A Body of Work

by David Hallberg

  * * *

  EIGHT MONTHS INTO my time in Moscow, a New York friend suggested I meet a Russian designer he knew from the fashion world. Vika Gazinskaya is a tall blond Muscovite with a severely cropped haircut. As I watched her bound up the Bolshoi steps for our date to the opera, I was stunned by her original sense of modern Russian style. Vika is a passionate, quintessential Russian soul. Her love of art and fashion go hand in hand with her emotions, which she sometimes has a hard time keeping at bay. We clicked immediately. She inhabited a part of Moscow I had yet to experience. I knew Bolshoi and only Bolshoi. She knew the modern art and fashion crowd; artists and designers who were making lives and careers in modern-day Moscow.

  Vika invited me into her life. She introduced me to artists my age, whose passion, much like that of my friends in New York, was to create contemporary work. It was refreshing to meet people who, like me, were wholly committed to a vision, a lifestyle, an art.

  * * *

  GOSHA RUBCHINSKIY, A talented designer and photographer, was one of these friends. Gosha, with his trademark laugh, an impeccably buzzed haircut, and a methodic grasp of the English language, documented the diverse aspects of Russian life: the young boys and girls of Russian skate culture and the raw energy of Russian youth in the cities he visited.

  He is a proud Russian who regards it as a personal mission to show the modernity of his country to the world. We immediately began talking about working together. The idea was to make a documentary-style portrait of me living in Russia and working at Bolshoi Theatre. I had had people photograph me at Bolshoi for certain publications but never over a period of time. So there would be a photo onstage, another in the wings, another wearing clothes from certain designers. But our idea was to create a portrait of the American in Moscow. It wouldn’t be the pretty shots taken for the glossy magazines but something sweaty and realistic. The in-between shots. The images in which the subject looks imperfect, which are usually edited out. Unlike most ballet photographers, Gosha wasn’t at all interested in the perfect jump or pose. He wanted to find images that revealed the dancer. He didn’t know the ballet world and hadn’t ever imagined he would photograph inside Bolshoi Theatre. I loved that. This collaboration, I thought, was exactly the sort of fusion between the traditional and the new that Bolshoi Theatre was becoming.

  Throughout the year Gosha shot countless pictures, and though the project never fully came to fruition I was still glad we did it since it grew out of a desire to explore an idea. I fed off the work of others, especially those from completely different artistic mediums. I always believed this kind of process benefited both sides of any project. I opened up the ballet world to him. And he shared his artistic and aesthetic eye with me.

  * * *

  VIKA INTRODUCED ME to a new group of people when she invited me to a party at Simachev celebrating the birthday of one of her friends. Sima, as it was called, was the local restaurant/bar/club frequented by the art crowd of Moscow. I’d never set foot in it, knowing little about what was considered cool in the city.

  I felt self-conscious about crashing a Russian party where I didn’t know the birthday girl and spoke only morsels of the language (uncomfortably forcing others to use what they knew of English with me). But Natasha Turovnikova, whose birthday it was, welcomed me warmly by telling me her greatest gift that night was meeting “her prince from Bolshoi Theatre.”

  Throughout that evening, people grilled me, seeking an inside perspective on my move to Bolshoi Theatre. Why had I decided to come? How had the company and audiences accepted me? What did I think of Moscow? They knew how tough the city could be at times, harsh and unwelcoming, and were curious as to how I got on living here. I had the sense that they wanted to help me as much as they possibly could. By the time the party had ended I knew I had met a group that would become my family in Moscow.

  My newfound friends eventually came to see me dance. It was a joy to be able to give tickets to people I knew. Like Genia, my friend from the banya, they viewed it as a special honor to come to the ballet as invited guests. Little did I know that the vibrant social scene they were all part of had made them well-known Muscovites. After the show, when they came backstage, certain dancers in the company knew who they were. I, on the other hand, was oblivious to the “scene” in Moscow (having spent the last year hiding in plain sight at the theater).

  Backstage, my new friends would present me with beautiful bouquets of flowers. In Russia, flowers are readily used in celebrations or as tokens of thanks, much more so than in America. Americans don’t usually present flowers to a man; it’s considered emasculating. But Russians present men and women alike with beautiful flower arrangements. Onstage, during bows, Svetlana is given so many flowers that she cannot even attempt to carry them all, and places them by her feet. It is a long-held tradition and a touching show of appreciation. And after a year of never having anyone I knew attending a performance of mine, I adored having my Russian friends come see me on the Bolshoi stage.

  * * *

  HAVING FRIENDS CHANGED the way I viewed Moscow. Before, it had been a foreign place to work in and be challenged by. But once I met true friends, the city opened up its arms to me. I discovered more places to go. I would see familiar faces everywhere. When I returned from travels, I no longer approached Moscow with that feeling of dread. I was not even close to fluent in Russian, so my closest friends, Vikusa, Natash, and Kozak, would speak English and subtly remind those around us to speak it as well. That suggestion, although generous in its intention, embarrassed me. It didn’t seem right that Russians would have to accommodate me by speaking my language on their turf. But no one seemed annoyed and all simply wanted to bypass that barrier of language and converse freely.

  Bolshoi Theatre had an allure and mystery for the Russians I met through Vika and Natasha. Everyone was curious about what it was like to be a dancer with the theater. The reality is that dancers from Bolshoi Theatre, though well known and respected in Russian society, are insulated from the rest of the culture as a result of the necessary and unending commitment required by their art form. For better and for worse, this is true of dancers all over the world. I’ve always thought it important to stay open and curious to whatever is happening culturally in the world. It does the ballet world a disservice to stay closed off and insular, ignoring what is happening and what is changing in any given field around us.

  * * *

  BEFORE I MOVED to Russia I already knew how negatively some in the nation viewed homosexuality. It was far more conservative than the United States, and especially New York, where the openness to all lifestyles made it easy for me to live an honest life. Being gay in New York is such a nonissue that one tends to mistakenly assume that this acceptance prevails in the rest of the country and the world.

  Yet I can truly say that, in Russia, I never had to lie to anyone about who I was. I never felt uneasy while walking down the street or in any social situation. But I did become aware of certain stories: friends of friends were beaten up, harassed for being gay and out. Though I was always aware of who was around me late at night when I was leaving Simachev, it was nothing like what Americans imagined when they’d ask things like “Are you safe walking down the street?”

  For one thing, the way I walked down a Russian street was no different than the way I walked down the street in New York. In fact, the only place I have heard antigay slurs in the last eight years was in Cleveland, Ohio, when I was on tour with ABT, and walking to meet some friends at a restaurant near my hotel. It was Saint Patrick’s Day and drunken college kids were pouring out of bars, pissed out of their minds. As I walked past a group of frat boys, one looked at me and, apparently showing off to his friends, shouted at the top of his lungs, “LOOK! It’s a FAGGOT!”

  I simply kept walking. But the shock and remembrance of being called something I was constantly called in my early teens hit a nerve that had been dormant for years. This happened in America. Surprisingly enough, it never once happened in Russ
ia, where my circle increasingly came to include dancers of Bolshoi Theatre in addition to the designers and artists I’d met through Vika. None of those people cared about my sexual identity.

  CHAPTER 36

  I was ignorant of the traditions of a Russian Orthodox wedding until Evgenia Obraztsova, a charismatic ballerina at Bolshoi Theatre and a frequent partner of mine, asked me to attend her ceremony in Moscow. “Few people are invited,” she told me, “but I want you there.”

  I was keenly aware that Genia was devout in her faith. But having been brought up in the Lutheran religion and deemed a “sinner” because of my homosexuality, I instinctively rejected any religion whose dogma dictated right and wrong, black and white. Yet Genia’s beliefs, which permeated her thoughts and actions, had a compelling spirituality. I would observe her praying before a show. Or catch a glimpse of the icons she displayed at her home or on her dressing room table. Genia didn’t judge. She simply believed in the help God gave her.

  She once told me, “God will guide you throughout your life. He will give you strength and courage.”

  Even if I didn’t share all of her beliefs, I admired her conviction and understood the benefits that such belief can instill.

  * * *

  RUSSIAN ORTHODOX CHURCHES dot the Moscow skyline like gleaming golden onions with crosses on top. Genia’s ceremony was held on a bright spring day at a church just outside the center of the city. I felt honored to be there. I knew it would be a unique experience, like nothing in the United States, for the beliefs and traditions of this church are older than America itself.

  Ballet dancers typically make beautiful brides. Genia was no exception. Her fiancé, Andrei, a sculptor, stood by her, beaming his smile at everyone. They were a young, vibrant couple.

  At the appointed time, the priest, draped in a gilded white robe, instructed us to enter the church behind the bride and groom and make our way around the center of the nave. We walked slowly, all of us quiet, focused.

  The church was gilded from top to bottom, scented by burning candles and the smell of damp earth. Icons of saints and wooden frescoes adorned the walls on all sides. There were no chairs, only an open space with areas to the left and right for specific icons where you could pray. Worshipers lit candles and crossed themselves, always touching the right side of the chest before the left, as opposed to the Western way of touching the left side first. That was one thing with which I was vaguely familiar because, in rehearsals, when dancers had to cross themselves onstage, the correct way to do it always depended on the part of the world in which the ballet was set—a significant detail discussed by many a coach.

  We progressed into the nave and formed a semicircle just a few steps from the bride and groom. To the right of the nave, obscured by a column, was a quartet who began to sing Orthodox chants a cappella. The clarity and pure tone of their voices echoed through the church. It was devotional perfection.

  When the ceremony began, I stood as still as I could, fearful of disrupting these deeply held traditions. I was keenly aware that this was something I might never experience again. By then, I felt even more honored to have been invited, as an outsider, to observe. The priest chanted and prayed. Some of the Russian words sounded familiar, but the majority were foreign to my ears. When you understand nothing of a language, it is body language that speaks to you. The belief and reverence of everyone involved in the ceremony was palpable. Some friends whispered to me that they had never seen an Orthodox wedding themselves. Throughout the entire ceremony, a little over an hour long, Genia and Andrei each held a slowly burning thin white candle. After standing facing the priest and the altar, with their candles burning down, they walked in at least a dozen circles around the center of the nave, regally and slowly, grounded in concentration.

  They remained still when attendants to the priest raised ornate gold crowns above their heads. Genia, lost in the moment, stood with tears streaming down her cheeks. This is the image that is seared in my mind. Genia, her tears, in her white wedding dress, an ornate gold crown held over her head, holding a burning white candle in her hands. It was extraordinary to witness a dear Russian friend and partner taking such belief and joy from this ceremony and the covenant with God and her beloved that it signified.

  The experience left me profoundly moved. My daily life inside the walls of Bolshoi Theatre was why I had come to Moscow. But it was the other experiences, unlike any in my life thus far, that made every risk and sacrifice well worth it.

  CHAPTER 37

  In my first season with Bolshoi, Sergei and I balanced my ABT commitments with those at Bolshoi Theatre. (I later decided that the schedule we’d built was unrealistic.) Although there had been ample rehearsals at Bolshoi for my first Giselle and Sleeping Beauty, now my time to prepare roles was cut to days, not weeks. My free days, which were meant to be spent relaxing and recharging my fatigued body, were passed flying thousands of miles from one continent to another. My idea of a day off was stepping onto a plane and having ten to twelve hours ahead of me with nothing to do but eat, sleep, and attempt to mentally and physically recharge while seated in a pressurized cabin 35,000 feet in the air. I was oblivious to the consequences, ignorant of the effect this whirlwind schedule had on my body. I would dance one week in Moscow, three weeks with ABT, two and a half weeks in Australia. Rinse and repeat.

  I became accustomed to the endless treadmill I was on: the physical exhaustion at the end of each show, the late-night finish with adrenaline still pumping as I headed home to pack and prepare for a six a.m. flight for which I would trudge to the airport at four a.m., eventually sleeping in my seat, only to wake up when landing in another city, where I would head to rehearsals and confront a completely different working environment, a different style of dancing, and a different ballet.

  Throughout my first year at the Bolshoi, I felt the pressure to be at the absolute top of my game. I had relearned and been recoached in the classical ballets. This intense work was invariably draining; the Bolshoi style pushed me beyond anything I’d attained before. Though my learning curve was fast and steep, I struggled to stay on top of all my responsibilities as I began to ping-pong around the world, trying desperately to keep up with what was expected of me. The prospect of letting these opportunities pass terrified me. I felt an adrenaline rush journeying to one company after another, each vastly different from the previous ones. It was destined to take its toll.

  * * *

  IN MAY OF 2012, I was scheduled to dance my debut in George Balanchine’s “Diamonds” at the Bolshoi. “Diamonds” is the magnificent third movement of Jewels, one of Balanchine’s masterworks, which many regard as the first full-length abstract ballet. Tchaikovsky’s soaring score can forge a deeply intimate connection between the two leading dancers and the audience. But my task in creating that moment, as the dancer, was much harder than I had imagined. It was a debut for the company as well, and the final big premiere of Sergei’s first season as director of Bolshoi.

  I wasn’t in Moscow during the initial teaching of the ballet. The rest of the dancers cast in leading roles learned the piece from a former Balanchine ballerina, Merrill Ashley. I had worked with Merrill before at ABT in another Balanchine work, Ballo della Regina (created expressly for her). Her ability to catch the pairing of musicality and attack were a great fit for the Bolshoi dancers. She pushed them deeper and deeper into the Balanchine style, which she had learned from Balanchine himself. And she did so without interfering with Bolshoi technique.

  When I eventually came to Moscow to learn the ballet with Merrill, I was far behind everyone else in the cast, including my partner Svetlana Lunkina, a long-limbed ballerina with a pure, refined Bolshoi style. Svetlana and I knew each other well enough, having danced together in Swan Lake earlier on in the season. I had heard through the grapevine that she was uneasy about the amount of time I was committing to rehearsals, although she never expressed any frustrations to me directly. My plan was to learn it in December for a week, revisit it
when I was back in Moscow in February for another week, and then arrive with a couple of days to prepare before my premiere in May. I knew it to be an intricate and delicate work; although only thirty-one minutes in length, it was filled with many subtle nuances and discreet shadings. Learning anything that possessed such fine details always took a great amount of time and work, refining and finessing each step day in, day out. It takes months for the steps to settle into the body, eventually becoming second nature so the artistry can dominate. Foolishly, I assumed that it would not take long to prepare for a new ballet of which I had no prior knowledge.

  * * *

  WHEN I FLEW in two days before the premiere for the final dress rehearsals, I hadn’t even passed the most basic hurdle of memorizing the steps and focusing on my partner’s needs in the pas de deux, the most iconic section in the ballet. It was apparent to me, and no doubt to everyone else, that the ballet hadn’t been properly absorbed into my body. You need that absorption in order to be open enough onstage to take risks and move freely and confidently. I wasn’t near that point.

  During the dress rehearsal I was also horribly jet-lagged. In one of my solos, as the company looked on from the wings, I landed from a jump on an angle and slipped on the floor, going down on my butt loudly. I still remember the gasps from the dancers, all looking at me as I peeled myself off the floor of the Bolshoi stage.