A Body of Work

by David Hallberg

  CHAPTER 29

  Svetlana and I continued to prepare Yuri Grigorovich’s production of The Sleeping Beauty. As in Grigorovich’s Swan Lake, the Prince’s first appearance is a series of soaring leaps, bounding straight out of the wings. The steps were not complicated. I learned them as a young student training with Mr. Han and continued to dance them my whole career. But, as at the Mariinsky, they were executed in a different stylistic manner here. Sasha’s guidance, based on his entire career working for Grigorovich and dancing in his productions, was essential to my understanding the steps. Simply put, I had to learn how to take off for a jump in a way that was foreign to me. Sasha started me from scratch, teaching me how to lengthen the glissade (which is the preparation into the leap) in order to launch myself into the air. He would tell me to throw my front leg as high as it could go, even before I got off the ground, in order to generate as much force as I possibly could. Once I changed the initial propulsion into the jumps, I was able to change the jumps themselves. After a few trials with this new glissade and preparation, I had so much force going into a jump that I was startled in midair by my newfound height and couldn’t land properly. But there was less grunt work involved because I was now coordinating my body in the proper alignment, using the force generated to my advantage.

  Years earlier, Guillaume once passed me working at the barre in morning class and muttered, “Relax, you are turning blue in the face.” This is how I continued to work for years. But when incorporating Sasha’s techniques, I didn’t have to muscle everything out so much. I could use the impetus gained to actually release in midair, making less work for myself.

  Sasha also taught me about the illusion that I could create for the audience simply through the line of a well-placed leg. When we spoke about a tour jeté (a leap into the air springing off one foot, then executing a half turn and landing on the opposite leg), he told me that the secret was to raise my legs as much as I could midair; creating the impression that I was jumping higher, when in fact I wasn’t at all.

  * * *

  AS THE PERFORMANCE of Beauty was nearing, the time came for our work to be observed by Yuri Nikolayevich Grigorovich himself. At eighty-five years old, he was one of the most lauded and prolific directors of Bolshoi Theatre. Though he was no longer the company’s director, a post he had held for decades, he continued to work with dancers, staging his productions, which were now staples in the repertoire. I could sense the control he still had over a rehearsal room full of dancers. Everyone was silent and focused. He commanded the respect he deserved. A true Russian leader, he never hesitated to give a critical opinion.

  In our rehearsals he would look at the dancers on the stage—then grab the microphone (the “God mic,” as we call it in ABT) and spit out a stream of corrections. It was a productive way of working, but terrifying if you were on the receiving end. I understood nothing when he was shouting into the microphone in Russian. But I could feel his energy (basically how I was understanding everything at that point). One of the dancers, fluent in English, was sitting next to me in a rehearsal and told me that he was telling the dancers how beautifully they were dancing. How much he liked everything. The dancer was kidding.

  * * *

  ON THE DAY of my run-through in front of him and the entire company, I had yet to see Yuri Nikolayevich in rehearsal (as a form of respect, in Russia you address your elders by their first and middle names). I was aware that there was a great possibility that he had never seen me dance. Ever. I knew that, yes, he did approve of me doing the premiere with Svetlana, but he had never seen any rehearsals or coached me. So this evening rehearsal, with the entire Bolshoi Ballet watching in the wings, was my proving ground. My chance to show him, and the rest of the company, that I was capable of dancing the premiere with their prima ballerina.

  Even though we were all in rehearsal clothes and on a practice stage, this sort of rehearsal, in front of the directors and choreographer and dancers who were yet to be my friends, was more intense than being onstage with 2,500 people watching. As dancers, we are aware of each other’s opinions, which can be curt, even vicious. It is terrifying when you know that everyone is forming their impression. For all those reasons, it wasn’t a rehearsal; it was the first in a series of performances, some of the most pressurized performances I’d ever dance.

  * * *

  I HADN’T FELT nerves like that—at a run-through, or even a performance—for a long time. When I started receiving featured roles at ABT—Symphony in C, or the pas de trois in Swan Lake—I would obsess over that final rehearsal, about going in front of everyone in the studio. But that had subsided as the years rolled on. At the Bolshoi, as I prepared to dance for Yuri Nikolayevich, seeing that everyone around me was nervous as well and wishing me good luck, those feelings of fight-or-flight resurfaced. I had to prove myself and my abilities. To everyone. To the dancers, all curious to watch me. To Grigorovich, whose production it was. To Svetlana, with whom I would be dancing on a stage for the very first time and who needed the certainty that I could partner her well. To Sasha, to whom I needed to prove that all our work and extra hours of rehearsal had paid off. Above all, I needed to prove myself to Sergei Filin, to show him that he had made the right move by giving me this opportunity. Not just the opportunity of dancing in Sleeping Beauty and joining Bolshoi Theatre but also of being chosen for the significant honor of dancing on the highly anticipated occasion of the reopening of the Historical Stage. When I performed, Sergei’s judgment would be on display.

  * * *

  REHEARSAL WAS HELD on the Upper Stage, an exact replica of the main stage, located at the very top of the theater. As I warmed up, bouncing around as usual, Grigorovich walked toward me with a warm smile and a handshake. When he spoke, it was clear that he recognized exactly how I was feeling. Sergei translated as he said warmly, “Please don’t be nervous for the rehearsal.”

  It was comforting to have his support.

  But as I looked around the stage and into the wings, it struck me how few of the eighty or so people gathered there looked familiar. Only Svetlana, Ludmila, Sasha, and Sergei. No one else. Svetlana seemed nervous as well, intensely focused on her own pressures. Princess Aurora is one of the hardest roles in the repertoire for the ballerina. There is no hiding behind character or movement to mask flaws. You are raw onstage, displaying your technique and line to everyone who watches. There was just as much pressure on her as there was on me. Although this was her home, and not yet mine. She was at ease in a culture and language of her own, able to verbally express what she needed and felt. Absent that liberty of expression, I just had to dance. But through all of it I could feel the support bonding us. We would carry each other through the pressure of the rehearsal. This fresh bond as partners lent us license to calm each other in times of stress. Here was our chance to implement it.

  As I continued warming up onstage, I convinced myself that the very nerves I was experiencing meant that I was in my preferred state: on the very brink of failure or success. Moments in the past when I lacked drive or inspiration came to mind. Those times of boredom in rehearsals, waiting for them to end so I could distract myself with something else entirely. Now, in my first major proving ground, I was taking the risk that I artistically craved. In the end, there is nothing more exhilarating than contending with that sort of pressure—the kind that comes when you challenge yourself beyond conscious limit.

  * * *

  AS THE REHEARSAL commenced, I kept reviewing my first entrance, mulling it over and over in my mind. A leap from the wings, bursting out, hopefully thrilling the audience into applause. Altogether a rousing prospect, but stressful for the performer. In other versions of Sleeping Beauty, I have simply walked onstage for my first entrance, calm and restrained. Nothing like at Bolshoi Theatre, where the entrance for the Prince is an explosion into midair. As I readied myself for it, I heard the buildup of the music, the anticipation ascending through Tchaikovsky’s score.

  I looked at the dancers a
lready onstage, busily prepping themselves for the appearance of the Prince. They glanced at me in the wings. I made eye contact with some, nervously looking for assurance. “You can do this, David. We are on your side.” But instead, nothing. Just dancers glancing back, no familiar faces showing support. I was alone in my journey.

  I took my preparation offstage for that leap, my left leg extended in front of me as if readying for a sprint. It was that moment of no return. I had committed to being here. And I committed to this first leap. I gave myself over to a massive, high-flying jump and was propelled from the wings onto the stage, as if I’d been shot out of a cannon.

  I landed from that first jump and immediately felt that I was going to faint. I was out of body, looking at myself jump onstage and, all around me, the Bolshoi dancers were watching. Everything went white and I was swamped by the thought that I couldn’t handle the pressure. I pushed ahead as if on autopilot, executing the steps I had rehearsed with Sasha for weeks on end. This was when his dissection of every foot, finger, head movement, and musical phrasing came into focus. Those hours of practicing every nuance seemed to hold my hand and lead me forward. When the pressure is high, all you have to rely on is the work you have done previously. Because you’ve rehearsed so much, the steps have become steeped in your muscle memory. With that memory and pure adrenaline and grit, I charged through the first variation and finished forcefully. I could finally calm down; my initial appearance to Yuri Nikolayevich was behind me.

  At that point, the fear subsided and morphed into the will to succeed. I regained my mental confidence. With the rehearsal pushing on, Grigorovich began to correct me, his Russian voice and dialect booming through the microphone.

  “Stand more to the right.”

  “Wait for the music to enter.”

  “Use the second wing and not the first one.”

  It became an almost comical scene. Grigorovich would yell something to me from the audience; I would look at him and then his corrections to me were passed on either through Svetlana, who was dancing at my side, or by Sasha, who shouted the corrections at me in English from the wings so that I could apply the revision. It was almost like a poorly dubbed movie with a five-second delay, the audio preceding the action.

  * * *

  DURING THE ACT III Grand Pas de Deux (the main showcase for Aurora and Désiré), the time came for me to perform my main solo. As Svetlana walked offstage after our adagio, I stayed center stage. The room hushed. I felt the tension in the silence.

  My starting position was in the upstage corner. I took slow, deliberate steps as I traced the perimeter of the stage. Making my way, with adrenaline overpowering doubt, I thought, Look at where you are, David. On the Upper Stage of Bolshoi Theatre. Everyone on the stage, in the wings, and in the audience is watching. You’ve been given this opportunity. Life has placed you here, from a distant suburban upbringing. In America, no less. But here you are, fortunate enough to dance in Moscow for one of the most revered companies in the world. And now you prepare for a solo in front of artists whom you call your colleagues. Take this moment in. Be present. This is something to remember.

  It was as if I were soaring. Really leaning into the work and not taking the easy road. That work led to accomplishment, even pride. Pride that I took not the road that was worn with experience, but a road I was forging myself.

  CHAPTER 30

  With only a handful of days left before the official opening of Sleeping Beauty, I began to feel tremendous external pressure in addition to my own self-inflicted stress. The premiere on November 18, 2011, would inaugurate the renovated Bolshoi Theatre; two days later the ballet would be broadcast live to movie theaters around the world. There was a lot at stake: a brand-new production with lavish sets and costumes, the Bolshoi’s prima ballerina to support, and the reopening of the theater after its renovation at a cost estimated at $760 million. My parents were coming to Moscow for the opening. Dmitri Medvedev, the president of Russia, would also attend, officially opening the theater with other members of the government. Every dancer of the company and the entire staff and administration of Bolshoi Theatre, all three thousand employees, had been waiting for this premiere. Their beloved theater had been brought to new splendor. They all were proud, as I was, to call this new shining gem home.

  My nerves and confidence fluctuated hourly. Sleeping Beauty was a ballet I had danced around the world, but now I felt as if I had never danced the role. Once again, Sasha analyzed every step in my final rehearsals with him. And again, no step was spared.

  Svetlana worked on her variations endlessly, every day toiling away. On the eve of the premiere, she took me into the corridor for a pep talk. In her studious English she told me not to worry, that everyone in the company was supporting me and liked me. That I didn’t need to stress about proving myself. All I needed to do was to show people my talent and simply dance. I was touched that she took the time to settle the nerves I thought I was concealing. The intimacy of that private moment and her words of support seemed to connect us more.

  I would be onstage for a total of an hour and fifteen minutes. But in that time there was a fork in the road. One way led to failure, buckling under the pressure that was so palpable to me. The other way, to conquering that pressure and using it to my advantage. Although I doubted my own abilities, the prospect excited me. This back-and-forth mind game of doubt and excitement was a familiar feeling. I loved the pressure, thrived on it. But I also hated it. I wanted it over. Yet I wanted to savor it. I wanted to crawl into a hole and disappear. I wanted to succeed.

  * * *

  I WAITED IMPATIENTLY in my dressing room during the first part of the ballet. I didn’t make my first entrance until Act II, long after Svetlana had gotten her nerves out of the way and was into the flow of the performance. The wait was by far the worst part. In my dressing room alone, with my makeup and hair readied by Lena and the music of the Prologue reverberating through the closed door, I felt as though I were in a pressure cooker. It was unbearable. I couldn’t sit or stand still. I closed my eyes, visualized my breath, and felt the ground below my feet. It brought me back to Svetlana’s talk with me and her assurance that all I needed to do was show the audience my dancing.

  In the moments before my first entrance, I prepped myself in the wings. I was finally ready. I knew it. The music built. That first grand leap approached. As I propelled myself onto the stage, I heard weighty applause, which meant that the audience was with me, ready to see “this American,” “the gamble,” “the risk.” I fed off their energy, and it sent me hurtling forward scene by scene. When the Act III pas de deux ended, Svetlana and I took lengthy bows to the audience and to each other, hearing the unison clapping that no other opera house in the world replicates. Then I sent her offstage, watching her sprightly exit into the wings. Slowly, deliberately, I made my way to the top of the stage. As I walked the audience was hushed, expectant. I looked around at the company members seated onstage in their costumes. The same emotions that had engulfed me during rehearsal on the Upper Stage came rushing back. I absorbed the moment. I never could have imagined that I would be where I was standing. Dancing this ballet with this company and its prima ballerina. I took a deep breath and assumed my starting position. The beginning notes of my solo sounded. It was time to do what I had done many times before. And so I danced.

  * * *

  AFTER THE FINAL curtain, Svetlana and I gasped enormous breaths of relief. We hugged in elation. We couldn’t form words. We didn’t need to; we both knew it had gone well. Every aspect of the production was like nothing else I had witnessed. The scale of the set design. The beauty of the costumes. The quality of the dancers. Everything had come together to create a spectacle suited to the grand reopening of the Bolshoi’s magnificent theater.

  Backstage, a slew of people rushed the stage. Yuri Nikolayevich expressed his happiness and proudly told me that Medvedev had expressed similar compliments. Honestly, Grigorovich’s opinion was more important to me th
an the president’s. He embodied Bolshoi Theatre’s history and identity. It was a great honor to dance in his production with his company.

  When the Russian president swooped onto the stage, the entire company flocked around him. Svetlana sought me out of the crowd, calling, “David, come here!”

  She pulled me forward by the hand, urging an introduction.

  “My congratulations,” said Medvedev in English. “I hear you don’t speak much Russian.”

  “Tolka chut-chut,” I replied. Only a little.

  “Well,” he said, “it may be only a little, but it’s with no accent at all.”

  His remark evoked laughter from everyone, myself included. We formally shook hands as he walked off the stage surrounded by security.

  But where were my parents? I didn’t see them yet but knew they were going to be brought backstage. The cover to the pressure cooker had been lifted, and all I wanted was to hug them. To see their faces and celebrate this incredible occasion. As they finally approached the stage I ran toward the two people who had always supported the risks they knew I loved to take.

  * * *

  TWO DAYS LATER we were ready to repeat the entire performance. This time it would be seen by tens of thousands of ballet enthusiasts around the world, relayed live into cinemas in fifty countries. I had the same doubt. The same fear. It would not be any easier because Svetlana and I had already danced the opening. In fact, it was a completely different sort of pressure. There were cameras everywhere capturing every nuance and bead of sweat.

  For the cameras we wore less makeup and adjusted our movements and acting for close-ups, as opposed to the acting one does to engage audiences in the far reaches of the theater’s balconies.