After the last performance I headed with my parents over to the Westin Hotel for our final supper. We could all feel the looming hour of parting, but we soldiered on, emotions held for the time. We followed the routine we’d set for whenever they would come see me dance in California, at the same theater where I first watched ABT as a Summer Intensive hopeful. Our farewells were always exchanged in this hotel lobby. We ate the same lobby bar food; I always had a martini to start, a beer to finish. The same waitress served us each time, chatting about the same things. There was nostalgia in the air. And melancholy.
Finally, we headed out of the hotel, followed by a television crew from CBS News Sunday Morning that was filming my final moments in the United States for a segment to be aired in a couple of weeks’ time. My bags were at my side, the taxi idling, and I turned to my parents for one final hug. That last moment. Mom was in tears. We held each other tightly. My voice cracked as I said the word “goodbye.” All caught on camera.
I climbed in the back of my taxi alone, exactly the way I’d imagined it many times over.
A few hours later, I walked onto the plane and took the plunge, fully aware that most of my American friends were convinced that I must be fucking crazy.
CHAPTER 24
Moscow Domodedovo Airport was a melting pot of Russian culture. There were immigrants, many of Mongolian descent, coming to the city for jobs. It seemed as though they had been there for days. They were sprawled about in every corner of the terminal, on the benches and floors, their belongings in plastic sacks held together by duct tape. Then there were the Russians who live in the suburbs of Moscow. They pushed their way through everything: lines, baggage claim, passport control. It was an intimidating sight. Passport control in Japan and other countries that pride themselves on organization and order welcomed foreigners. Russia just got on with it. This characteristic impatience seemed to harken back to the Soviet years, when endless lines were common and citizens had to wait in them to get basics like food and clothing. It must have felt like survival of the fittest.
Getting a cart for my luggage at baggage claim was a minor battle. People waited impatiently for the carts to be collected by an attendant and restocked, and when they appeared chaos broke out. Many people had told me that once I arrived in Russia I needed to assert myself, be strong, and stand up for myself. Politeness and social grace would come in handy at times (as I would learn from my generous colleagues inside the walls of Bolshoi Theatre), but they are never useful at Domodedovo. So I pushed, just like everyone else, for a metal cart to carry my luggage.
Outside, in the pickup area, hordes of cars were bundled in a tangle, some parked, some slowly idling, some fighting their way out of the cluster. I did not blend in. I had the Russian blond hair, blue eyes, and maybe the cheekbones, but I did not have a Russian character. I dressed differently. I looked like a foreigner, lost and confused, immediately taken for such by one taxi driver after another who asked if I needed a ride. Luckily, the Bolshoi had sent a car, and after wending my way through the disarray of the waiting vehicles I found the driver, who tossed my luggage into the trunk and sped away.
As we approached the city center, with the Kremlin on the left, riding down Ulitsa Okhotnyy Ryad, Bolshoi Theatre came into view, just as majestic as before but more meaningful now.
* * *
I HAD PREVIOUSLY learned that finding an apartment in the center of Moscow would be a logistical nightmare. Leases, brokers, safety concerns; I was rightly persuaded away from my scheme of dwelling in a sprawling Soviet-style apartment, which I pictured as cold, stark, minimal; a reflection of the life I would lead in Russia. Instead, during the six-year renovation of the theater, Bolshoi had built apartments directly behind the theater for visiting artists to live in. I was graciously offered one of them. As beautiful as they were, I was initially dismayed. These apartments were literally one hundred feet from the stage door, and steps from the rehearsal studios. The windows looked onto the back of Bolshoi Theatre and the glass footbridge connecting it to the administrative building. I could see the dancers arriving at the stage door, passing through the walkway, going to and from their daily rehearsal schedule. Work would be too close to home here.
But when I weighed all my options, this seemed the best bet. Sergei was again showing his commitment to my comfort, and for that I was extremely grateful. After all, the apartment would serve to remind me of why I came to Moscow: to work. I would have no distractions during my ten-second commute to the stage door. I imagined going to the theater at any hour during the day, sneaking in at night to rehearse privately when I wanted, or heading back home in the middle of a rehearsal day for lunch or a nap. It was an ideal scenario for the focus I craved.
After a brief stay at the Hotel Metropol, I was told my apartment was ready for me to move in. I dragged my luggage across Ulitsa Teatralnyy to my new abode. Everything around me was ornate but impersonal. I walked through the furnished one-bedroom apartment. It smelled of fresh paint. The furniture was brand-new, mismatched. A pale green leather couch. Pale yellow textured wallpaper. A faux wood armoire. Layered royal-blue crushed velvet curtains with gold tassels covered the deep double-paned windows to keep the Moscow winters out. A gold chandelier with large glass bulbs and matching sconces lit the room. In the bedroom, cream-colored crushed velvet curtains with gold tassels. Nothing else but a bed and a single overhead light. I was accustomed to my apartment in NYC, where my most coveted possessions were my books. My entire living room and entrance hall were stacked with books I had obsessively collected since I was fifteen. Nothing made me more comfortable than being surrounded by them. There were no books in my Moscow apartment.
I stood in the middle of my new living room. The only noise was my footsteps on the wood floor. I was beginning to understand what it means to uproot your entire life. There were no friends to call, no common language to speak, no schedule or objective but to work. I felt lonely and vulnerable. The sun was setting outside on a frosty October evening. Everything seemed new and crisp and empty.
* * *
A MONTH BEFORE I stood alone in my new apartment, I had gone to Moscow to close the contract with Bolshoi. One morning, during that trip, I’d joined the entire roster of 207 dancers in a rehearsal studio for a company meeting. I stood in the back with my translator, the rest of the dancers leaning against the barres or sitting on the floor in groups. By then the announcement had been made that I was joining the company. Some dancers knew me. Most didn’t. Many sent inquisitive glances in my direction. They whispered among themselves. I couldn’t speak to anyone except my translator, so introducing myself was out of the question. The meeting was about company logistics for the start of the season, and it was important that I knew the information being announced. Listening to the company manager leading the meeting, I stood blushing in the back as my translator whispered to me.
When the meeting adjourned, dancers began filing out of the studio. I nervously looked around, meeting the eyes of strangers who would soon become my colleagues. One of them, whom I had been eagerly but nervously waiting to meet, came up to me and introduced herself.
Svetlana Zakharova, known worldwide as one of the greatest ballerinas of her generation, was to be one of my regular partners. She was petite, with high cheekbones, hair pulled back covering her ears, wrapped in rehearsal clothing in all different shades of pink. We shook hands, peered at each other timidly, then smiled and kissed on the cheek.
I first saw Svetlana dance when I was nineteen and she came to ABT as a Guest Artist. I had just gotten into the company, and was dancing small parts in the Corps de Ballet. That night, as she danced Nikiya in La Bayadère, I stood watching her from the side of the stage. Her polished Russian training was enhanced by her long, thin legs and perfect proportions that comprise the ideal physique for a ballerina. She was unique, ethereal. It was clear to me why she was becoming a global sensation. She knew nothing of me then. But I certainly knew of her, the beautiful ballerina invited to
dance with ABT.
Now, ten years later, the ballerina I had admired so much from a distance had agreed to let me partner her in Sleeping Beauty on the occasion of the opening of the newly renovated theater. And so we met for the first time. Our exchange of words was succinct but friendly. There would be time to get to know each other later. But even then we knew that the performance would soon be upon us and we would have to be in it together.
CHAPTER 25
In coming to Bolshoi, I was prepared to absorb a new style of dancing, but I hadn’t anticipated such a conflict between what I previously knew and what I was being taught. It was truly a different approach to classical technique. During the first week of jumping, my lower calves screamed at me, Uncle! Uncle! I limped around between rehearsals, sore from this new approach and probably just teetering on the verge of a calf pull (which is notoriously one of the hardest injuries to heal). But inevitably, as rehearsals would gain momentum, adrenaline kicked in and the pain and soreness became subsumed in the pursuit of more important things.
I was to dance Giselle with Natasha and then Sleeping Beauty with Svetlana. But Svetlana was also dancing Giselle, with a different partner, and we would not start rehearsing Beauty until we finished our respective performances, a mere three weeks before our debut together. This was the way it was done and had always been. I was reminded of what I learned at Mariinsky: one ballet at a time, one gem of the repertoire at a time. Another adjustment for me, from which I would benefit immensely. The emphasis placed on one ballet (rather than five at a time) meant that it could be absorbed completely and fully in every nuance and aspect. My stress level was high nevertheless. I continued to work on my solos, but our “mere” three weeks alarmed me, as it meant Svetlana and I had little time to establish the requisite rapport and trust prior to what would be one of the most important and high-pressure performances of our careers.
* * *
FROM THE START, the culture of Bolshoi Theatre intrigued me. It was a lifestyle, a commitment one makes at a young age to one theater and one style. Not just a job but a way of living. This was not something I had experienced at ABT, where the company rehearsed at our own studios but performed at theaters elsewhere, rented out for the length of a particular run. Bolshoi dancers have a theater to call their own. They typically spend from ten a.m. to eleven p.m. in the theater six days a week, going from morning class all the way to the end of a performance late at night. The canteen, dressing rooms, studios, and stage are all under one roof, giving them pride of place.
Every morning I entered the theater through the “administration entrance.” No less than eight stone-faced security guards protect this one entrance of Bolshoi Theatre. If you don’t have an ID or are not on a clearance list, you cannot talk your way in. No exceptions. Climbing the three flights of stairs to my dressing room, I would pass some of the corps girls sitting in the stairwell in between floors, dressed in their pre-class warm-up clothes, chatting and smoking. As I walked by the cloud of smoke hovering over them, we would acknowledge each other in a typically Russian way: a brief moment of eye contact and a quick, terse, almost imperceptible nod. Very subtle. No smiles; closed tense lips. I adapted to this form of greeting quickly. At times I would hear a zdrastye, a quick form of “hello,” but only within the camaraderie of Bolshoi walls. Never outside among strangers.
To walk from my dressing room to my morning class (one of eight morning classes offered daily), I traversed a long wooden balcony overlooking the studio, descending a staircase at the end to reach the ground floor. Dancers already in the studio below could watch whoever walked the length of the balcony. I kept my head down, feeling self-conscious. I was determined not to be overly friendly or desperate to quickly connect with new faces; I had made that mistake in Paris. Nor did I want to be unfriendly to my new colleagues. I knew they were trying to figure me out, from a distance. I never felt rudeness or a sense of unwelcome, just stares. I warmed up silently, doing my stretches and exercises, then took my place at the barre, in my designated “premier” spot. Dancers would banter and laugh at someone’s joke. I understood nothing.
In line at the canteen one day I was waiting to get a snack before my rehearsal. There were dancers in all parts of the cafeteria, seated at nearby tables, standing behind me, talking, gossiping, laughing, and I could sense them watching me as I placed my order. Will he speak Russian? Does he need help? Embarrassed, I grabbed a ready-made cheese sandwich and asked for a bottle of water. I botched my feeble attempt at saying “water” (a simple “vada” in Russian) and was met with the cashier’s quizzical look. She responded with a strong “Shto?” (“What?”) I resorted to English. One of the dancers behind me chimed in and told the woman what I was asking for. I thanked her, poorly hiding my embarrassment, then quickly paid and left. I couldn’t even order water without everyone in the cafeteria looking to see what nonsense would come out of my mouth.
Still, I was more assured than I had been at the Paris Opera School, and not so anxious to have people accept me. I had my craft to rely on. I kept my head down and just worked. I was ready to take any experience for what it was and try to grow from it, appreciating the easier times and enduring the harder ones.
* * *
I BEGAN TO learn the routines of my new company. Simple daily things like where to go to put my feet up during a break. The fastest route from one end of the building to the next. Which studio was better to rehearse in. My name wasn’t written in English on the vast, finely detailed daily rehearsal schedule. To decipher it I looked for the X. The Cyrillic character equivalent of H is an X; and there were few dancers whose names started with it. I would scan the tangle of Russian last names and ballets being rehearsed, searching for that X. was me. After honing in on my name, I could then see how each ballet was written as well. : “Zakharova; Hallberg; Giselle,” or “Hallberg; Sleeping Beauty.” I didn’t miss one rehearsal, thanks to my thorough search for the X.
* * *
THE BOLSHOI HAS a long-standing tradition of dancer/coach mentorship. In most Russian companies, the coaches are former ballerinas or premier dancers who performed with that company. A coach can choose a dancer to nurture from a young age, or when a dancer starts to perform more solo roles, he can ask a coach to work with him. The relationship then builds, and when bigger roles come along, the bond between dancer and coach is already formed. The well is deep by then. There is a trust built over years.
These relationships become very meaningful. The coach develops you, combats your weaknesses while strengthening your individuality. Because there is that trust, dancers aren’t afraid to show their vulnerabilities. They know that their coach will pay close attention to every detail, down to costumes and hair. Finding the right coach at Bolshoi was going to be crucial to any success I could hope for there.
Sergei had suggested that I work with Alexander Vetrov, known as Sasha, a long-limbed and powerful former dancer with the Bolshoi who had lived in America for the past fifteen years. There, he had run a small ballet company and school in Arlington, Texas, becoming a U.S. citizen. Sergei had invited him to return to Bolshoi Theatre as a coach at the same time that I joined the company. Sasha spoke English, knew life outside Bolshoi as well as in, and was returning to the theater with a new perspective.
I hoped to find with Sasha what I had found with Yuri: an intimate connection with a coach who could push me beyond my limits and see things in my dancing that I could not. I knew my shortcomings and needed someone to address them honestly and devote the time it would take for me to progress past them. That was the challenge. I also needed to be paired with a Bolshoi coach who would push me to adapt to the Bolshoi style. The word “bolshoi” actually means “big”; the theater’s stage is larger than most. To inhabit it, to leap across it, to fill it, my dancing would need more amplitude.
* * *
I WANTED TO restructure everything about my dancing, and to do that I needed a totally honest dialogue with my coach. I didn’t want to be coddled o
r taken care of. Because self-doubt is common in dancers, they often seek to be nurtured, and coaches occasionally serve more as a supportive parent than anything else. I had witnessed those relationships. And I had seen how ego and stubbornness can become a wall between that dancer and anyone he or she worked with. Such dancers were stuck in their own way of doing things and unwilling to bring themselves to a vulnerability that let growth occur. I was determined not to tumble down that path. I needed to be told the truth.
In the studio on day one, I had told Sasha that I couldn’t grow unless he gave me brutal honesty. We hardly knew each other then, and I think those words came as a shock to him. Before establishing a rapport I was encouraging him to pick apart everything about me.
“This is the only time I truly grow,” I told him, assuring him that he wouldn’t offend me by telling me what wasn’t good enough; that in fact, the opposite would occur. The more I was told what was wrong, the more I could thrive.
* * *
SASHA AND I dove into the work immediately. There was detail in his corrections. The approach into my jumps. The attack of my arms. Even the placement of my fingers before I propelled myself into the air. My apprehensions subsided. We found our ebb and flow in rehearsals and began a natural and enjoyable banter. I became certain that we would accomplish a lot together. I soon had a deeper understanding of jumps I had executed for years. Sasha was molding me into a better version of myself, chiseling at one detail after another. A foot. An arm. An angle of the head. I realized what a uniquely gifted coach he was and that the opportunity to work so intimately with him was a major benefit of Sergei’s invitation to call Bolshoi Theatre my home.
Sasha took on responsibility for everything I did; from studio to stage. When a step wasn’t executed to his liking or met to its fullest potential, he would mull it over just as much as I did. Later in the year, in a mid-performance fatigue, I began to lose strength and power in my legs. I finished the show with barely enough energy to execute the variations as we had prepared them, a result of not fueling properly and rehearsing too hard the day before. Sasha blamed himself. He told me it was his fault for not stopping me the day before in rehearsal, telling me to save my strength as well as checking up on what I was eating pre-performance. His reputation was just as much on the line as mine.
A Body of Work Page 18