Sarah Lane as Queen of the Dryads in Don Quixote, photo by Gene Schiavone

Usually the word “star,” when applied to ballet dancers, is reserved for principals. But at American Ballet Theatre, there are three female stars who are still at soloist level. I mean real stars: They light up the stage, they are mature in their artistry, and they are unmistakable individuals. They just don’t have the rank or hype to go with it. I’m talking about Sarah Lane, Misty Copeland, and Stella Abrera.

These three women each have such a magnetic presence onstage and dramatic range (not to mention sterling technique) that they could be top ballerinas at any other company. I think ABT audiences would be happy to see them in lead roles.

Stella Abrera, left, with Diana Vishneva in Bayadère, photo by Gene Schiavone

This season Lane and Copeland are cast as Swanilda in Coppelia, and Abrera and Copeland are cast as Gamzatti in Bayadère. But none of them will get a crack at Giselle or Odette/Odile. For the full calendar, click here. 

Lane has a sweetness and vulnerability that Ratmansky used to advantage in his latest premiere for the company, The Tempest. As Aurora a few years ago, she had the most natural radiance and sense of wonder of any of the ABT ballerinas. She was majestic in Tudor’s Shadowplay, where she’s held aloft as a celestial figure. And she was fresh as a breeze in Les Sylphides.

Misty Copeland in Bayadère, photo by Rosalie O’Connor

Copeland has a strength that makes her look invincible, which is why she was such a good choice for Ratmansky’s Firebird. Her sense of shape is highly defined—and she’s got a fire too. As Mercedes in Don Quixote, she ruffles her skirt to jazz everyone else onstage. As a harlot in Romeo and Juliet, she’s bursting with mischief. In Balanchine’s Duo Concertant just this week, she infused the steps with joy and verve, and she projected the subtlest whiff of romance. She’s terrific in contemporary work too (in works by Tharp and Marcelo Gomes).

Abrera with David Hallberg in Robbins’ Afternoon of a Faun, photo by Marty Sohl, 2005

Abrera’s fullness in slow movements takes my breath away. As the Queen of the Dryads in Don Quixote, just opening her arms from high fifth was an event to witness. She absolutely sparkled in the first movement of Symphony in C recently, and I’ve seen her tear around the stage in crazed grief as Lady Capulet. In Ratmansky’s Seven Sonatas, she alone of the six original dancers embodied the subtle hints of narrative.

I have been continually knocked out by these three stars for years. Of course when casting and promoting dancers, there are factors I know nothing about. So this is not a complaint. But from an audience point of view, I would be thrilled to see any one of these ravishing dancers as Giselle, Juliet, or Odette.

Misty Copeland in a shoot by Weiferd Watts

Where has American modern dance gone? Has it been subsumed or consumed or bumped off by contemporary dance? Or by contemporary ballet? By hip-hop? Have the earthy heroics of early modern dance become irrelevant? Replaced by the anti-heroes of Judson Dance Theater and later? Has modern dance fled to Europe and looped back to us in conceptual non-dance? Or has it gone to Korea? If modern dance returns in the form of a re-organized troupe of Paul Taylor’s, will anyone go see it?

Barbara Morgan’s famous photo of Graham’s Primitive Mysteries, 1931

These questions have been sparked by my recent viewings of the Limón and Graham companies and by participating in Valentina Kozlova’s quest to discover “contemporary dance” talent. Plus, there was that strange announcement  by Paul Taylor saying he will no longer make new dances but will open his company as a home for modern dance.

Different kinds of dance speak to us at different times. When Martha Graham and Doris Humphrey broke away from Ruth St. Denis in the 1920s, they were searching for an American form of dance, a form that would replace vaudeville with art and replace decoration with substance. Their pioneering work, inspired by American landscapes and cityscapes, was physically grounded and spiritually uplifting. In modern dance classics like Graham’s Primitive Mysteries and José Limón’s Psalm, the group yields to the suffering and exaltation of the chosen individual.

José Limón’s Psalm, photo by Beatriz Schiller

I used to think that modern dance turned into contemporary dance, that it evolved naturally. (In my own evolution as a dancer, I passed through Graham, Limón, Cunningham, Tharp, and Trisha Brown.) But I see now that the work of Graham and Limón is still very much with us. Modern and contemporary dance co-exist. When their companies perform those early classics, we feel that grounding underneath them. We feel the brave pioneering aspect of it, the insistence on human dignity in the face of adversity—even if we don’t feel it speaks directly to us today. The contraction and release of Graham, and the fall and recovery of Humphrey theatricalized deeply felt human emotion. These visceral approaches, framed by a strong sense of design, formed the foundation of modern dance.

When Cunningham left Martha Graham’s company in the 1940s, he kept the austerity but left the drama behind. He scattered his dancers all over the space, de-centering it, allowing the audience to choose where to look. At the same time he embraced the verticality of ballet rather than the earthiness of modern dance. And he eschewed any kind of overt narrative. His style was so different that it needed a new name, and contemporary dance was born.

Gyeong Jin Lee’s solo Stranger, photo by Yelena Yeva

In recent years, “contemporary” has become a catchall term meaning anything that’s not identifiable as ballet, especially on TV and in competitions. So I was curious when I served as a judge last month in the Valentina Kozlova International Ballet Competition, which this year focused on “contemporary dance” (results are posted here). What we judges found was a whole gamut, from glittery pink ice-skating skirts and pointe shoes to fierce solos that were gripping to watch, in much the same way people reacted to Graham’s early work. Three of these enthralling solos came from Korea.

JuMi Lee’s solo Hailling Sorrow, photo by Yelena Yeva

It turns out that the Korea National University of Arts School of Dance is producing terrific dancer/choreographers who know how to delve inside themselves for material. Their teacher, Jeon Mi-Sook, a fellow judge at VKIBC, told me that the students study ballet, Graham, Limón, and Cunningham at different stages of their training. What struck me was that, like early Graham and Humphrey, their dancing was deeply visceral—to the point where one movement was almost sobbing—contained by very designed shapes. They haven’t yet acquired the irony of today’s American visceral dance makers.

Back to Paul Taylor’s plan of renaming his company Paul Taylor’s American Modern Dance. It’s nice to know there is a plan, as Taylor is aging. And it’s generous to offer up his dancers for the preservation of modern dance in general. But is that what today’s dance audience needs or wants? Clearly, the Graham and Limón groups have to infuse their rep with new works in order to attract an audience. If Taylor proposes to become a curator rather than a choreographer, he will be showing some modern dance classics that already have a showcase. (I can’t imagine that he’ll acquire works by Cunningham or the postmodern Trisha Brown works, as his dancers are not trained in those styles.) Would he bring in the work of Taylor alumni like Tharp, Parsons, Mazzini, and Corbin? Would that strengthen or dilute his programming? Is it naïve of Taylor to think that American modern dance still has some caché, considering there is so much fascinating new dance coming out of Israel, Europe, and Asia—and the U.S.?

Although I am asking these questions, I am not bemoaning the loss of modern dance as we once knew it. I guess I’m just more interested in seeing what’s happening in dance now, from all over the world, rather than capturing the heyday of a certain period. Maybe there’s another way to honor American modern dance—to appreciate how it’s grown and spread and sewn seeds far and wide. I would go to see a  documentary film about that period, but prefer to see live dancing of our lives now.

Sometimes it takes an outsider to break through to a new mode, a different look. When 40 NYCB dancers fled across the Koch Theater stage in unmanageable hordes, one knew right away that this was a different kind of ballet. To the music of Woodkid, and wearing variously dotted unitards, the dancers created tableaux that cast huge, heroic shadows on the backdrop (lighting by Mark Stanley). Spartacus for today.

Les Bosquets

JR’s installation last season, using NYCB dancers to form a huge eye, photo by me

This pièce d’occasion, Les Bosquets, was created by French street artist JR, who had wowed us last season with a design on the mezzanine floor that showed an uncanny choreographic sense. His stroke of genius attracted a younger audience, and Peter Martins invited him back to create an eight-minute dance for the week of 21st-century programs.

A lot happened in those eight minutes. The theme of a prince trying to reach his ideal woman amidst a forest of obstacles was familiar from classic ballets like Sleeping Beauty, Swan Lake, and Firebird. But here, the prince was jookin dancer Lil Buck, which made an aesthetic/cultural point. Since both Lil Buck and the ballerina, Lauren Lovette, were dressed in papery white, they seem destined to be together. And yet they never came together—except in live, ultra close-up film. As in Romeo and Juliet, everything aligned to keep them apart, even a line of other dancers. (if you want to see a duet between a street dancer and a ballet dancer where they really do dance together, check out this wonderful behind-the-scenes video of William Wingfield and Whitney Jensen.)

Les Bosquets with Lil Buck and Lauren Lovetter, photo by Paul Kolnik

In the end, when they all lined up for a bow, one could see that the thousands of dots, spread over the costumes of the 40 dancers, formed a pair of eyes—an echo of the collectively made eye that JR created last season. Les Bosquets has been dismissed as a novelty or a crowd-pleaser, but I found it tantalizing. It made me wonder what JR would do with a longer span of time.

Barber Violin Concerto with Charles Askegard, Megan Fairchild, Sara Mearns, and Jared Angle, photo by Paul Kolnik

Apparently Peter Martins helped translate JR’s ideas into steps,  and it’s interesting that this collaboration was on the same program with Barber Violin Concerto, which was a past foray of Martins into new territory. He originally made it in 1988 for two NYCB dancers and two Paul Taylor dancers—Kate Johnson and David Parsons. Megan Fairchild’s rambunctious jittery energy in the Kate Johnson role was as far from Martins’ comfort zone as Lil Buck was.

In the context of NYCB’s Balanchine and Robbins rep, Forsythe’s Herman Schmerman Pas de Deux (1992) is a breakthrough too. The movement is rangier, quirkier, and the walking—this may seem like a small thing—is done heel-first. How often you see ballet dancers walk like a normal human on the stage? They are trained to walk toe first, which I have always felt was unnatural. I loved the way Amar Ramasar, with his broad hunky shoulders, shifted deliciously as he took those insolent Forsythian heel-first walks.

Wendy Whelan and Tyler Angle in This Bitter Earth, photo by Paul Kolnik

My last comment about this program: In her comeback after a sabbatical and hip surgery, Wendy Whelan performed Wheeldon’s This Bitter Earth (excerpt) with Tyler Angle, gliding through the  piece with a calm force—or a forceful calm. But actually Whelan’s’ presence hovered over the evening. For years she was the go-to girl for Herman Schmerman and she had created a lead role in Ratmansky’s Namouna (the whole second part of the program). But more than that, her ability to imbue contemporary ballet with crystal-edged clarity and a completely unsentimental kind of spirituality makes her the ideal interpreter of 21st-century choreographers. Which is why it will be sad that she will give her farewell to NYCB this October.

I arrived at the Danspace Project benefit honoring Steve Paxton too late to hear Yvonne Rainer’s remarks. But now I’m glad because it gave me a reason to ask Yvonne to send me her written statement. And I love it so much that I am posting it here. They knew each other first from Robert Dunn’s composition class more than 50 years ago and were both co-founders of Judson Dance Theater. I think that’s all you need to know. So ladies and gentlemen, herrrrrre’s Yvonne:

Rainer & Paxton in Word Words, 1963, photo by Al Giese

“First off, I would like unequivocally and with utmost affection to assert that Steve Paxton is a Grand Old Man of post-modern dance. With that said and without offering definitive proof, let me proceed by giving an example of how Steve was always a step ahead of most of us and me in particular when we were both taking Robert Dunn’s composition class in 1960. In response to Dunn’s assignment to make a one-minute dance, Steve sat on a bench and ate a sandwich. In hindsight, I see this provocative act as a launch pad for an ongoing dialogue between Steve’s curious conceptual intelligence and his remarkable kinetic gifts, which sometimes, as in the latter case, he was wont to evade or outwit. I must say his exertions in this regard could at times baffle me.

Paxton in undated photo

“For instance, around 1964 he taught a half-dozen of us — if memory serves, the group included me, Trisha Brown, Lucinda Childs, Deborah Hay, Tony Holder, and Judith Dunn — he taught us a rigorous sequence of Cunningham-like phrases, some of which involved difficult off-kilter balances on one leg. Having struggled mightily to master the balletic Cunningham technique, I was especially proud of being able to keep up with the more skilled dancers, some of whom, like Steve, were already members of the Cunningham Company. The performance of this work, called Afternoon, was to take place in a forest in New Jersey. When we got out there, much to my chagrin, Steve expected us to execute the moves on the forest floor, recently softened by rain. It was only much later that I could appreciate the brilliance of his strategy. His somewhat academic movements had been transformed into something entirely new. By being forced to adapt to what seemed like exasperating conditions, we discovered compensatory tactics like clinging to tree branches for balance and outmaneuvering the uneven terrain with last-minute falls and recoveries. I had to admit that he had wittily anticipated the situation from the outset without telling us. Since then Steve has been my favorite wily choreographer.

Yvonne Rainer in Steve Paxton’s Afternoon, 1963, photo by Peter Moore

“In innumerable interviews and Q & A’s over the years I have taken giddy pleasure in asserting that Steve invented walking and I invented running. As always, however, Steve took his pedestrian moves to the furthermost limits of the limb, unadorned by music or other audience-ingratiating elements. Satisfyin Lover of 1967 was an eye opener. When about to see this dance more than a decade later in a Stockholm festival, I was sure that as a historical relic its relevance had passed. For the most part the 42 performers, in various combinations and diverse in terms of race, age, and training, did not face the audience, but, rather, walked from stage right to stage left while fulfilling simple instructions as to pace and pauses before leaving the stage. So it seemed until half way through, an adolescent girl paused stage left, slowly turned to confront the audience, and paused again before making her exit. Her visible youth and uncertainty in that slow turn brought tears to my eyes.

“I won’t go into all the beautifully perverse and clarifying dances that Steve has created, presented, and collaborated and performed in over the years, like his performance of Flat from 1964, which I’ve heard drove members of a 2002 Parisian audience out of the theater as Steve took his own sweet time transforming himself into a clothes rack; and Ash, his ode to his father’s death, at the culmination of which, to a voiceover description of the problem of scattering his father’s ashes from an airplane, he sat in a chair with his back to the audience and with a few compelling gestures invoked loss and grief. Then there’s his work with disabled performers before anyone else, and Proxy of 1961, which began with his promenading of Jennifer Tipton en passé on ball bearings in a washtub; and Steve’s glorious improvisations to Glenn Gould. Always we are riveted by his imposing presence and a solemnity that can morph unexpectedly into a wry comedic effect, and by the clarity of his thought so apparent in gesture, use of objects, movement, and stillness.

“And let’s not forget Contact Improvisation, the form invented by Steve in 1972 and to this day practiced all over the world, with its immeasurable influence on innumerable dancers and choreographers in both their technical and aesthetic pursuits. To the best of my knowledge Contact has never been patented, which I sometimes think was a grave oversight on Steve’s part. (Not to spoil your dinner, Steve, I’ll take that up with you later.)

Steve Paxton and Lisa Nelson in Night Stand, 2013, photo by Paula Court

“I must also mention the stunning Night Stand, a collaboration with Lisa Nelson in which Lisa moves and Steve hardly at all. I saw this dance for the first time at Dia last fall. It met my most ardent expectations of the evening, made all the more satisfying by the finesse of the Dia production. On a final note, I take this opportunity to congratulate both Dia and Danspace for their 40-year commitment to artists and choreographers. I know I speak for Steve as well as myself when I say that we have both been beneficiaries of the generosity and risk-taking of these vital organizations.

“Thank you all.”