For Americans, it’s hard to imagine what it’s like to dance under threat of rockets. But this is what’s going on in Tel Aviv right now. Performances in the Varda Studio at the Suzanne Dellal Center, Israel’s main hub of dance, have been disrupted by warning sirens. This is where Batsheva Dance Company is performing Ohad Naharin’s astonishing The Hole twice a night.

Last Saturday the audiences in the Varda Studio had to evacuate twice before the 9:00 show, due to two sirens—with rockets booming in the distance. I emailed one of the American dancers in the company, Ian Robinson, to ask what it’s been like from his point of view, and he sent me this message:

Hi Wendy,     It’s true, the tensions have been rising this week. The siren warning of rockets en route make me ask, how much adrenaline can I produce? At the moment this is reality. I am not in fear, but should I be? It looks like normal here in tel aviv except for those moments a few times a day of hearing a siren and taking cover. It’s difficult to articulate emotionally from this perspective, so I will give you facts…

Inside shelter, Ian Robinson looking to left, photo by Batsheva dancer Shamel Pitts

One show this week is especially unforgettable. Hamas reported they would send rockets at tel aviv at 9pm, the same time the second show was supposed to begin. The audience was in ‘the hole’ when the siren went off about 9:15. They evacuated to the safe room downstairs in the costume department, as did the dancers. We sat. The atmosphere was both rational (what are the chances of a rockets hitting right here?) and fearful (what if?), experienced and fresh, trying to keep the morale positive and alert; selfies were taken….We heard a few loud booms outside, presumably the iron dome intercepting the projectiles, and the sirens stopped.

Most of the audience returned to their seats and our company manager told us to take a few moments before we would start the performance. We did. I think it was a good show.

I believe I have discovered something more about ‘state of mind’…how to control/manage mood, fantasy, effort. It is something dancers constantly work on.

All in all, this situation sucks. What sticks with me is my passion to dance.

Regards, Ian

For a hot minute, it looked like a cease-fire would be possible. But that didn’t happen, so the rockets keep coming. My heart goes out to everyone living in Israeli cities and everyone in Gaza.

When I saw The Hole on July 2, just before the violence escalated, it was completely riveting. I felt I was experiencing each moment intensely but found myself at a loss to describe it. I was thunderstruck. Now, somehow, I found a framework for it in an essay I read (thank you Lisa Preiss) about the psychological effects of the ongoing hostilities between the Israeli government and Hamas.

In “On Hope and Despair in the Middle East,” David Grossman, suggests that Israel feels defeated, not by Hamas, but by its own despair, its certainty that no peace process will work. I think that Ohad Naharin’s work with Batsheva is an antidote to that despair—not answering it with simple “hope,” but with a complex kind of hope. A hope that is not born optimism but of sheer vitality.

The dancers in Batsheva are curiously, individually, undeniably, vital. Fierce would be the word if it weren’t so over-used. Their vitality is revealed in a kind of interior life, whatever is the opposite of showiness. In The Hole, this interior life explodes into a kind of animal hunger, with dancers facing their own clawed hands in one sequence. They have an uncanny ability to slip from soft to explosive without forcing it, with no forethought, just with a deep connectedness.

The Hole, photo by Gadi Dagon

The Hole can only be performed inside Zohar Shoef’s set, created for the occasion: an octagonal platform, the audience in the round, a grid above. When the lights go up, instead of dancers appearing on the platform in the center of the space, eight women stand behind the audience on the periphery—more like a planetarium than a theater. They do small, soft gestures until, all at once, they whack the wall behind them.

The men bound onto the platform as if shot from a cannon, prowl the perimeter, and settle in a lounging pose on the edge, close to the audience. Keeping a steady gaze on audience members, they each slowly open up the left leg, knees still bent, as though to invite you into their very center. This kind of work relies on our vitality too, our ability to be open to it.

The Hole, Robinson second from left, photo by Gadi Dagon

The genders are separated, which I don’t usually like when it’s a ballet tactic—give the men the jumps and the women the pointework—but in this case it lends more power to same-sex groups. They find a pleasure in proximity that you can see in their faces and feel in their breathing.

Every move the Batsheva dancers make, every sequence, has purpose and yet is open to multiple interpretations. You gradually see/feel a stirring in the grid above the platform. Perhaps we’re in a rainforest, with soft earth below and tree canopies above that are alive with motion. Or maybe it’s a battlefield with survivors on the ground despite threats from above.

You wait for the men and women to connect and when one man and one woman do, nothing is simple. The two start waltzing together. From above—an air strike—the women throw down tiny bang snaps, those harmless fireworks that give off a satisfying little explosion upon contact. Hundreds of these things rain down on them, but they continue dancing together. (Love endures. Is that not hope?) Swings drop from above; the men sit and happily swing out over our heads…Hard-earned innocence.

The Hole, photo by Gadi Dagon

That’s the 7:00 scenario. At the 9:00 show, the genders are switched, with the men starting on the periphery and the women in the center….as if to say, Whatever you get comfortable with can be changed. But the couple who dance at the end, they keep their own parts, no switching. For me, it was a heavenly moment to watch this couple express their attraction for the second time.

The first dance Gene Kelly made for the movies was a duet with a mop. He flirted with it, stroked it, bent over it in a kiss. Then he moved on to a whiskbroom and a soda fountain, and with each prop, his steps were full of invention and humor.

This number from the 1943 film Thousands Cheer was just the first taste that his widow, Patricia Ward Kelly, gave us in her inspiring program “Gene Kelly: The Legacy,” at Symphony Space during Tap City Week. The dancer/choreographer/director was not only a beloved Hollywood star but also a major multi-disciplinary artist who helped created the American genre of movie musicals.

Patricia Ward Kelly at Symphony Space, photo by Amanda Gentile, courtesy ATDF

Ward Kelly’s one-woman show started with the exuberance of meeting a fellow word-lover, sharing the last 10 years of his life, reveling in the lore and luminosity of his vast career, and it ended with wistful readings. Her tone was loving but not maudlin, witty but not catty. When recalling his admiration for Judy Garland in For Me and My Gal (1942), she said, “She taught him how to angle the face for the camera, and how to kiss—for which I was grateful.” (Have you ever seen Garland dance better than in this clip from that movie?)

Ward Kelly said their 46-year age difference—she was 26 and he was 73 when they met—didn’t matter to her. “He never seemed old to me,” she said. “He was so young at heart and his mind was going 100 miles an hour.”

Gene Kelly in Anchors Aweigh (1945)

As a dancer and choreographer, Kelly combined meticulous planning with spontaneity. He insisted on shooting the more adventurous scenes—swinging across a Spanish-style inn on a drape, careening atop a ladder that swayed from one end of a building under construction to another—all in a single take, just to show that he did not have a stunt double. He laid down his own taps after each number was shot, matching the sounds exactly to what he had danced in his trademark loafers.

When you see one clip after another of astonishing feats or breezy dance/acting, it’s not surprising to learn that Kelly had studied Russian-descended ballet, modern dance with Doris Humphrey and Martha Graham, Spanish dance with an uncle of Rita Hayworth, acrobatics, and tap. He pulled out whatever style was necessary for the role and the milieu.

Familiar scenes like the one in Anchors Aweigh with Jerry the (animated) Mouse, and clips from An American in Paris and The Pirate, allowed you to see how the intention of every part of his body—not least, his eyes—communicates a big feeling like love or joy or sheer fun. He was a working class kid from Pittsburgh who got beaten up by other boys for taking dance lessons. Instead of a top hat and tails, he often wore his own clothes for his characters.

Kelly directing Barbra Streisand in Hello Dolly (1969)

What I didn’t know was that he directed films like On the Town and Hello Dolly, and was the first American to choreograph for the Paris Opera Ballet. When contemplating how he wanted to be remembered, he enlisted Ward Kelly to write his biography. Five years into the process of his talking and her note-taking, they married.

When they met, Patricia Ward had been a scholar of American literature studying Melville and Hemingway; she’d never heard of Gene Kelly! She is still a scholar of American culture, but her subject is no longer Melville, but an American of possibly equal stature, Gene Kelly.

Toward the end of her presentation, Ward Kelly read some choice pieces of nostalgia, like his funny Valentines to her and an encouraging note from Fred Astaire to him when he returned to Hollywood after the war.

After enthralling us with the range of his genius, Ward Kelly addressed the young people in the audience. “Gene didn’t want you to imitate him,” she said. “He wanted you to go beyond him.”

Kudos to American Tap Dance Foundation for bringing Gene Kelly: The Legacy to Tap City.

The Bolshoi Ballet is bringing three of its most traditional ballets to Lincoln Center Festival July 12 to 27. Of course audiences like seeing timeless classics like Swan Lake and Don Q. But Spartacus—that old warhorse from the Soviet era? The early pinnacle of Yuri Grigorovich’s endless career? Hasn’t the Bolshoi moved beyond Spartacus with artistic director Sergei Filin’s internationally savvy outlook?

Like some others, I’ve been grumbling about this conservative array. But to tell the truth, I have a secret reason for wanting to see Spartacus—actually two reasons: nostalgia and curiosity.

Back in 1962, when I was not quite 15, I was an extra in the Bolshoi’s previous production of Spartacus at the old Met on 39th Street. Yes, that’s right. Grigorovich’s famed version was not the first one. Experimental choreographer Leonid Yacobson created it for the Kirov (Mariinsky) in 1956 and restaged it expressly for the Bolshoi’s tour to the U.S. in 1962. And it was a disaster. I know. I was there, onstage with Plisetskaya and Vasiliev. The audience booed, the critics panned it. The last three performances of the eight scheduled were cancelled and replaced with Giselle.

Maya Plisetskaya and Dmitri Begak in Yacobson’s version

But I have great memories. I remember being onstage at the old Met before the curtain opened, watching Plisetskaya warming up with a thousand knee-high prances. I remember the scale-like sequence of the brass players as they tuned up for Khatchaturian’s passionate, sensual, Eastern-tinged score—music that got under my skin. I remember the beautiful American-Russian corps dancer, Anastasia Stevens, who translated for us. And I remember the Bolshoi dancers singing songs from West Side Story backstage. (I’ve written about this whole experience in the memoir section of my first book.)

Who Was Yacobson?

In the brochure for the Bolshoi’s 1962 tour (under the aegis of Sol Hurok), it says, “Yacobson is one of the most ‘restless’ of our modern choreographers. He argues boldly and sharply about art and evokes violent arguments around himself…In his works not everything is precisely regulated or in proportion, for the irrepressibility of his characters hinders him from being patient, artistically ‘calculating.’ On the other hand, his work is always interesting for the audacity of his conception and… the boldness of his imagination.”

Natalia Ryzhenko as Aegina in Yacobson’s version

Well, that boldness got him into trouble this time. Yacobson, who died in 1975, was in line with the Soviet regime in wanting to pry ballet away from the elitism of the Czarist times. But his method of popularizing the art was to incorporate acrobatic and gymnastic moves. And, in the case of Spartacus, blatant sex scenes. In his depiction of degenerate Roman times, he staged Crassus’ feast as a huge orgy scene, the better to contrast with the purity and courage of Spartacus’ slave uprising.

But Soviet authorities didn’t want sexy, they wanted heroic. According to Christina Ezrahi in her book Swans of the Kremlin, some officials judged certain scenes to be “repulsively erotic”…hmmm, a precursor to the current Russian prudery? Think of the recent ban on discussing gayness, and the even more recent ban on obscenity. 

Dance scholar Janice Ross has written that Yacobson was basically an artist of resistance. “One of the subversive, radical things in Spartacus . . . is that he makes it a very intimate, personal tale. At the core of it is a tragic love story about loss and longing.” Because of that very personal approach, Maya Plisetskaya, in her autobiography, declared him one of her favorite choreographers.

Not catering to good taste

In my teenage eyes, Yacobson’s Spartacus had many peak moments. Here are descriptions from my diary of September 11, 1962, of two of my favorite scenes.

CIrcus scene in Yacobson’s Spartacus

1. “The circus scene when men fight to entertain the people. It’s so exciting—just like the rumble in West Side Story—only in dance form. The choreographer, Yakobson, really did a good job on that. There are some more fighting scenes with Spartacus where they really use their shields and swords.”

2. “In the orgy scene a glamorous courtesan (played by the beautiful Natalia Ryzhenko) tempts Vladimir Vasiliev, as a slave. He’s blond and wears a red shirt and black tights. He’s cute as all hell and boy—can he dance! He does about eight arabesque turns which slowly change into attitude turns and his arms are behind his head. He starts feeling her up and everything, but when the courtesan doesn’t accept him, he goes wild and has these fits. In one part he jumps about five feet up and crashes down.”

At first, I was cast in the orgy scene. You were supposed to lounge around on bleachers, make out with your partner, and every once in a while tilt your head back and dangle a bunch of imaginary grapes above your mouth. Yacobson gave us instructions, through a translator, to be “sexy…oversexed” and to “make love, make love, make love!” I’d never had a proper make-out session in real life so I was very nervous. When my partner was reassigned to a different scene, I was excused from the orgy. Phew!

I don’t know if the booing was prompted by the “oversexed” treatment of the story, or, as my friend Rosemary Novellino-Mearns suggests in this posting, the fact that some of the world’s greatest ballerinas were wearing sandals and tunics rather than pointe shoes and tutus.

Put in context, the 1962 engagement of the Bolshoi in NYC was a month before the Cuban Missile Crisis—the scariest moment of the Cold War, when it really did seem like the U. S. and the USSR might destroy the world. Weirdly, it seems like there was some kind of offbeat mutual trust that the Bolshoi could bring this oddball extravaganza to our shores.

Grigorovich’s collaborative approach

Ekaterina Maximova as Phyrigia and Vladimir Vasiliev as Spartacus in Grigorovich’s Spartacus, photo by Serge Lido

In any case, the powers that be in Moscow discontinued Yacobson’s 1962 version (though the Kirov kept his 1956 version in their rep). The quest for an uplifting revolutionary ballet  (“the great truth of Soviet realist art”) escalated in urgency as the 50th anniversary of the 1917 Soviet Revolution approached. The Bolshoi decided to ask the young Yuri Grigorovich to try his hand at a Spartacus with less sex and more heroism. At first, according to Ekaterina Maximova’s memoir, he didn’t want to do it. But he complied, involving his four main dancers as collaborators: Vladimir Vasiliev as Spartacus, Maris Liepa as Crassus, Maximova as Phyrigia, and Nina Timofeeva as the courtesan Aegina. “We would discuss Yuri Nikolayevich’s ideas together with him, put forward our own, argue over them,” Maximova wrote. “He would listen to us and accept our suggestions.” This sounds so collaborative, so democratic, so not how Grigorovich is known to be now!

Love It or Hate It

Nina Kaptsova and Mikhail Lobukin, currently in Grigorovich’s Spartacus, photo by Elena Fetisova

Together the choreographer and dancers created the image of male heroism in the Soviet Union. Grigorovich became the figurehead of the “golden era” of Soviet Ballet. Larissa Saveliev, the former Bolshoi dancer who co-founded and directs Youth America Grand Prix, told me that it was Spartacus’ emphasis on sheer male energy that was so captivating. Grigorovich was less interested in specific steps than the story as a whole. In my conversation with Bolshoi Ballet’s artistic director Sergei Filin last April, he explained the ballet’s success to me by pointing out that it has a strong narrative flow and the “monologues” of the four main characters move the plot forward.

When it last came to NYC in 2005, New York Times critic John Rockwell called it “a grand cinematic spectacle, full of leaps and loves and betrayals and brilliant tableaus.”

Although no one has booed Grigorovich’s version as far as I know, it’s controversial in the sense that Americans and Russians react to it differently. American dance writers tend to find it propagandistic. Jennifer Homans, in her book Apollo’s Angels, describes it as the epitome of Soviet bravura—in both good and bad ways. “The Bolshoi kept going but after Spartacus, it was running on old energy, recycling past glories, fighting old ideological battles.” She clearly has no respect for the choreography. Although she says Vasiliev was thrilling in the lead role, she calls Spartacus a “degraded form of art” compared to Balanchine, Ashton, and Robbins.

Ivan Vasiliev in Grigorovich’s Spartacus

Others praise the achievement of this enduring Spartacus but say the performance relies on a superstar like Vladimir Vasiliev in the 60s and 70s, or Ivan Vasiliev in the last few years. (Unfortunately Vasiliev the younger cannot dance it this month as he will be performing with Natalia Osipova at Segerstom Center for the Arts in California. View a YouTube clip of the elder Vasiliev in the role here, and the younger Vasiliev here.) 

And then there is the view of Ezrahi, who believes that the ballet’s artistry trumps its original purpose as a government mouthpiece. I hope she is correct when she says the following:

“In the final analysis, ideological demands never managed to completely stifle the power of artistic autonomy. After the collapse of communism, Spartacus has survived the death of the political system that had provided the context of its creation. Today the ballet stands as a reminder that despite the political-ideological demands…artistic imagination proved to be remarkably resilient, creative, and enduring.”

When Trey McIntyre Project was going strong, the synergy between Trey as choreographer and John-Michael Schert as dancer-cum-executive-director was the juice that stoked this company’s success. Whatever creative projects McIntyre came up with, Schert figured out how to implement them in a way that strengthened their role in a community—both local and international. Trey was the dreamy, dreaming one and John-Michael was the practical one. Together they created a juggernaut that turned Boise into a city of dance lovers.

Mercury Half-Life, which will be performed at the Pillow, photo by Trey McIntyre

Three years ago, when Dance Magazine did a cover story on the company , it seemed the TMP would last forever. The company had found an ideal home in Boise and was continuing its dense schedule of touring. Audiences all over the world responded to their snappy, fun, witty, complex choreography. As I wrote in 2009, McIntyre really knows how to use music that brings big pleasure to a broad audience.

Chanel daSilva and John-Michael Schert, photo by Lois Greenfield

Trey McIntyre

So when it was announced in January that this week’s run at Jacob’s Pillow will be its last, many speculated on the cause of TMPs demise. Marina Harss quotes McIntyre in her story in yesterday’s New York Times as saying he doesn’t want to undergo the “creative sacrifice” any more. Fair enough. Running a dance company can be a burden, especially when a choreographer is still getting lots of freelance work or wants to pick up a camera instead of walk into a dance studio.

But I am also guessing that the chemistry, once Schert left, just wasn’t there any more. And that must have changed the balance of responsibilities drastically.

By the way, I don’t think the loss of TMP is a tragedy, at least for dance lovers outside of Boise. Yes, he is one of the best American choreographers, and in the old social order, he should have his own company. But things are changing. We can see McIntyre’s work in many other companies—Cincinnati Ballet’s wildly fun rendition of his madcap Chasing Squirrel at the Joyce was a recent example. And Schert has gone on to become visiting artist, mentor, and social entrepreneur for the University of Chicago Booth School of Business and UChicago Arts.

Just remember, even the Beatles only stayed together a few years.

Watching Gina Gibney whack away at a wall dividing two small studios to create a large one was thrilling. Using a gold-painted mallet, she was strong and persistent even though the wall was harder to get through than she expected. It was a perfect metaphor for what she has already accomplished at 280 Broadway, her new space on Chambers Street. The official opening in October will unveil five studios, two theaters and Lab outfitted with the latest technology, these last three to be programmed by a curator. Meanwhile, her space at 890 Broadway, near Union Square, continues going strong with eight studios, buzzing with classes or rentals most of the day. One could call this double massive center an empire—except that Gibney is the last person to be imperial.

Gina Gibney taking the first bash

At the bash/brunch gathering on Tuesday, Gina talked about breaking down barriers, namely, the barriers of negative thinking. Before taking up the mallet, she described the former situation as succumbing to a downward spiral. She aims to build up, bit by bit, with positive energy. If anyone can do it, Gina can. Spending a few minutes with her is all you need to witness her loving care for the space, respect for her staff, and willingness to listen to all options. During her talk, she said something like, “When you work on solving a problem, you can find a solution that’s not just for yourself but for the whole community.”

Margaret Morton of DCA taking a whack

That is such a generous, forward-looking philosophy that I (as somebody on Twitter noticed) called her a visionary. But the Department of Cultural Affairs saw her vision—and powerhouse competence—way before I did. Margaret Morton, former deputy commissioner of the Department of Cultural Affairs, talked about the love and brains that Gina invests in her projects. She also praised Gina’s ability to work closely with her own board through thick and thin. The DCA had been watching how Gibney operated her fifth-floor space at 890 Broadway (the same building as American Ballet Theatre); they were impressed with how steadily Gibney expanded that space from one studio to eight since 2000. The lease on 280 is for 20 years so the DCA needed a solid tenant.

The space at 280 Broadway (entrance on Chambers Street) had been designated for dance by the City in hopes of developing the cultural life in Lower Manhattan post-9/11. When DNA went under, they were in jeopardy of losing the space for dance. Last January, Morton told Pia Catton of the Wall Street Journal that the DCA “didn’t want to lose it. We put money into developing the space, and we wanted to preserve it for the dance community.”

Morton also mentioned Gibney Dance’s history of activism as bring a plus in the eyes of the DCA. The Gibney Dance Company’s mission since 1991 has been to work with survivors of domestic violence in all parts of the world. The company, which just returned from an activist stint in South Africa, has garnered support to continue giving hundreds of workshops. And Gibney has designated a room for community action training at 280—how many dance centers have that?

Thomas Scott, head of the board of, and his two sons, all photos by Whitney Browne (you might recognize a certain dance writer in the crowd)

The six organizational partners in this new enterprise, named last January include the Trisha Brown Dance Company, The Playground, and Movement Research.

In the spirit of full disclosure, I’ll say that I’ll be teaching dance writing at Gibney Dance in October. But in the spirit of a New Yorker for Dance, I’ll say I’m just very happy about this. Click here for more information.

For 34 years hordes of people have gathered every spring to run, walk, and dance with a purpose. The brainchild of the Bay Area’s living treasure, Anna Halprin, the Planetary Dance is performed on the side of Mt. Tamalpais in Marin County. As the story goes, the murders of six women had turned the mountain into a place of fear. Halprin’s group decided to create a ritual to purify and reclaim the mountain. After the ceremony, which lasted several days, the killer was apprehended. (More about the history of the Planetary Dance here.)

Just one of the miracles of Anna Halprin. Another was her ability to heal her own cancer through dance and imagery. Yet another is the sheer vitality of her physical and mental self as she nears age 94. She is still a leader, and where she goes, all kinds of people follow—dancers, drummers, authors.

Last week I got to experience the Planetary Dance at Mt. Tamalpais. (I had once participated in it at Judson Memorial Church where Halprin had given workshops in 2010.)

The outdoor, relaxed ambience reminded me of a family-style Woodstock, with people of all ages responding to the drumbeat. Instead of drugs, delicious and healthy homemade food was set out on tables.

Anna Halprin demonstrating how to announce our purpose

As a warm-up, Anna led us through simple shakes and reaches. She told us to “Put your mind into your body and ground yourself. If you really connect to the ground, you’ll be as solid as a rock.” As we walked out to the field in two lines, the slow beat of the drummers echoed in the surrounding mountains. When the two lines split and created a huge circle, we then started running in three concentric circles. You changed your path depending on how fast or slow your body felt like going at that moment.  But before you ran, you had to raise your arms and yell out what you were running for.

With the designated theme of protecting our children, the first person ran for the children of Fukushima. The second person, from a group of Malaysian students, ran for the Malaysian child victims of the recent flight lost and never found. Another person ran for all homeless children, may they find love and shelter. I ran for children to be free of gun violence.

The drummers pounded and chanted at the center of the circle—the eye of the storm—where Anna was quietly orchestrating their changes in pace. The drummers got carried away; we got carried away.

With the drumbeat accelerating, the uneven earth commanding one’s attention so as not to fall, and the exhilaration of being among other runners (and walkers), it was easy to forget the purpose of the run. But at the end Anna brought us back to our purpose. She asked us to sit back-to-back with a neighbor for a few minutes, then face that person and tell her or him of our plans to bring our stated goal closer to reality.

One could call the Planetary Dance a feel-good ritual. But built into the structure (or score, as Halprin calls it) is connection to your body, to nature, and to the challenges of a cause. Ideally, the Planetary Dance, which last Sunday involved about 400 people, takes you from ritual to activism.

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.”