With her bangles chiming to the count as the accompanist played in the background, Esther invariably began class with a simple plié. It never failed to amaze me that the mastery of the most basic ballet movement could be as important as one day nailing the perfect double pirouette onstage. Esther held the keys to opening those doors—secrets handed down from legendary dancers, choreographers, and teachers who had mentored and taught her.
Over the next thirty years I would weave together the strands of Esther’s remarkable biography. Her astonishing curriculum vitae was known by everyone who was anyone in the dance world, including none other than George Balanchine, one of Esther’s more famous admirers and mentors, Muriel Stuart, Pierre Vladimiroff, and Alexandra Danilova.
Before I knew much of anything about her private story, I sensed that Esther’s childhood had been clouded by a solitude that was similar to mine, but was different from the disenfranchisement of a foster child. And we both learned to anchor ourselves through the power of classical ballet. From a prominent well-to-do family, she was born in Paris, France, and at the age of twelve, in the late 1930s, went to China with her parents. Esther dearly loved them—her father, a navy officer, was American, as was her mother, who was considered to be one of Europe’s leading beauties.
Esther’s social conscience developed early in response to the grinding poverty of the Chinese masses as well as the thousands of destitute refugees. Perhaps something in Esther rose up, even at fourteen, wanting to right injustice. And perhaps it was these encounters that became my good fortune and the good fortune of hundreds of other “poor” inner-city children.
Her other anchor, of course, was ballet. In Paris, Esther had begun training at the age of eight with Olga Preobrajenska, one of the most renowned teachers in the early 1930s. When Esther went to China, she studied with Audrey King, whose influences as a teacher, choreographer, innovator, and social activist all shaped her protégée. That first year while training under King, Esther made her stage debut with the Shanghai Russian Ballet and performed in The Tarantella and in Swan Lake. Her mentor could have been partly responsible for Esther’s independence and her insistence on confronting injustice and intolerance, even at her own expense. Audrey King, in fact, later battled apartheid in South Africa by founding the Johannesburg Youth Ballet. (In 1976, the Johannesburg Youth Ballet performed for the first time with black and white dancers together onstage, in a “nonracial” corps of young dancers who turned the evil institution on its head, all of which coincided with the Soweto student uprising. After founding the company, Audrey King created a ballet entitled Waratah, a staging of the mythical story of an actual shipwreck off the coast of Africa, in which a white baby is rescued and raised to adulthood by a black community.)
When Esther left China and said good-bye to her great teacher, she was sent by her parents to live in a convent in Hollywood, California. Why a convent? Maybe all her grand ideas of saving the world were unnerving, especially with the ravages of World War II spreading across the continents. Maybe it was on account of her increasingly perilous good looks. In any case, her parents felt in a convent she would be protected from the evils and enchantments of Hollywood.
Esther stayed at the Convent of the Immaculate Heart for two months until she was asked to leave. One evening a nun caught her reading a book called Out of the Night, which is now considered a socialist classic. The book was immediately taken away from her, but a week or so later, she was in the nun’s room, sewing, and her spool of thread rolled under the bed. When she went to retrieve it, she found her copy of Out of the Night with a bookmark strategically placed where the nun had left off in her reading. Esther became irate at this hypocrisy and was described as “insolent.” That was the end of her days at the convent.
This circumstance propelled her into the foster care of Adolph Bolm, the legendary Danish dancer, who was friends with Igor Stravinsky and Cecil B. DeMille. Bolm was one of the core architects at the nascence of American ballet. The former stage partner and promoter of Anna Pavlova, among countless other ballet luminaries, Bolm and his company gave Esther the opportunity to make her American debut at the Hollywood Bowl in California. In her late teens, she moved to New York City to study with George Balanchine’s Ballet Society at its inception. Mr. B’s dictatorial direction even extended to telling her, over dinner one night, how precisely she must eat a plate of escargots—in a clockwise direction.
Fending off the most eligible of suitors, Esther succumbed to the virtuosic musical charms of the Russian violinist Paul Makovsky, whom she married in 1944, and with whom she had a daughter, Alexsandra. By 1948, the Makovskys had divorced, and Esther returned to France to dance with the Ballet des Champs Élysées and then with Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo. Two years later, amid travels throughout Europe, she met Peter Chardon Brooks. His gift for whistling classical music, journalism, and very dry wit not only captivated but complemented her as well. She had met her match, later marrying the award-winning journalist and having three more children.
Settling down in Cambridge, Massachusetts, the mother of four next gave birth to a dream that swiftly transformed into reality: the founding of the Cambridge School of Ballet in 1953, and soon thereafter the Cambridge Ballet Theater. The school and company were supported by foundation grants and championed by state and national leaders, namely Senator Edward M. Kennedy, Thomas “Tip” O’Neill Jr., Elliot Richardson, Thaddeus Beal, and Dr. Freddy Homburger, consul of Switzerland.
At a time when the public interest in ballet was at a low ebb, Esther further conceived the innovative idea of having Cambridge Ballet Theater perform in area public schools, thus making classical dance and music accessible and affordable to audiences of all ages and all walks of life.
By 1966, Esther—already a pivotal force in a dance renaissance taking place across the country, with American classical ballet coming fully into its own—had a brainstorm that would become her most enduring contribution. It came from a memory that stayed with her for many years of a boy who ran through a palazzo in Rome and nimbly boosted her wallet from her pocketbook, without disturbing her handkerchief or her gloves. The typical reaction by most would have been to bemoan the loss and report the crime to the policia. But Esther’s first reaction was to admire the child’s artful dexterity, imagining what a superb violinist he might have become, if given the opportunity. She fervently believed that if she could have found that pickpocket, “He could have been the next Paganini!”
Esther’s implementation of that memory, a scholarship program for children without means, was in its first year when I auditioned for the Cambridge School of Ballet. I not only studied classical ballet but was given lessons in music, art, and modern dance and was taken on excursions in and around Cambridge to widen my scope beyond the inner city.
Despite the support she received, Esther did have detractors in different camps. In the more working-class neighborhoods that bordered the liberal haven of Harvard, residents were aghast that black children were being imported over to their side of the river, a rancor that increased with the racial tension spreading across the nation and that would later erupt across Boston with one of the worst busing crises in the country. Meanwhile, some of the black radical leaders were critical that we were being brought over to Cambridge, rather than having resources go toward establishing schools in black neighborhoods around Boston—even though highly supported cultural and arts schools did exist, such as the Elma Lewis School of Fine Arts in Roxbury.
Everyone gave Esther grief over the terminology she used. Her original idea was to help children living in poverty experience the power of discipline through the arts. Esther was told, however, by a Boston social worker who paid her an hourlong visit in her office, that using the word poor to describe children was unacceptable. The social worker stated, “…we have moved on from that. We now use the terms disadvantaged and underprivileged.” Also in the meeting was the acclaimed African American choreographer Billy Wilson, then one of my dance instructors
at the Cambridge School of Ballet, who had this to say, “Honey, I was poor but I wasn’t a bit disadvantaged.” Esther continued using the word poor.
I had faced some of my own difficulties in navigating the terms to use to define myself and my social status.
Esther well understood the limitations of labels and refused to allow words alone to describe my status, or anyone else’s. Nothing kept her from helping to elevate our status.
Her deepest conviction was that if she could save children from poverty through education in the arts, she could also save them from the downward spiral of hopelessness, homelessness, and crime. She was adamant when she told the Boston Herald in one of many interviews, “Incredible talent can be found among deprived ghetto children who really work hard when given an opportunity,” and she went on to note that at the end of any given day she often had children who didn’t want to go home because they felt safe and happy at school. Not only that, she pointed out, “The children are single-minded in the work, some coming to classes four to six times a week.”
Esther did indeed save hundreds if not thousands of lives, both directly and through the example she set as a mentor and a teacher on a national and international level.
Starting on that very first class, June 24, 1968, upstairs in the ballet studio at the Odd Fellow Building, I saw emphatically that Esther literally never missed a beat as she kept an eye on every single one of her two hundred and ten students who attended that summer. I would catch Esther watching me and one other student closely, singling me out from time to time with her focus and her heart, attentive to my absolute desire to learn everything.
She gave me frequent muscle adjustments, placing one hand on my rib cage and the other on my shoulder to encourage me to relax, to breathe. Most serious ballet students knew that this was a sign of interest by the teacher, not being critical but recognizing promise. I favored the left side of everything, from pirouettes to jumps, and naturally loved romantic music scores.
Everything about the Cambridge School of Ballet those first months was like cotton candy. All of the summer program kids, like me, all caught up in the magic, grew together, many of us spotting each other at the train or bus station, riding out of poverty and the projects and into the other world of lofty Harvard Square. We were so eager to get to class that T-shirts could be seen peeking out from under leotards with no tights, just bare legs and shorts, most of us holding our slippers in our hands with brown bagged lunches while others arrived empty-handed, hungry but full of hope.
We were introduced to French, opera, how to score and read music, how to paint and sculpt. We created scenery and stage props for an end-of-the-summer performance, our own Versailles. We were all entrenched with the idea, teachers and students alike, that this artistic haven had unified us. Each adventure unfolded into the next.
Because I showed promise, as the program was drawing to a close, Esther and the Cambridge School of Ballet extended a full scholarship to me, and to several others, for the entire school year.
Agatha cleared the way for me to continue to stay with Uncle Richie and Aunt Laura in Dorchester, promising that she would check in on me as often as possible. Since she still owned a brownstone in Roxbury, that meant I could stay with her whenever she visited the Boston area. Even so, the separation from each other was increasingly painful.
Solace was found by holding firm to that ballet barre in Cambridge. Knowing of the sacrifices made on my behalf, I was an especially serious student. Esther and the rest of the teaching staff encouraged me in every respect. Early on, I was touted as being a natural lyrical dancer. Adagios required a delicate somberness, a gentle quality, and a lot of control. Not only was I learning my strengths, but also how to be part of the great ensemble. The throngs of children in my classes—some like me and others who weren’t—all became my friends, part of my new family. We were connected in the kinetic energy of one common goal: to learn, to respect, and to depend on one another, with rewards based on merit. There were no shortcuts.
The exposure to classical music was often as exciting to me as the steps themselves. I soon understood that everything began with a message from the music. The composers who first caught my ear were Chopin, Debussy, Schumann, Shubert, Mendelssohn, Mozart—all played by our accompanists in class, gifted pianists who were accomplished in their fields, often modifying complex scores to fit the exercises or combinations at hand.
I was a sponge, soaking up every drop of history, reading books, going with my classmates to art films like Stars of the Russian Ballet. I read articles, listened to the odysseys of our teachers who described their faraway lands of origin, memorizing the fantastic-sounding names of who taught them and how they were taught.
Esther believed that it was important for her students, even those of us who were only nine and ten years old, to be introduced to the history of ballet. We were taught how the feasts and celebrations of the Italian aristocracy in the 1400s involved elaborate balletic presentations. Then there was Louis XIV, who commissioned magnificent productions at Versailles and even danced in them. We learned about the Russian choreographers, about the evolution of the Vaganova syllabus, in which we were taught in part with its codified, demanding approach that sought to utilize the whole body in an integrated, optimum way. We also trained with teachers whose dominant influence came from the Royal Academy of Dance School, which had brought together the leading choreographers from many nationalities and backgrounds.
Esther helped cultivate the love for history that was already in me. Just as family histories were always fascinating, it was important to know where my forebears of ballet came from, which gave me standing. Through that history, I now belonged to the family of others who were connected to the ballet world, with royal ancestors I could call my own and know that in their company, I was never a guest.
Esther encouraged curiosity about all forms of art and culture, a passion for me that would continue to grow over the years. Looking at photographs of paintings by Degas, Toulouse-Lautrec, and John Singer Sargent, I swore that I had lived in those scenarios of dancers that they painted. My favorite Sargent was his El Jaleo, a large canvas that I discovered during a visit to the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in Boston. One of his more famous works, it is of a flamenco dancer performing in low light, one hand grasping her skirts and the other arm outstretched, playing the castanets. As an adult I would discover other connections that went beyond the strong emotional reactions I had to John Singer Sargent’s paintings. It turned out that he had been commissioned to paint portraits of individuals directly connected to the Cambridge School of Ballet—Mr. and Mrs. Peter Chardon Brooks, Esther’s in-laws, as well as a family member of the school’s treasurer, Reverend Augustus Hemenway. Both families had significant histories of overcoming difficult circumstances to attain levels of wealth with which they became major philanthropists on behalf of children and foster youth like me. It would seem like a series of divine connections that made Sargent’s work all the more glorious to me.
Esther also lit a passion in me to travel. At night asleep I sometimes danced in my dreams in foreign, exotic settings; by day I imagined myself in Russia dancing with the Bolshoi for the most critical audiences in the world—performing thirty-two perfect fouettés, that single-legged high-velocity multiple turn performed by the lead ballerina in Swan Lake. It would be the Bolshoi, in fact, that I would later witness when I attended my first full-fledged ballet performance in Boston, with Maya Plisetskaya performing Spring Waters. I may have gasped out loud when she threw herself halfway across the stage into her partner’s arms. That absolute and unconditional trust in someone else was unbelievable. Could I ever feel that certainty that someone else would never fail to catch me? It seemed impossible. But what I did think possible was that one day if I had a daughter, I would name her Maya. And indeed I would.
Esther taught me lasting life lessons that went beyond the ballet studio. I learned that I was loved and welcomed, as were we all. I learned the sim
plest, most universal truth: that one person could make a world of difference in someone else’s life, even if only by caring enough to make sure carfare was available for getting to ballet class.
Esther compelled me to embrace my surroundings just as Agatha had done so at Forest Edge. I learned that the Charles River ran through the city but didn’t have to divide it, and that I could attend the Harvard sailing and rowing practices while I lunched with fellow dance students, free for the watching. In the fall, I discovered the magnificent chestnut trees. On one occasion, I found myself standing on the narrow steps above the elegant Radcliffe campus. Before me was a kingdom of chestnut trees flush with fruit—my very own Maine. I ran freely across the campus, scooping up as many as my plastic Capezio bag would hold, nearly snapping the string over my shoulder. There was beauty and history everywhere I wandered: along Brattle Street, into the lively circus of Harvard Square, and through the Harvard Commons. I didn’t need an excuse or justification for being there. Even at nine years old.
In only a handful of months I had developed levels of independence and seriousness that were important for me to succeed in the long haul. In this context, foster care had given me an advantage. I knew what pressure felt like. It had been the blueprint of my life: I knew what black or white meant in more ways than one; all or nothing, no middle ground, no excuses and no tears. As time went on, I would learn more and more that one missed step could mean the end of career in the classroom, and one misstep in my personal life could mean the end of a living arrangement. I would know how to shrink to the point of nonexistence when necessary or transcend into a queen during rehearsals for a variation. I know how to suspend hope; I had done it at every planting in Maine. I trained, mentally and physically, night and day in prayerful anticipation of being awarded support from the National Endowment for the Arts or possibly a Ford Foundation scholarship the following year. So much was riding on a plié.
The Women Who Raised Me Page 13