in front of a guarded bungalow and were allowed to enter. The interior was divided with curtains. Each room was occupied by a woman, seated on an ottoman, fully clothed, surprisingly unattractive, and certainly not clean. And I thought, “You couldn’t pay me enough to even consider using their services!” They reminded me of monkeys in the zoo and indeed “chawl” refers to a cage for prostitutes. It was a most unusual sight for us.

India was wonderful and terrible. I loved the country. I despised both the child mutilation and the begging. Small children relentlessly pestered us in the mornings when we left the hotel. I was accustomed to filling my pockets with small change and allowing the urchins to follow me for a short distance before I tossed the coins behind me. As they collectively scrambled, I made my escape.

On another occasion, Mary, Stefan, and I were strolling in the enjoyable mid-February warmth. Suddenly a youth approached. He beckoned us with pantomime gestures, repeatedly pointing from his hand to his mouth--an obvious plea for a handout. With little choice, we reached into our pockets for something to give him. We pulled out a few paises (which, by the way, are now obsolete) and placed them in his palm. He promptly bit on a coin, threw it to the ground, and launched into a raging, screaming fit. Jumping up and down on top of it, he yelled at us, “Rupees! Rupees!” We were dumbfounded that a presumed mute was perfectly capable of a verbal outburst. Consequently, we decided against giving this ingrate anything. We walked away.

Once I was taken for a fool, and fooled I was. It was typical for merchants in the marketplace to aggressively peddle their wares. A man selling “gold” rings accosted me from behind--nudging my arm until I acknowledged him. He pushed one of his rings in front of my face, nearly hitting me in the nose, calling, “Twenty dollar! Only twenty dollar!” He did not spark my interest in the least. I simply refused. He immediately changed his price. “Ten dollar! Ten dollar!” Still, I tried to tell him “no.” At which point the ring became “Five dollar!” Reduced to two dollars, I mulled it over, “well, maybe.” The stone was a fake diamond, but the stamp inside indicated that the band was eighteen carat gold. Perhaps it was hot merchandize and he was eager to get rid of it. It happened that the ring fit my ring finger perfectly. “What the heck,” I thought, handing over two dollars, with smug pride that I was getting such a bargain. The disappointment hit me in the hotel. The minute I entered the lobby to take my key, the desk clerk started laughing aloud at the sight of my ring. He said, “They got you!”

He told me it was nothing but brass, and that it would turn green in no time--which is exactly what happened. I learned my lesson and refrained from buying anything else during the remainder of the tour.

A visa processing error inadvertently shipped half of our company to Israel, while the other half (including me) flew to Egypt. Political tension between these countries compounded the mistake, as commercial flight was impossible between the two countries. Reuniting in either Israel or Egypt was not an option. With a company divided, we could not perform. Consequently, we were stranded at the Cairo airport until Anna Galina ordered us to reconvene in Greece, the next stop on our itinerary. We fast-forwarded to Greece, where we spent an unscheduled two week vacation.

The month was February, and spring was budding over the blue sea and skies of sunlit Greece. The bright atmosphere reminded me of Italy, as did the temperament of the people, which was also similar to those in Spain. The food was familiar too, as much of it was available in Yugoslavia. We stuffed ourselves with baklava, souvlakia, and Turkish coffee. I felt at home.

During free days, we visited the Parthenon. I photographed the Acropolis and snapped a wonderful picture of Mary standing in the same spot where Isadora Duncan had posed. All those exquisite statues, the classic Greek architecture, and the ruins were powerful inspirations. The impact of that aesthetic is difficult to describe. Even the partially destroyed and yet elegant statue of Homer evoked feelings of harmony. At last, I understood what Isadora Duncan meant when she described the creative energy she drew from such an abundance of inspiration. Without a doubt, the Greeks had an uncanny eye for human movement, and the skills for capturing it in sculpture and in architecture. Stirred by it all, I stripped down to my underwear, despite the late winter chill and posed as one of the early Greeks may have appeared--in summer. These are some of my best photos, although they are in black and white.

Our performances went very well, especially since we were well-rested and our spirits were high. During these concerts, our troupe finally achieved artistic consistency, as our movements were more articulate and precise, refined after many performances. This was a fitting conclusion to our long Middle and Far East tours.

It was odd to soar over Yugoslavia en route to Paris. Only a few years had passed since my indefinite departure. I had matured and gained experience in life and art, especially on this last tour. I now regarded the world and its inhabitants differently. I had seen various customs, encountered different temperaments and ideologies, and tasted unfamiliar food. I had become a citizen of the world.

I liked Peretti’s classes. The barre was set, though he changed parts of it--like a battement tendu or rond de jambe combination. And yet, his class was never routine. On non-performance days, it was the perfect place to expend the last drop of leftover energy. During barre, Peretti would approach each dancer, share a joke, offer a reassuring pat, or give a correction. We were comfortable with his encouragement and remarks. He cheered, he nudged, he pushed us hoping to prompt us to jump higher and repeat movements longer--for example to survive thirty-two entrechat sixes or to squeeze out as many pirouettes as possible. While our jumps achieved extraordinary heights, the process was physically stressful--our tendons became sore, our calves cramped, our ligaments pulled. A dancer must be very sparing with his energy; otherwise those great bursts of competitive spirit and adrenaline can be more damaging than useful.

Peretti’s classes attracted Paris Opéra Ballet stars and members of Marquis George de Cuevas’ troupe, who were seeking extra training to improve their techniques. Regulars included Roland Petit, Renée (Zizi) Jeanmaire, Jean-Paul Andréani, and Michelle Renault. It was a competitive class, among dancers, stars, and emerging artists, such as Gilbert Mayer and my friend Jean-Pierre Bonnefous, who introduced me to the nightclub scene.

Back then, all the fashionable and important people frequented members-only, BYOB night spots. One of these open-all-night clubs was St. Hilare, where Bonnefous had gained access through his friendship with singer Jhonny Holliday. We gathered there often. One New Year’s Eve, we spied opera diva Maria Callas in the club with her boyfriend Aristotle Onassis. I had no clue about who he was, though everyone else was impressed. The revelers were dancing the popular social dances of the day--the Bump and the Raspa, a jumping, hand clapping dance. The band broke into Gopak, a Ukrainian folk dance, but no one got up. So, Ismet Mouhedin nudged me, “Hey, why don’t we do a little of it?” Within minutes, the whole club had become our audience and they were clapping to the music. Onassis rose from his seat to applaud us. And after our impromptu show, a bottle of Johnny Walker arrived at our table, courtesy of Mr. Onassis.

Roland was a friendly chap, with a penchant for clean, white socks. He was intelligent, but very much the aristocratic French snob, while Maurice Béjart was more intellectual. Roland could also be a pain in the butt--I took class with him daily for years and assumed that he was familiar with my technique. What irritated me was that each time he held an audition; I was forced to endure the general cattle call. Perhaps this was why I never worked for his company.

Finally, I confronted him, “Why the hell do you need an audition? You know me.” He replied that he needed to compare the dancers he knew with those he did not. He always had an answer. His other audition trick was to request dancers to waltz. Those who fumbled this simple social dance--even if they could whip off ten pirouettes or soar upwards doing entrechat huit--were automatically eliminated.

He did invite me to dance in one of his films--Black Tights (1960). At the time, he was also filming Carmen and needed more dancers. I was torn between participating in the film and joining Theatre d’Art du Ballet’s Far East tour. In Paris, film offers were more abundant than opportunities to travel extensively in the Far East. I went on tour.

Roland was pissed by my refusal. Why anyone would turn down his offer was beyond his comprehension. I thought to myself, “Well, too bad for you, as you always ask me to come to auditions. How come this time, you want to take me without one?”

Aside from his peculiarities, he was a nice guy and indeed, one of France’s top chorographers. He was also well-known in the U.S. and during Ballets de Paris de Roland Petit’s 1954 tour, he introduced film star Leslie Caron to New York audiences.

I especially enjoyed Petit’s Cyrano de Bergerac, Notre Dame-de-Paris, and certainly his creation with Jean Babilée, Le Jeune Homme et la Mort, (the role which was later danced by Mikhail Baryshnikov).
While I had many teachers in Paris, my favorite was Victor Gsovsky, who took over Mme. Rousanne’s studio immediately after her death in 1958. Now, when I think about that time, a vivid picture of Rousanne comes to mind. She was small and thin with coal black hair and black eyes. She chanted corrections in a husky voice--the result of a heavy cigarette habit, offering corrections not necessarily directed towards anyone in particular. She talked through the combinations or adagio, barely rising from her chair, and somehow anticipated their outcome. Her barre never varied, but the center combinations and adagio changed. She disliked repeating information, so it was the dancer’s responsibility to fill in the blanks if he did not understand her. With stars like Babilée, Chauviré, Verdy, and Béjart in class, the focus was on what they did and no one complained if they improvised. Madame knew the stars were her drawing card and never corrected them, but rather mumbled--Trés bien, through her teeth. The importance was that they curtsied or kissed her and that they paid before they left.

Although Gsovsky’s personality and teaching approach were different from hers, most of her students remained with him, though some of the lower level students were incapable of meeting the demands of his adagios and variations. He did not rely on a pre-set barre and gave beautifully choreographed adagios in the center. His allegro combinations were dancey and filled with many jumps. His class was not difficult, but it was mentally challenging. I took it whenever I could. I also enjoyed conversing with him afterwards in Mr. Hugo’s coffee shop. Gsovsky had a personality similar to Edward Caton’s--he made one feel comfortable and friendly. I always felt important when I was with him, because he regarded me as important. It is nice to socialize with your teachers. There is always plenty to talk about--dance, performances, class, and your progress, which also counts as personal attention. This was the advantage of taking classes at Studio Wacker, as it facilitated interaction between the teachers and their students.

Yvette Chauviré was among Gsovsky’s admirers. Taking his classes also afforded me with an opportunity to meet and talk with her and other ballerinas. I can remember for instance when Chauviré danced at the Bolshoi Theatre in Russia. After her return, she described how it was in Russia. She had been very successful and we wondered what she had done that made the Russians like her so much. She explained that she had danced in her own style, with her mannerisms, and her interpretation of the music. The Russian ballerinas found that to be very refreshing, intriguing, and different.

On the job front, I rejoined Irina Grjebina’s troupe, which performed at summer festivals and in various French cities. I also began auditioning for different gigs, as I assumed that Galina’s Theatre d’Art du Ballet might go on summer hiatus. Among the more interesting opportunities was a spot in the touring company helmed by ballerina Ludmila Tcherina. She happened to favor my friend Stevan Grebeldinger as a partner. Stevan, whom she had re-christened “Stevan Grebel”, was a very good partner. A good partner, by definition is one who senses how to keep the ballerina balanced and has good lifting power. Stevan was also very reliable and had attained a high level of technique. Tcherina was not the easiest person to lift, but Stevan easily accomplished what her other partners could not. For men in dance, partnering skills are handy and worthwhile. If you can catch a great ballerina or “if she catches you,” it can change your future.

Ludmila was the daughter of a Russian immigrant. Educated in France, she had fair technique and was aware of her strengths and weaknesses. Her career in film (which included The Red Shoes with Massine and the Tales of Hoffmann) carried through to the stage and set her apart from the average ballerina. She was beautiful and played the movie star role well--down to the make-up and black wig. (She had a soldier’s crew cut, but always wore a black wig.)

I knew of Tcherina from films and since Stevan was her partner, I was comfortable with joining her group. Also on the roster were Milko Sparemblek and Vassili Sulich. Milenko Banovitch and I joined simultaneously--without an audition. As I was taking class with Paul Goubé, Tcherina’s ballet master, who knew my capabilities, my audition was very informal.

My artistic goals had shifted. I was phasing out my association with Galina’s company. Mary remained with it, while I took a leave of absence. The news that I had joined Tcherina’s troupe spread quickly through Paris’ dance community. I worked hard in Peretti’s class to improve my technique. Two months before our tour of Spain, I began rehearsals with Goubé and Sparemblek. Milko was rehearsing Triunfo De Corazones, and Goubé was rehearsing Les Sylphides plus one of his ballets. As the company lacked men, rehearsals were quite demanding.

During week number two, I tried to showoff with a double tour to one leg. I fell out of it, rolled over on my ankle, hitting the floor with my metatarsal. I fractured three bones. That was the end of my rehearsals. My doctors offered a choice--six weeks in a cast, plus physical therapy or forego the cast and submit to morning and afternoon treatments to electrolyze the injury, create a calcium deposit, and accelerate healing. This process could heal bones in three weeks instead of six.

I had to see Spain. I just had to. At the time, Spain under Franco had no diplomatic relations with Yugoslavia, as I was a Yugoslav--under other circumstances--I would be denied entry into the country. Fortunately, Tcherina was well-known and extremely popular in Spain. As a special favor, the Spanish ambassador issued special visas for the Yugoslavs in her troupe.

I opted for the treatments and the twice daily taxi rides to get them. I became preoccupied with my injury and obsessed with the healing process. Three and a half weeks later, I was back in rehearsals, carefully treading on my foot, which hurt very badly. I ignored the pain and whenever anybody asked how I was, I just answered, “fine, fine,” with a soft smile.

Our first stop was San Sebàstian, a small, French-influenced city on the Bay of Biscay. Here the water was quieter than on the open sea. The city was similar to Bilbao or Vigo. It seemed that all the cities--expect for Madrid, Seville, and Cordoba--were on the seashore. We were going as far as Cadiz, which is just beside Gibraltar and sits on the Atlantic Ocean. The other side of Spain--including Malaga, Alicante, Valencia, and Barcelona--was situated on the Mediterranean.

None of us spoke Spanish, but we managed to communicate with the San Sebàstian natives, the shopkeepers, and bar maids via a mixture of French and Italian. We picked up a few useful words--fast, rapido and one beer, uno cervesa pour favour and thank you, Gracias.

The Spaniards rose early, while temperatures were still mild. As the sun peaked, everyone napped, for the obligatory midday siesta. Life resumed after five. The curtain rose at 11:00 p.m. and fell at 2:00 a.m. Nightlife, which began at 10:00 p.m. ended at 4:00 a.m. It seemed as if people never slept, slept in increments, or were always sleeping.

The living was cheap, as the franc was stronger than the peseta. I purchased a leather jacket for myself at one-third the price I would have paid in France. The food was very good but we had a big problem. Within several weeks, everyone was sick--some sooner, some later. A few of us formally turned yellow from the food. Consequently, we toted digestive syrups and tablets to the restaurants. Nobody was spared.

We performed in bullfighting arenas, where a forty-foot by forty-foot stage was erected in the middle of the space, with the audience watching from all sides. Because ballet is constructed on the principles of épaulement within a proscenium space, only a minority of an audience-in-the-round has an esthetically correct view.