Chapter One: Baby Steps



In the Shadow of the Greats

By Nicolas Petrov ©

Chapter One: Baby Steps

I was quite a happy youngster, born on December 13, 1933 in the Kingdom of Serbia. According to my mother, Irena, on the evening of my nine o’clock arrival a huge snowstorm blanketed the ground with two feet of white powdery snow. Perhaps this is why I am so keen about snow.

My father, Sergei Nikolaevic, a former young officer in the Czar’s army, had fled Russia during the Revolution, sold his horse, and sought refuge in Serbia, where with government help, he became a lawyer. My mother Irena Roboz Petrov, who was the youngest daughter of a railroad station chief and the granddaughter of a wealthy Austro-Hungarian architect, was a housewife. My parents met while my dad was a young professional and I arrived a few years after their marriage.

My father was quite a large man and by the time I reached thirty, it was obvious that I had turned out like him. My son also, as he approached thirty resembled the family tree. My mother, who grew up during the First World War, was an attractive, small woman, not corpulent, but definitely Rubenesque. She always complained of physical aches--her legs, her back, and her heart--and other malfunctions. Yet, she lived ninety-nine and a half years before she left this Earth, God bless her soul.

At an early age, I already knew that law studies were not for me. Perusing all the books on my father’s bookshelves--the tools of his trade--I found them dull. Those Roman rights held no interest for me. I gave no thought to what I would like to be, but was better attuned to what did not appeal.

I do recall saying, “I don’t want to be a solider.” That wish was granted, as I never served active duty in the army. While I did have an inclination towards medicine, I suspect that was only because my doctor had a beautiful car. I thought that by pursuing medicine, I could have one too.

In the thirties life was comfortable in Yugoslavia. Our extended family--Grandma Theresa, Aunty Lenka, my parents, and I--lived on an estate inherited from my great-grandfather, who was one of Novi Sad’s founding fathers. (My mother also had two other siblings. Aunty Elizabeth, whom I liked very much, lived in Zemun. Uncle Oscar, whom I only visited a few times and did not know well, resided in Zagreb with his family.) The property encompassed four houses, a sizable courtyard, and garden. My mother continued to live in our house, which was in the heart of the city and amid modern high rises, until she passed away in 2004. (It has since been razed to make way for a multistory apartment complex.) We had neither horses nor cars, but Novi Sad (New York in English) was small. Bicycles were sufficient.

I recall that we took family vacations and years afterwards, my father often asked, “Do you remember when you were little and we vacationed in Rateca Planica in the Slovenian Alps?” I would always reply, “Certainly, Dad,” though I remembered very little of that tiny, last whistle stop at the foot of the mountains, as I had been just four or five-years-old. I do recollect our visit to a cheese factory, where one of the wheels was about two-feet thick and at least six-feet in diameter. It was the biggest cheese I have ever seen. And, I recall that when I grew weary of the steep mountain climb, Aunty Lenka carried me on her shoulders. I remember pine forests, meadows of green grass, and our picnic of gavrilovic (hard salami) sandwiches. That is all I remember of Slovenia.

I was quite spoiled, especially by Grandma Theresa and my black-haired, dark-eyed Aunty Lenka, whose fiery and energetic nature I admired. I spent most of my early years under their care. As an only child, all attention was directed towards me. Naturally, I had no qualms with that and enjoyed it fully. The surrounding houses had children, who were not just rich, but quite wealthy. So, we were supplied with a large quantity of astonishing toys. The garden and yard served as our playground because we were forbidden to play in the street.

As my father was Orthodox and my mother, Catholic, we celebrated holidays according to both calendars. This of course was relatively profitable for me--two Christmases, two Easters! I was showered with material goods, especially wonderfully crafted, high quality, German made toys, but I did not appreciate their quality.

When I was about six-years-old, this wonderful life was abruptly disrupted. On Easter Day, 1941, as sirens blared, Germany declared war on Yugoslavia, which was then a republic of six small nations: Serbia, Croatia, Bosnia, Macedonia, Slovenia, and Montenegro, ruled by Alexander II, a Serb. (In more recent history, Yugoslavia disintegrated during a rage of ethnic cleansing in Bosnia and through internal clashes between Serbian leader, Slobodan Milosěvić, and the Kosovo Muslim population. Only two existing republics comprise today’s Yugoslavia.)

I vividly remember my mother walking into our house that sunny Easter. Worried and visibly uncomfortable, she announced that Germany had declared war on Yugoslavia. She knew that my father must register for active army duty. What she did not know was that this period of mobilization and war would be very short.

Our ears were glued to the radio that morning. Later in the day, we heard the growling of German schtukas (war planes) that flew over Novi Sad en route to Belgrade. It was an astonishing picture of shining silver birds thundering above our heads. For the first time, I felt fear of something that I barely understood.

Panic struck our community. We--my family, including my grandma and aunt, plus our neighbors--prepared to move underground into a collectively built bomb shelter that had been installed on our grounds in October 1940, as a precautionary measure. It was large, well equipped, and could accommodate more than twenty people. It gave everyone a sense of security. As the neighborhood children and I played, we forgot about the threat of war.

In early afternoon, Radio Belgrade announced that Yugoslavia had surrendered to German forces. Oddly, there was no resistance, as Germany was playing “cat and mouse” with the Yugoslav politicians. It sold Yugoslavia outdated guns, leftover from the First World War. The shipments were distributed to one area of the country, while ammunition (which was not compatible with the guns) was shipped to another.

Recruits (like my father) quickly realized that the army was disorganized, as King Alexander II fled to France with some of his generals. The soldiers, without leadership, soon returned to their homes. Unbelievably, Belgrade was conquered after intensive bombing by six German pilots. Within three days, the rest of the invading army occupied the entire country.

The German army outfitted in green-gray uniforms resembled something from the pages of science fiction--cruel and futuristic or from a Star Wars movie. My six-year-old mind was impressed. The advancing Germans were quickly succeeded by their allies, the Hungarians, who wore yellow-brown uniforms. They just passed through Novi Sad like ants at a picnic. They were well regimented and detailed from their helmets to their heels. They shone like the chrome on a well-polished car. The King’s guards (known as the Tchetniks) and the police offered slight resistance to this parade of soldiers, which actually lasted for only a few days before Novi Sad was subdued. Afterwards, everything superficially returned to normal.

For three years, we felt very little of the war, probably because we lived in Novi Sad Vojvodina, an old part of Austro-Hungary. We saw none of the resistance that was developing in Southern Yugoslavia. In those southern mountains, the resistance sprung up quickly in retaliation to the German terror spreading through Serbia. Led by Josip Broz Tito, a political leader trained in Russia, the resistance received help from England and Russia, which sent food and ammunitions. The Germans took drastic measures to punish the Yugoslavs. For every German soldier killed, up to fifty innocent local citizens were executed. People fled their homes to join the resistance. They preferred to die fighting than to be executed defenselessly.

After D-Day, the Allied victory was assured. Although we survived the war, an unknown fate befell Aunty Elizabeth’s husband, a Slovenian who worked in a commercial airplane factory. The Germans had occupied Zemun and Belgrade and taken over the factory to produce leisure planes for the German army. After their withdrawal, the partisans moved in. We think that one of his workers shot him or took him away, as he went out on the street and never returned.

The fantastical German army, minus its previous luster, withdrew from Yugoslavia without fanfare. However, while exiting, they blew up everything that was still standing and took our food and sustenance with them.

During the severe winter of 1944, we starved. I learned to appreciate every meal or scrap of food that I acquired and to clean my plate. The hunger haunted me for many years afterwards. Rations provided by the United Nations Relief and Works Agency became our sustenance and these were also served to the liberating armies. Besides chocolate and chewing gum, the rations contained my introduction to nicotine--cigarettes. Needless to say, I did inhale for thirty years and was a serious smoker. Now, with hindsight, which is always 20/20, I would have never taken that first puff.

Hungarian authorities governed Novi Sad during the war. As I finished elementary school, the Hungarian language predominated. Afterwards, Novi Sad reverted to Serbian rule. Adjusting to the new language in middle school was difficult. Despite the transition, we were happy to have survived the war, even if we were living on rations. It was the spring of a new life. The first two years of it were uneventful.

In 1946, three strangers appeared in our gym class. Among them was a middle-aged woman, who seemed to be looking for new prey. She was most certainly looking for something. These guests were government agents from the U.S.S.R. They represented the newly formed government school of the ballet arts Državna Pozorištna Škola baletni atsek (The Ballet Division of the Government Theatrical School.)

At the time, I unfortunately had no clue of what ballet was. The audition was boring and I could have cared less who they chose. I responded nonchalantly, but they discovered what they sought in my friends and me. We lifted and turned our legs, pointed our feet, and jumped as high as we could, pretending to dunk imaginary basketballs. We executed these movements with joy and laughter--and correctly.

Following these tests, they selected a number of boys from our all boys’ class and dismissed the rest. They explained that a ballet school was opening. We had been auditioned. Classes started in two weeks. Did we want to join?

They lured us with extra privileges. We would have food, two weeks paid summer vacation to the beach, and a chance to work in the theater. After the meager rations we had been receiving, these promises sounded wonderful. I was especially exited about the vacation, as my father, whose salary was now limited, certainly could not afford a seashore holiday and working in the theater aroused my curiosity.

We were between ten and twelve years of age (I was almost twelve) and hesitated to make the commitment without parental approval. The agents dismissed us, agreeing to wait until we had discussed the offer with our families.

“I’ve received a proposal from a ballet school; they would like me to join,” I announced to my parents. I was impressed by the promised “goodies.” It thrilled me to have privileges that others my age did not. I had already convinced myself that I was interested in an art that I had very little knowledge of.

Father, who was the personification of Russian aristocracy, spoke little. He was one of those people who thought a great deal about the subject before he would speak. He looked at me with slight humor on his face and replied, “You don’t want to be a ballet dancer.”

My mother, a talkative soul, who always looked exhausted from her daily chores, dried her hands and sat down. She glanced at my father with an inquisitive look on her face and remarked, “What is wrong with ballet? At least, he will be busy and out of trouble.”

I eagerly explained that we would have privileges and better food!

“I don’t see you as a clown,” my father said ironically. “I’m a lawyer and expect my son to be at least a doctor or an engineer!”

“Well Papa, we would have two weeks of paid vacation and after all, there is still six years before I would have to go to college. What is wrong with a dancing doctor?” I reasoned that working in the theater meant extra income. “You see Papa; you will not have to give me pocket money. I will even be able to help Mom to buy better food,” as I would be offered a Grade One ration card.

My mother supported me and reminded Papa that there was nothing wrong with a little extra income. She usually agreed with me, except when I was bad. She felt that ballet would be a good thing for me.

Father reluctantly agreed, but demanded that I complete high school and prepare to study medicine at the University.

Well, I was uncertain about medical school in my future or even about good grades, but agreed anyway. Actually, I was not sure of anything and was allowing the pieces of my life to fall into place as they may. Consequently, I was off to ballet school and the beginning of my dance career. As time would prove, I would never concoct a medical cure to save humanity, but I would build a major ballet company, were none had previously existed.

Our ballet school training was reciprocal to our middle school academic schedule. From 8:00 a.m. to 1:00 p.m., I concentrated on academics and was excused from gymnastics and extracurricular activities. From 2:00 p.m. until 5:00 p.m. I trained at the theatrical school. Dinner was at half past five and afterwards, I reported to the theater at seven to perform at least four times each week, as a dancer or an extra in an opera. During this time, I was living at home.

The ballet school, officially known as The Government Theatrical School, was an old yellow brick building, a former synagogue, situated in the middle of Novi Sad. Our school, which contained only one forty-foot by sixty-foot studio, occupied the rectory, which was formerly the rabbi’s offices and living room. That studio was really just a simple classroom with wooden barres installed on three walls, while the fourth wall was mirrored. The comfortable room boasted three big windows, a baby grand piano, and one padded leather chair. The soft pinewood floor was resilient for jumps. We used watering pots to sprinkle the wood, as non-slip rubberized flooring did not exist. Decades later I revisited the school, which had been designated as a historical monument--and it still looked exactly the same.

I remember my first class in that studio. There we stood with sheepish smiles on our faces and wearing short shorts and tee shirts on our gawky bodies. Our feet, shod in gym shoes, were planted in a turned out position, which was somewhat less comfortable than during the audition. The ballet shoes--on order from Belgrade, as Novi Sad did not have any ballet shops--had not arrived.

The middle-aged woman who had auditioned us--Margita Debeljak--was our teacher. She was a cheerful and good-humored lady, who tried to put us at ease with light jokes. She explained that we were to squat a little bit. She said that in French, it was called demi-plié. We repeated this movement quite a few times before she decided to demonstrate another--called battement tendu simple. She insisted that we maintain that same turned out stance while bringing our “working” legs to the side without raising the entire foot from the ground. We were permitted to raise just the heel from the floor so that the toes touched the wooden surface. It gave me the impression that the pine floor was sticky. Today, I regard it as a very elementary step, but back then, it required considerable concentration and effort to achieve. After seven or eight repetitions, my calf cramped. Grunts issued from my classmates. We asked ourselves, “Is this ballet?” We decided that it was quite boring.

Days passed, as the boring became the habitual. Our French improved and our legs grew accustomed to these movements. Our inspiration fluctuated from week to week and sometimes from day to day.

Our spirits elevated when our class was combined with the girls’ class. We were too young for romance, but our hearts beat faster--and our boyish impulses to showoff overcame us. We competed fiercely with the girls, who were more beautiful, softer, and much more flexible. They could do splits--grand écart--which we could not, and raise their legs higher. We, by contrast, jumped higher, soaring towards the ceiling. Through this childish competition, I developed extraordinary power in my legs. As my technique advanced, my elevation was something that others admired.

After the drive to compete evaporated, the hard work remained. Yet the repetitious daily drill with its sweaty expenditure of energy was never boring--something unexpected always happened.

We were barely through our first semester, when the theater produced Tartuffe (Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme). They needed dancers, as after the war, there were very few male dancers, and even female dancers were not abundant. So, yet unripe, we were pushed onto the stage prematurely, but it was a great experience.

Yuri Rakitin, a former Stanislavsky actor, staged the piece. He certainly had an uncommon appearance and was a very imposing person. Although retired, he was still a fierce director and actor. I estimated that he was a little bit less than one hundred (although in reality, he was probably about seventy-five-years-old). His movements were a little shaky and now I suspect that Alzheimer’s disease was setting in. When he got excited, you needed an umbrella if you happened to be standing in front of him.

Rakitin’s explanations were flamboyant and spectacular. I easily pictured what he was verbally expressing. He introduced me to the Stanislavsky School of thinking, though at age fourteen, I was very unaware of the scope of Stanislavsky’s teachings and even less interested.

The accompanying dances were choreographed by Dancia Zivanovic, then a beautiful blonde woman. Besides ballet, she also specialized in East Indian dances. She was a queen--her movement, voice, and manner, were just so gracious, so voluptuous, so witty. At age fourteen, with my masculine hormones stirring, I thought Miss Zivanovic was fantastic--the most beautiful woman on earth.

Prior to my first stage appearance, we rehearsed for six weeks during the summer. We had a Turkish dance, a Tarantella, a Spanish dance, and a jig. I cannot remember the last dance, but vividly recall a scene with Rakitin. Two of the dances were spaced very close to each other and required a quick change. I wanted to be smart. Instead of removing the previous costume, I layered the second costume overtop of the first.

Suddenly, a big growl issued from the director’s chair, “STOP!” Everything and everyone froze, including the orchestra. Rakitin was gesticulating wildly and I sensed that he was pointing directly at me. “You, youngster there, come here,” he yelled. “What are you wearing?”

With a low and trembling voice, I said, “my costume.”

He seemingly tripped with his tongue, saying, “I mean under your costume! You are not supposed to wear long johns under your tights.”

I froze for a moment then tried to explain that I was wearing the costume for the second dance. However, he insisted that this behavior would not be tolerated. If I wanted to become a professional, I should always be neat and not wear tights that looked like old, worn-out, sagging socks. He turned and marched back to his chair. The humiliation was unbearable. I seriously thought that perhaps my father was correct, maybe dance was not for me.

The performance was a great success (at least I thought so). The audience probably preferred the dramatic action with its comic appeal to the dance. However, we provided diversity. After a series of performances, I do not recall how many, I felt like a stage veteran.

Because I was young and influenced by the older actors and dancers, I copied them. Theater people (including me) engage in pre-curtain rituals--such as warming-up, concentrating on a specific role, or maybe taking a vitamin, or having some glucose. I made the sign of the cross before performing, which I had observed the others doing. This ritual stayed with me throughout my career.

While on a summer tour, the Belgrade Opera Ballet performed at an open-air theater, showcasing their productions of Schéhérazade and The Legend of Ochrid, a folk-flavored Yugoslav national ballet. I was struck by the intensity of the dramatic action, though initially this non-verbal communication was disconcerting. However, the power of the music, the dancing, the lights, and costumes so inspired me that the following day, I was compelled to create my own class. I wanted to duplicate, absorb, and achieve the technique I had seen on stage. The impressions from that performance only lasted a short while, but nevertheless it was an influence on me.

That fall, we were summoned to an audition for a new ballet company organized by Marina Olenjina, who was a high strung, short-tempered, nervous redhead (natural or dyed, I never knew) with a heavy cigarette habit. The former prima ballerina of the Belgrade Ballet had been a freedom fighter with the Yugoslav resistance and subsequently directed the Yugoslav Army Ensemble for three or four years until it dispersed. She was invited to Novi Sad as ballet director. She brought her dancers, but wished to supplement her company with students. Via the grapevine, I heard that after observing our class, she had highly praised us to her troupe. Allegedly she thought that we possessed beautiful and correct placement. She instructed her dancers to regard us as role models. This created initial tension between us and those professional dancers.

Although they were professionals, some had been in the army during the war and had scant more training than our student group. Crawling in trenches had not improved their pliés. They were actually very swell kids, and one of the ballerinas was attracted to me. She showered me with compliments, which I remember that I liked. I was very inexperienced in love relationships and did not know how to respond.

Incidentally, I was head-over-heels for a cute little Hungarian girl, Irina Kisch. She flirted sweetly with me, but at fourteen, I was too immature for an intimate relationship. Irina proved to be a major influence in my youth, as I teetered towards tossing in the towel on a dance career. Dance was consuming my freedom.

Between middle school, ballet training, and the theater, I had very little time for a personal life. I saw my parents on the weekends and my mother, a bit more frequently, as she prepared my breakfast and supplied late night coffee to keep me awake while doing my homework. The relentless grind left no time to join my friends to play ball, run after girls, or hang out on street corners. Perhaps my mother was on to something when she said that ballet would keep me busy and out of trouble.

I decided to quit dancing. Ya, but at the ballet school there was adorable Irina with her black hair, always well-coiffed, her beautiful face with grayish-blue eyes and rosy cheeks, and her very flexible body. She was just my dream girl. I could not imagine spending a day without hearing her giggles. I purred like a cat when she was near me. I decided to stay.

Marina Olenjina was a sweet lady, but often lost her temper. Rehearsals were filled with crying and yelling. I thought that her outbursts were the norm for Russian dancers and that I had to behave like her and a zillion of my other teachers--by throwing fits and throwing chairs. Later, I discovered that such histrionics shocked the Western world, especially the Anglo-Saxons, whom I thought had “no temperament!” (I once frightened a very young student so much that the baby wet her pants--and I felt so badly afterwards.) Branded as a crazy man, I had to tame my fiery nature and temper my reactions to be cooler and less explosive. Actually, I did not entirely approve of such outbursts, but influenced by monkey see, monkey do, I monkey did. Only recently have I come to understand that this kind of behavior is to blame for some of my past failures.

Marina expected our movements to match the quality of our excellent body placement. However, our ballet training was incomplete. We were not professionals. However, I mistakenly thought that ballet could be learned faster. I failed to understand the difference between a dancer and a dance technician. Mme. Debeljak had nurtured me like a plant and protected me from being destroyed.

After one season with Olenjina’s company, we flunked out and returned to our ballet school, which was really where we needed to be. We incorrectly blamed our failure in her troupe on Mme. Debeljak. Today, I realize that Mme. Debeljak, who was a modern dancer with Vaganova ballet training, was right and had developed her teaching philosophy from a wealth of life experiences. Now, I explain to students that their impressions of teachers are not always correct.

Years after Marina’s retirement, when I was a member of the Belgrade Ballet, with a budding interest in choreography, I asked her about her process. She referred to Léonide Massine’s choreographic approach and described her first experience as a choreographer. She listened to the music for two weeks until her ideas crystallized, and then improvised movements. I distinctly remembered those mesmerizing improvisations that I and the other students raptly watched. We were so enthralled by her that we failed to grasp the choreography and never duplicated the emotion and expression of her movements. She advised me to read books to inspire and expand my imagination.

Like a teenager’s first kiss, working with Marina was my first love affair with dance. It and she had profound effects on my career.

Back at school, I was in Mme. Debeljak’s accelerated class. She was my mentor and encouraged me. She claimed that I was meant to be a ballet dancer, that my instrument was perfect for ballet. I did not believe all that she said, but it appealed to my vanity. Without her guidance, I might have studied medicine, as my father hoped. She convinced my parents that my artistic talent should not be wasted. I have either to thank or damn her, for I have lived my life in dance, with all the glory, suffering, and frustration that this craft has wrought. However, I should thank her for all my successes!

Mme. Debeljak’s friend Jovan Putnik, who was the stage director for Novi Sad’s Serbian National Theatre and a drama teacher often observed our classes. I had infrequent direct contact with him, but recall his encouragement and belief in my capabilities and talent. We crossed paths again in the mid-sixties, while he was working on his doctorial dissertation in Paris. As compatriots, we became close friends and engaged in conversations about the arts. He awakened my interest in the Stanislavsky system, which I had ignored during my schooling. Additionally, he was a hypnotist and put me into traces with a clear goal--I would have my own theater and company to run. I fulfilled his suggestions in the U.S. He was a true friend and an inspiration on my life.

Shortly after rejoining our classmates in Novi Sad, we performed in both Serge Prokofiev’s Romeo and Juliet and Jakov Gotavac’s Symphonic Kolo. In the former, I was cast as Benvolio, in the latter, danced in the corps. The season concluded with Nikolay Rimsky-Korsakov’s Schéhérazade, choreographed by Marina Olenjina. In Schéhérazade, we were extras, knifing the slaves and Zobeide’s friends. I attempted to be ferocious, but with my childish face sporting a big, dark, fake mustache, I looked like a transvestite. We had lots of laughs and never forgot our escapades as Persian warriors.

It was 1959 when I first danced Michel Fokine’s Schéhérazade in Léonide Massine’s company. Then, I portrayed the Shah to Tatiana Massine’s Zobeide and it was I who issued the orders to kill! In the eighties, I re-choreographed this ballet when an opportunity arose for my semi-professional company--the American Dance Ensemble--to perform with the Johnstown Symphony.

During my second year at school, a long-legged, scruffy looking boy--Stevan Grebeldinger--joined Mme. Debeljak’s classes; he too would become my colleague and lifelong friend. Under the stage name “Stevan Grebel,” he won international recognition as a performer and later, as artistic director of San Diego’s California Ballet Company. He was a sheepish-looking boy, a year or two my junior. He looked up to me as an older and more experienced dancer--which naturally, I was not. However, I had mastered a double aerial revolution, known as tour en l’air.

Typically, an examination performance concluded each school year. These, retrospectively are just a blur of disjointed memories. Onstage, we presented our ballet barre, then fifteen to twenty minutes of classroom exercises, in abbreviated form followed by other elements extracted from a standard ninety-minute ballet class--petite allégro, adagios and grande allégro, with the girls executing fouetté turns, and the boys showcasing tour en l’air. Next, we performed a folk or character piece, pas de deux, and variations, which ranged from traditional to contemporary pieces. The second half of the event featured an excerpt from classical repertory.

I vividly remember my first pas de deux, which Mme. Debeljak choreographed to Debussy’s La plus que Lente. My partner was Mira Matich, who became prima ballerina of the Novi Sad Ballet and my lifelong friend. Mira with her small body and extraordinary memory for music and dances was an exemplary dancer. She was academically at the top of our class too and was one of those rare people who infrequently cross life’s path.

We rehearsed that five minute pas de deux for several months. It was frustrating, but onstage, our struggle was invisible, as our acting, dancing, and interrelationship created an aura for the audience. We finished to thunderous applause and everyone raved about our adagio. Frankly, I have no idea how well we danced. We felt very comfortable and anything we did was performed with great passion. This was my first real communication with the audience, a rapport that I recreated with my audience each time I danced a solo or adagio. I sensed what the audience liked and what they did not. I eventually developed a penchant for roles with substance or stories, where I could draw on my acting skills and dance technique.

Fortune smiled. As a dancer, I worked with the greatest dancers in the world and studied with the finest teachers. I was abundantly blessed. My career took me around the world several times as I became a successful dancer. As a teacher/choreographer and ballet director, I count myself among the pioneers of dance development in America.

I returned to Novi Sad for my fifty-fifth class reunion, attended by about sixty percent of my classmates. Our trip down memory lane was enhanced by memorabilia, photos, and a memorial album of before and after comparisons. Graduation photos were traditionally displayed in prominent shop windows throughout the city and I was delighted to discover that photos of me and records of my achievements were part of the archives. My classmates--many whom I had not seen since our student days--were now in their seventies and looked mature (maybe too mature). They had wrinkles; some were overweight, others underweight. Most of us sported gray hair, but we still had a hell of a time that did not spare the Schlivovitch.

Chapter Two: Reaching for the Stars

Belgrade, located in mid-central Europe exuded a heavy Turkish influence, especially reflected in its food. Here, Turkish sweets, the addictively powerful coffee, and delicacies such as baklava, locum, hallava, brochette (shish kabob), cevabcici, and burek, were common and popular. These dishes were unfamiliar, as at home in Novi Sad my mother cooked Austro-Hungarian cuisine. I grew accustomed to this new diet in Belgrade and later in Sarajevo.

My higher education began at the Belgrade Dance Academy and academically at Belgrade University, where I enrolled in language studies, as I was already proficient in five languages. I had a good grasp of Russian. I studied Hungarian in elementary school and English in high school. We spoke German at home, as my mother did not speak Russian and my father did not speak Hungarian. Naturally, Serbo-Croatian, which was the language of the country, was my fifth language.

Study time was limited by my artistic obligations--just as my schedule had dominated my life in Novi Sad. All my friends had girlfriends and sweethearts--I was a late bloomer. (And I was still dreaming of Irina Kisch.)

In Belgrade, I matured from a teenager into a young man and began earning a living as a member of the Belgrade Operetta Theater. My close friend Alimpich Nikola, who had been one grade ahead of me in high school, quit school to join the company and arranged for my audition with Ljalja Weiss, the director. I was unimpressed with the Operetta. I approached the audition with a relaxed and nonchalant attitude, tinged with an air of superiority. This was interim work as I waited for an opening in the Belgrade Ballet. Of course, I passed the Operetta’s audition.

Ljalja was a nice looking woman with a soft figure--not fat; she had the shape of a retired dancer who no longer diets. By comparison to Marina’s stormy character, she was like a velvet glove. I liked her goodness and pleasant working demeanor.

My tenure with the troupe was agreeable and I learned how to stage comedy that incorporated dancing, singing, and acting. However, repeating the same production with the same material for weeks at a time was uninspiring. I happily joined the Belgrade Ballet in 1953.

I was hired by the Belgrade Ballet on the recommendation of my friend Stevan Grebeldinger, a favorite of ballet director Dimitri Parlic. Parlic had cast Stevan as Mercutio in Romeo and Juliet that year. Stevan was a great success and that gave him the clout to persuade Parlic to hire me. My services were really unneeded, as there were plenty of dancers available at the academy--but friendship counts for something! As I was a university student, the older company members regarded me as a junior member. It was a great experience to work with both guest artists and local choreographers including Margarita Froman, Pino and Pia Mlakar, Nina Kirsanova, and Parlic.

Slowly, I learned the company’s repertoire and finally debuted in Coppélia, as Notaire, a character role usually assigned to a young boy. This was actually a mime role omitted in some productions. The character is counterpart to the Burgomaster, assisting him with the wedding and other activities and is costumed similarly to strengthen that tie.

Essentially, I was a gofer. During rehearsals I realized that my activity was minimal, so onstage I decided to make the most of it. I exaggerated so much that Parlic, cast as Dr. Coppelius, shushed me from inside of his house--right on the set! Parlic, who played the aged eccentric quite well, was ardently gesticulating for me to cool down, but I was undisturbed by it, and continued my interpretation. At the end of the first act, he grabbed me and explained that my role was secondary. I was attracting too much attention and distracting the audience from the soloists. At the time, I was not yet aware of how theatrical magic works.

Parlic was a small man, with a receding hairline, whose forehead shone like wax. He was already a little pudgy. His features were more Asian than Greek. He wore a cynical smirk on his face. Generally, he was a very good dancer, but not fully accomplished in classical ballet. As he was an imaginative choreographer, he became well-known and in the fifties, was the reigning choreographer supreme in Yugoslavia. Later he served as ballet master/choreographer at the Vienna State Opera Ballet and Rome’s Teatro dell’Opera. His wife, the diminutive Ruth Parnel, was one of the company’s technically strongest artists.

Parlic had a cynical personality--always ready to crack a joke at someone else’s expense. He was either unimpressed with me or I was not his type of dancer. He dubbed me “Kliker,” which means marble. He wanted to personify me as an aimless guy, who rolled around everywhere. He had a big surprise when he heard that I had settled in America. He attended the opening of my Swan Lake in Pittsburgh. And, he was critical, of course. However, he gave me a piece of advice regarding Act III, “you cannot make the side numbers too strong or they will detract from the leading couple,” he said.

After my departure from Yugoslavia, we crossed paths once in Cannes, France where Stevan Grebeldinger and I were enjoying the beauty of the blue Mediterranean Sea. Parlic was visiting Rosella Hightower, who operated a ballet school there. Stevan and I were eating pan bagna (bathed bread), sandwiches of ham, hard-boiled eggs, and salad, beneath a large, striped parasol that we had rented to shield us from the mid-day sun. Parlic was sunning his ghastly white skin. I quipped that if he continued to sunbathe, he would be unable to appear as a sylph. That was the only time I ever teased him. As I was with Stevan, his favorite dancer, I guess he just dealt with me as people deal with extra luggage--even if it is cumbersome.

About mid-season, guest artists Margot Fonteyn and Michael Somes appeared in Swan Lake. Fonteyn was a charming lady, who was always smiling. She mesmerized everyone with her penetrating black eyes. As very few of us spoke English, I seized this opportunity to practice the language and volunteered as her interpreter. This evolved into a friendship.

Somes, a charming English lad, taught me the original Benno variation choreographed by Marius Petipa for Russia’s Imperial Ballet. This was quite a difficult version of this variation; one that very few dancers chose to do. All the major combinations were repeated three times. It started with sissonne développé coupé assemble, followed by sissonne, sissonne, relevé double tour. From there, the chorography moved into tombé pas de bourrée and pirouette with an arabesque finish. The variation concluded with sixteen entrechat six and a double tour ending on the knee. Today, I still teach that version in deference to Michael. Retrospectively, I realize that Somes was not a great technician, but certainly, Margot loved him as her partner.

In the theater, I watched them from backstage while awaiting my various entrances. In Act II, I was Benno’s friend, a hunter and appeared onstage with Michael for only a few minutes. In Act III, I danced the Czardas. From my obstructed view and from the audience’s warm response, I concluded that they were breathtaking.

Michael always reminded me of Sir Laurence Olivier--he was very elegant and princely (at least in my opinion). Some years later, I had my first opportunity to see Fonteyn and Somes from the audience at London’s Covent Garden. They were still very impressive, but I was less enthralled with the Sadler’s Wells Ballet.

During another season, in yet another Swan Lake, Svetlana Beriosova and John Field also of the Sadler’s Wells troupe were the guest artists. She was a beautiful dancer in her early years, physically very feminine, and possessed of that certain Russian twinkle that I found irresistible. She was probably a better Odette, while Fonteyn, who I had seen previously, was the better Odile. Yet, both women were technically on a par. I was especially sympathetic towards Beriosova because of our Slavic backgrounds. Unfortunately, I had little opportunity to become better acquainted with her. We did have several extremely pleasant chats in Russian, but I had a great deal of competition, as most of our company also spoke Russian! Much later in life, I became a close friend of her father’s--Nicholas Beriozoff, whom we called, Papa Beriozoff. He restaged several ballets for Pittsburgh Ballet Theatre, including Petrushka and Polovtsian Dances.

Also during my Belgrade years, I recall the late spring arrival of French actor Gerard Philippe--then reaching popularity akin to James Dean’s in America. He, along with the la Comédie-Française, from Paris’ Theatre Del Odeon, spent a season in residence at the Belgrade Theatre, presenting productions of Cyrano de Bergerac, Tartuffe, and other repertory works. The Belgrade Opera Ballet’s members were invited to greet the French actors at the railroad station. The young girls brought flowers.

I was pushed and bumped by the enthusiastic crowd, which was in the throes of mass hysteria. I later witnessed a similar frenzy in London as rock fans congregated to glimpse The Beatles. Philippe and his group were navigated through the throng by our theatrical management, while the invited guests, including my dance friends and me, slowly followed to the reception hall where our places were reserved for dinner.

Again, my command of English enabled me to strike up conversation. Gerard Philippe was a nice looking young Frenchman, who actually resembled his onscreen persona. Affable and friendly, he clearly basked in all the attention and ado. He had an affinity for dancers and that sparked our conversations. He suggested that I visit Paris, the birthplace of ballet. He had no idea that his words ignited the fire that fueled my career path. I saw him just once, following his performance. Oddly, I was compelled to ask him for his autograph--something I never did. A few years later, I moved to France and was eager to visit him, but he was out of town, filming on location. Unfortunately, word of his untimely death reached me before I had a chance to meet with him. Like thousands of his admirers, I was shocked and saddened by the news.

In 1953, an American touring company spent a residency in Belgrade and presented Porgy and Bess, which was a tremendous hit. I was very taken with the voices, the acting, and production as a whole, which indoctrinated me into American musical theater. I realized that there were other avenues of artistic expression beyond opera, operetta, ballet, and pure drama. It was also the first time that I heard George Gershwin’s music and saw black artists perform in Belgrade. At the time, it was certainly exotic, appealing, and interesting--and the audience agreed, responding with great admiration.

The actors were extremely friendly, and again my English enabled me to communicate with some of the company members. I showed them Belgrade and offered suggestions for their leisure time. Among other gestures of friendship, I brought them cigarettes. My name was difficult for them to pronounce, so they called me, “Cigarette Boy!” They never invited me to visit America, but ironically I have spent many years of my life in this country and am grateful that they provided an opportunity for me to practice my English.

Many years later, I attended an off-Broadway production of Porgy and Bess in New York. By that time, I had already seen a great number of off-Broadway musicals and was unimpressed, as it resembled just another of its genre.

Also in 1953, select members of Le Ballet de France, a Paris-based troupe headed by Janine Charrat, spent a weeklong residency in Belgrade. This was a small, stellar group that offered extremely impressive performances of classical ballets. Charrat danced her famous role The Dying Swan and the company presented Serge Lifar’s Romeo and Juliet, set to the music of Tchaikovsky, Marius Petipa’s “Pas de deux” from Sleeping Beauty, and other contemporary works choreographed by Charrat.

They were extraordinary--René Bon, Jean-Bernard Lemoine, Hélène Traïline, Peter van Dijk, Maria Fris, and the other company members--and all possessed brilliant technique. I had never seen two consecutive double air turns performed onstage. René Bon startled the audience with his twelve successive pirouettes. Entrechat huit, double beaten cabrioles, thirty-two double fouettés, and other virtuosities highlighted each performance. Bravos and awes echoed from the audiences that eagerly rose to their feet, cheering. I realized immediately the sophistication of French ballet technique. I would never have dreamed that eighteen months later I would be a member of this company.

My enthusiasm was as passionate as my fascination with one of the dancers, Maria Fris. I liked her appearance, her personality, and the extreme finesse of her dancing. I rendered myself indispensable--as tour guide, gofer, and translator--just for the opportunity to be with them (and her). I worried that I might be overstaying my welcome, but fortunately, that did not happen. René Bon invited me to Paris. He explained that Janine Charrat liked Yugoslav dancers--Milorad Miskovitch, Milko Sparemblek, and Vassili Sulich danced with the group.

I spent considerable time with Maria Fris, who must have sensed my admiration for her. We walked along Terazije and dined in the Hotel Moscow. We had charming conversations and she responded warmly towards me. We discussed my plans to visit Paris with the hope of seeing each other there, but that meeting never happened.

While in Belgrade, I soaked in all that I could about dance. I never missed a performance--no matter whether it was by a major company or a solo artist. Harald Kreutzberg was a German dancer, whom I saw just once while he was performing at Dom Kulture (which means the culture house) on Terazije.

A native of Czechoslovakia, he was born in 1902 and studied with Rudolf von Laban and Mary Wigman. Kreutzberg was primarily a solo artist, who sometimes performed with Yvonne Georgi and Ruth Page, neither of whom I knew at that time.

He was of medium build and sported the “Kojak” look, long before that television character popularized the bald pate. And it appealed to me. I knew little about German modern dance, yet was impressed by its fusion with mime. Because I did not grasp the challenges and physical boundaries of an evening length solo performance, I was bored by the simplicity and uneven energy of his dances. At the time, I was ballet oriented and not about to abandon classicism. I later became familiar with the works of Kurt Jooss and gained appreciation and new insights into Kreutzberg’s way of dancing and his movement form. This influenced some of my contemporary ballets.

At Dom Kulture, I saw a striking couple from Russia--Raisa Struchkova and Alexander Lapauri. Both were Peoples’ Artists of the U.S.S.R., from the Bolshoi Ballet. They performed the famous Moszkowski Waltz and Spring Waters choreographed by Asaf Messerer. Theirs was a very high level of technique and their partnering was extraordinarily acrobatic. For example, Lapauri propelled Struchkova into the air, way above his head. Her horizontal body rotated twice, before she fell dramatically into his arms, caught in a fish. That created an incredible ovation and convinced me that the Russian ballet dancers possessed tremendous technique. However, in comparison to Janine Charrat’s Ballet de France, these Russians surpassed the French dancers only in acrobatic pas de deux work.

I was a little bit shocked by the thickness of Lapauri’s thighs, which we would call “thunder thighs.” His figure however, was extreme. Most other Russian dancers of that era were only slightly bulky. However, assessing his technical accomplishments, this disproportionate muscle build was forgivable. Yet I thought, “I hope I will not have such ugly muscles when I reach his technical level.”

In the sixties, the Russians refocused their aesthetic attention on the physique. At that time, dancers danced slower. The technique required a great number of repetitions for a specific movement. For example, executing thirty-two rond de jambes en l’air or sixty-four grande battements en croix were common practice. However, this repetition built bulky muscles. After the New York City Ballet appeared at the Bolshoi Theatre and after Bolshoi artists were invited to dance as guest artists in London, the look began to change. The dancers moved faster and adopted Western practice clothes--tights, which revealed heavier thighs.

Igor Moiseyev’s world-traveled Moiseyev Folk Ensemble was engaged by the Belgrade stadium. While his company became a messenger of Soviet Russia, it represented the U.S.S.R.’s many nationalities and showcased the versatility of each country and its folk forms. The well-trained dancers possessed great virtuosity in jumping and specialized turns. As it garnered success, it also inspired new companies--Kolo, Fiesta Mexicana, and more recently the Irish sensation Riverdance--which were based on its principles.

I was so impressed with his troupe that I contemplated a folk dance career. Throughout my life, I have revered folk dance and was affiliated with many ensembles. While living in Belgrade, I studied Spanish folk, including Flamenco--which, incidentally, means “Spanish gypsy style.” My teacher was Olga Grbic Torez. I continued my studies in Paris with Ramon Almede, (a genuine Spanish Flamenco dancer) and with Jose Torez, who was Olga’s partner. (I never knew if they were married, but Olga was very proud of him and may have used his last name to enhance her fame.) I frequently attended evenings of Spanish dance, as the form was abundantly performed in Paris’ theaters, nightclubs, and Spanish restaurants.

In 1963, I founded a Paris-based folk ensemble--Ballet Russe de Nicola Petrov (later Ballet Petrov)--built on Moiseyev’s repertoire with a roster of twenty-four dancers from eastern countries, plus some French virtuoso dancers. Years later, as a teacher, I revived some of Moiseyev’s ballets like Bulba, which he had edited and published in an instruction manual for younger dancers.

Fonteyn, Philippe, Beriosova, and Kreutzberg, plus Charrat’s and Moiseyev’s companies shaped my career and aesthetic. However, my artistic development was most influenced by The Red Shoes and Romeo and Juliet.

I fell under the spell of the film The Red Shoes (1948), which starred Moira Shearer, Robert Helpmann, and Léonide Massine. It was the first film that I had seen to feature ballet so prominently. Massine became my idol, as he and his character impressed and inspired me. He was my role model. This was how I wanted to dance. I was not in tune with Helpmann’s princely lyricism and was unmoved by him. Massine’s role as a shoemaker was more down-to-earth and easier to grasp. I was well-read on Diaghilev’s Ballets Russes. The film seemed to be a dramatization of real life events that surrounded that famous company. The film’s characters, their onscreen reactions, and outlooks on life connected with those of real-life dancers (such as those in Dame Alicia Markova’s Nijinsky Story), who wrote about that era.

During my student days in Novi Sad, our school had taken a field trip to see Romeo and Juliet in Belgrade. Shakespeare’s play was originally adapted into a ballet by Léonide Lavrovsky, with music by Serge Prokofiev. Dimitri Parlic choreographed a version and performed the title role with Ruth Parnel as his Juliet. Dusan Trninic was cast as Mercutio with Branko Markovic as Tybalt.

I was completely fascinated by this ballet and it confirmed by decision to become a dancer. I had previously performed in Marina Olenjina’s version, alternating in the roles of Mercutio and Benvolio, but had not experienced the work from the audience’s perspective. The opportunity to observe from the house was enlightening.

Actually, Prokofiev’s programmatic music impressed me, as it expressed the story equally through mime and dance. The actions were cinematographic, which made the story easy to understand and follow. I discovered things I could never feel while onstage and was awed by the artistry, the temperament, and the quality of the dancing. It was a credible production, very well danced by Trninic and Markovic, an especially imposing Tybalt. The sword fights were well staged. When I choreographed the American version of Romeo and Juliet, I subconsciously drew from long held ideas that shaped my creative process. A decade before undertaking my project, I took photographs of architecture in Verona and Padua, Italy.

In the summer of 1955, I vacationed on the Adriatic Sea and visited Ana Roje at her school. She was Oskar Harmos’ wife. The couple had been leading dancers of the Zagreb Opera Ballet. I had seen them perform The Fountain of Bakhchisari many years before--in 1948, I think--presented in an amphitheatre in a hilly suburb of Zagreb. The ballet was very impressive and one of the best that I had seen up to that point in my life. The Fountain of Bakhchisari influenced me as much as Parlic’s Romeo and Juliet. Harmos portrayed Khan Girei, while Ana was either Maria or Zarema. These two stars and the company (which included Frano Jelincic and Milko Sparemblek) introduced me to Croatian Ballet.

Ana’s private school--an extremely comfortable summer camp--in Spilt, Yugoslavia, was the only one in the country with both foreign students and international standards. The facility included beautiful studios, a swimming pool, and a jeep, which belonged to Harmos, who drove us to performances in Split.

Ana’s classes were similar to Madame Egorova’s--musical, lyrical, strict, yet comfortable. While there, I met several people, including a young English couple and a young American, Myles Marsden. Many years later, I invited Marsden to Pittsburgh. In 1955, he was a very serious and hard-working student, whom Ana liked very much.

Towards the end of any given season, directors from various cities flocked to the Belgrade Ballet to lure dancers to their companies, as it was easier to recruit there than in the smaller cities. One day, I found well-known Russian dancer Alexander Dobrohotov, director of a company in Skopje, Macedonia, waiting in my dressing room. His serious demeanor was better suited to a physician than a ballet director. We chatted in Russian before he suggested that I leave Belgrade to join his company. He offered me a salary and more prominent roles. I was considering the offer, but could not decide.

In the meantime, my girlfriend Nadia Jovanovic, whose mother resided in Sarajevo, invited me to her mother’s home. While there, I approached Sarajevo’s Bosnian State Theatre Ballet, directed by Franio Horvat and asked for permission to take company classes. It was summer break. As we had just returned from a seashore vacation, I was full of energy. I worked exceptionally hard to keep myself in shape for the upcoming season and to audition for Janine Charrat in Paris (though actually I lacked both funding and a visa for the trip to France). Obtaining exit permission from Yugoslavia was difficult, unless it was for an organized, government-sanctioned tour.

Horvat was lightweight, yet medium sized, with a boxing coach’s figure and a drill sergeant’s bearing. His eyes were cool; his gaze fixed. I would have said there was some mild madness hidden behind his pupils or somewhere in his mind, but this was only my impression. He was extremely courteous with me and offered employment at the rank of first dancer, equivalent to principal. He promised me the role of Mercutio in his Romeo and Juliet. With a relatively high salary, it was difficult to refuse. I accepted his offer, but was unsure if I would complete the season or return from France. I only wanted to earn a few months salary for pocket money.

I liked the discipline of Horvat’s classes and his approach to dance, though it lacked the finesse and sophistication of the Belgrade Ballet. That season, a British couple and I were the only new members. Prima ballerina Katarina Kocka was my close friend. Otherwise, I was caught up in backstage intrigue. The other men envied me. Their conversations stopped when I approached them. I sensed that they must have been speaking about me. They directed ironic remarks at me and decided that I was Horvat’s new protégé, because he was infatuated with me. Horvat was always ready to help me. I was pleased with his attention, but the other men resented me because of it. They were imagining a more intimate relationship than what actually existed. They were fantasizing. I worked my butt off to improve and to master the role. I was technically stronger than the others, but I did not compete with anybody or showoff. I was just preparing for France.

When I requested a few weeks off, Horvat attempted to dissuade me. He promised to take me to France later in the season. He insisted that I wait. I ignored his argument. I needed to arrive in Paris as soon as possible. I did not want to miss the opportunity to tour with Charrat’s company. I had a visa--now. I was afraid that it would expire and I would not be able to obtain another. Arrangements were set for my studies with Madame Preobrajenska. Reluctantly, Horvat approved of my studies abroad for a short time. So like that, I was ready to leave Sarajevo for Paris, but before departing, I had to return to Belgrade to retrieve my visa from Dragan Martinovic, who worked in the inner government offices. Martinovic procured the visa for me, but I had to promise to bring him a raincoat from France.

My stay in Yugoslavia was rapidly expiring. The possibility of legally obtaining foreign currency was slim. I purchased American dollars from Martinovic. He received them from his father, who lived in Chicago. It was prohibited to export more than five thousand old French francs out of the country, which was just about enough for two days. All other currency had to be smuggled out.

I rolled those dollars in a circle, shoved them in a condom, and used it as a suppository, hoping that I would not need to use the bathroom while crossing the border. I even found a gypsy, who looked as if she had not bathed in two years, to tell my fortune. She was a wrinkled, shabby-looking, middle-aged mum with two children. Grabbing me by the hand, she promised that for a few coins, she would tell my future. Presenting me with a bag of lucky herbs for a successful and profitable trip, she predicted a long journey. It was a big step to leave my native land.

At home, I announced my departure for Paris to an emotional goodbye from my mom. My dad recited a Russian proverb: “The God protects those who protect themselves.” I lived by those words all my life.

After the hugs and kisses, I consoled my parents--I was just going around the “corner” to Paris. I pretended that my absence would be brief. How could I have known that thirty years would pass before I returned to Yugoslavia?

Just recently separated from my longtime girlfriend Nadia Jovanovic, I quickly fell head over heels in love with Zorica Gligovic, a light haired brunette, with a stunning figure and a sensuous walk that would attract anybody’s attention. We initially bumped into each other at the Belgrade Railroad Station. We just stared into each other’s eyes, without saying anything. The high voltage chemistry was mesmerizing and the whole relationship was unique and unforgettable. After that first encounter, she was constantly in my thoughts and I imagined her to be anywhere that I was.

We crossed paths a second time on a tight bridge en route to a pier. She had been sunbathing and I was about to do the same. That pier was only about three feet wide, so two people had to shift sideways in order to pass each other. Our meeting was as powerful as the first, but this time we were dressed in swimwear. As we passed by each other, our bodies radiated. This time, I dared to greet her and suggested that since we kept meeting accidentally, perhaps we should get together for a pleasant chat in the Café of the Terazije. To my surprise, she said “yes.”

Zorica was not very talkative, but anything she said was important and anything she did was with wit and charm. Her gorgeous, athletic body excited my imagination--it was easy to fall in love with her. I must have been somewhat selfish to leave Zorica. However, I was living in the Twilight Zone. I surrendered to destiny and allowed it to make the decisions controlling my life.

Well, my departure day arrived--a rainy one. It was time to go to the station and to ironically bid Zorica farewell in the very place where we had met. I leaned out the train’s window and waved goodbye to her. Zorica’s wet and stringy hair was as downcast as the weather. She looked puzzled and sad, but as the train pulled out of the station, she forced a smile before she disappeared into the distance.

I generally could not sleep on a train. I was too hyper to sleep anyhow. Memories of Belgrade popped into my mind; many were of trivial events of the last few years. I yearned for France because of Mme. Debeljak’s tales of famous Russian dancers who succeeded in the West. Paris was the steppingstone to a stellar career. At the time, it was the Mecca of dance. The fame of Diaghilev’s company was earned on Paris’ stages. I was ready to follow my destiny and for anything that would come. I would not accept the word “impossible.” I was ready for the future and what it would offer me.

Chapter Three: Grand Jeté

Early in the morning, the Balkan Express rolled into Vienna’s station. I slid through customs effortlessly. It felt as if I was entering a new world. I decided to visit a recommended contact, Alberty Franc, an art dealer who was a friend of dancer Nikola Popovski. Franc, of Hungarian origin, was a well-mannered, good-humored Austrian, who spoke fluent Hungarian. He had a wonderful apartment that was really a miniature museum. I felt quite at home with him and it was not an imposition for me to stay with him for awhile. He treated me as a younger brother and made my stay enjoyable.

He showed me Vienna’s most beautiful and interesting attractions, such as St. Stephen’s Cathedral, the Congress, the Spanish Riding School, Belvedere Castle, and Messegelande, plus assisted with my audition photos.

While I remained determined to head for Paris, Alberty convinced me to contact the Vienna State Opera’s director, which was a reasonable Plan B. We went to the Schönbrunn Palace, which is similar to Paris’ Versailles. On the grounds were the beautiful Royal Garden and two buildings--the Royal Palace and the Royal Quarters, which faced each other. Baroque and Greek statues intermingled with various sized fountains. Everything was separated by well-groomed and tastefully sculpted bushes, plants, and trees. Here, after changing into my ballet clothes, I posed beside the statues in various ballet positions. Luckily, few tourists were in the park that morning and I did not become a tourist attraction. I re-visit this garden whenever I am in Vienna, including on study tours with my American students.

The Vienna State Opera performed in the State Opera House, which had recently been rebuilt and cleaned after the war. Its beautiful, fresh yellow stones looked like new. The ballet master showed me the well-equipped dressing rooms (a contrast to the run-down facilities in Belgrade) and the revolving stage, a technological innovation. My audition was successful, but the season was slated to begin in October 1955. That was a considerable time to wait. I promised to return from Paris in October--I never did.

I had an unusual experience while browsing on Operring Avenue, home to Vienna’s most attractive shops. As I admired the lovely, packaged fruit baskets in the windows, a very good-looking girl suddenly appeared and asked if she could help me. I sheepishly declined. She reentered the shop and returned with a bunch of green grapes in a little bag. I was puzzled about whether I should offer to pay her, but she said it was a present from the shop. Although I was uncomfortable accepting handouts, she was so beautiful that I was afraid to refuse her. I suspected that she must have pitied me and her donation was her good deed for the day. As our conversation continued, I realized that she was just a sweet girl. And, we went on a date.

I was smitten with Vienna and its hospitable people. All the shops and buildings looked so well kept and so clean--a great contrast to my beloved Belgrade. I thought that I could live quite happily here, but my curiosity to see Paris was stronger.

Since my ticket from Belgrade to Paris permitted layovers en route, I opted to stop in Munich for another audition. Unfortunately, during the off-season, the theater was closed. I saw it only from the outside. Instead, I dropped by the office of a theatrical agent, who represented dancers. She was an older lady, who appeared to be interested in managing me. I recounted my story and expressed an interest in working in Germany. As I had no Paris address, I promised to forward it to her. But I never did. Leaving her office, I set out to explore Munich. Remnants of the war were everywhere. Many houses were still damaged, but restoration was underway and new structures were going up around town. The train station, a nice gothic building, was less damaged and easily remodeled. However, approximately one-third of the city was still in ruins. That was unappealing. I knew that I would not return. However, two or three years later, I passed through while on tour with a French troupe. The restoration had made great progress. Renovations were completed on many of the old buildings and new buildings had been erected. However, traffic was sparse. With each subsequent visit, the city became more congested--and by 1987, parking had become scarce.

Late that summer afternoon in 1955, feeling dead tired, I decided to catch the first train headed for Paris, which turned out to be a red-eye slated to arrive early in the morning at Paris’ Gare du Nord. I ate a sandwich and forced myself to stay awake, as I was afraid of falling asleep and missing my train.

I alighted from the train at the smoke tinged Gare du Nord, a medium sized limestone structure, somewhat smaller than the one in Vienna, but significantly larger than the depots in Yugoslavia. Glad to have little baggage to tote, I took a deep breath and let out a big sigh of relief--“Voila! I am in Paris!” Although I caught very little sleep the night before, I was wide awake. I was anxious to find René Bon and to see Charrat’s company again. I tried to purchase a city map to pinpoint rue Pigalle. In my broken French, I asked for help at the train station. I understood enough to realize that I needed to take a bus to place Pigalle, where the rue Pigalle begins. To my surprise, I was not able to buy a single ticket. I had to purchase a carnet--the equivalent of ten tickets. It quickly dawned on me that I would need the carnet after all, as I was not planning to leave the city any time soon.

I located the Bon family’s residence at 16, rue Pigalle. An old woman was sweeping the yard as I approached. I attempted to ask for René Bon but found she was not friendly, as she replied--Il ne pas la! Il ne pas la! (“He is not here! He is not here!”)

So I asked, -- Ou il est? (“Where is he?”)

--Il sonnes parti en tour, she replied. I understood that he was away on tour and I was alone in Paris, friendless.

My next option was to find Studio Wacker. I thanked the old woman--Bon’s mother--and headed for 69, rue de Douai, an address that she reluctantly provided.

A piano store occupied the first floor. A small sign on the door, Studio des Danses marked the entrance to four upper floors of studio space, home to a roster of stellar teachers--Mme. Rousanne, Mme. Preobrajenska, Mme. Nora Kiss, and Mme. Elvira Rone. A flight of stairs ascended to the lobby, where most of the teachers were sitting on benches, some near the entrance to the coffee shop. In the shop, Monsieur Hugo and his wife were always ready to serve up both coffee and gossip of the ballet world. The café was always filled before and after class with teachers and dancers, chatting and discussing job opportunities. Everything was new to me.

The recommendation letter from Mme. Torez, my teacher in Belgrade, was addressed to Mme. Olga Preobrajenska, a former prima ballerina of the Russian Imperial Ballet. I looked first for Madame’s studio. While searching, I encountered a funny looking old man wearing a single spectacle lens like the German high commanders wore. His name was Nikola Artimovski. He was wearing a black suit and bow tie. He cheerfully greeted me. I handed him my letter and asked to be directed to Mme. Preobrajenska’s class. He introduced himself as her secretary, clicked his heels, and stated that he handled all of her business. I explained that I had just arrived and was planning to take classes starting the next day. He asked if Papa Tito had sent money! I answered that I was not on government scholarship, but was auditioning for Janine Charrat’s troupe, which was on tour. I would have to wait a week until their return. That seemed all right with him. He agreed that I could take classes and pay for them after I was hired. I thanked him for helping me and allowing me to take classes. I still had a problem--no lodging, as my contacts, Milorad Miskovitch and Milko Sparemblek, were out of town. Mr. Artimovski offered to inquire on my behalf. He suggested that in the meantime I take a hotel room. He directed me to inexpensive hotels in the student quarter on place St. Michel. I stopped for a steak and pommes frites, as Studio Wacker was next to place Clichy, where there were many restaurants.

At the restaurant, I obtained directions to place St. Michel via the Metro. It took me awhile to figure out the way. I purchased a carnet of metro tickets. At last, I found St. Michel. Emerging at street level, I immediately saw the massive wishing well with its many ornate fountains and statues. There was a hotel beside it. I chose to take a room--a mistake, as the rate was fifteen hundred francs per night (about three and a half dollars). I had only five thousand francs to my name. At this rate, I could afford just three nights’ stay--without food. I hoped the following day would bring something new.

It was exciting to be in Paris. I worried about my survival, but I just let things happen as they may. I walked along le boulevard St. Germain and peered into the café, Deux Magots, which was full of students and other Parisians. Because of my financial plight, I did not dare enter. I returned to le boulevard St. Michel, turned toward Park Luxembourg, and passed the University of Paris, known as the Sorbonne. The street was filled with international students, tourists, a few locals, and many North Africans (which the French called Pied Noir), who were mostly of Arabic and French heritage. I was also astonished by the rich window displays--so opulent by comparison to those in Yugoslavia. And, Paris had a special aroma, not only in the spring, but also in autumn.

I fell asleep that night, thinking about this wonderful and lively city.

In the morning, I headed directly to class. Mme. Preobrajenska was most cordial. She inquired about my previous teachers and noted that she knew Kirsanova.

Madame taught Cecchetti style which was unfamiliar to me. The class was rather easy, compared to our Belgrade company classes and especially to those of Mr. Horvat in Sarajevo. However, I was impressed by the number of star performers taking it. Artimovski pointed out who was who. I remember seeing Vladimir Skouratoff, the brothers Golovine--Serge and Alexander--George Skibine, Rosella Hightower, and Irene Skorik. I was proud to share the studio with all these great ballet stars.

What distinguished Madame from my other teachers and her methodology from my previous schooling was that she repeated the barre work in center. Her class was not aggressive, but rather slow-paced and very relaxed. Sometimes she became nervous when people did not instantly understand what she wanted, so she approached the dancer, tugged on his or her attire, and said--Na, na. Ce pas sais. She would then explain again in half-Russian and half-French. Naturally, that never happened with the stars, as they knew her class and understood everything simply from her hand gestures. Besides her occasional nitpicking, she was a very nice lady, who always smiled. Her demonstrations lingered in the memory. For some reason, she regarded me equally with those stars and was of the impression that I had been her student for a longer time than I had.

After that first class, I visited Monsieur Hugo’s crowded café, populated by pianists, dancers, and teachers. A Russian pianist, with whom I conversed, grasped my dire situation and recommended the Salvation Army, which would feed and house me until Charrat’s return. She provided directions. Luckily, the Salvation Army headquarters was on rue Amsterdam, only three streets from rue de Douai.

The nun-like women at the Salvation Army listened to my story and accepted me for two weeks. They offered room, board, and free Metro tickets. They handed me a Metro map and directed me to place D’Italy, where the Maison d’armie de Salut was located. I graciously thanked them and started out for place D’Italy.

At the time, this was very nearly a suburb of Paris, and much less exciting than the St. Germain neighborhood. The Maison was a big brick building with an aromatic cafeteria. I ate a huge lunch--seconds were free for the asking. I was stunned when they showed me to my bed. It was located in a vast salle--a gymnasium-like room with some one hundred beds arranged in five rows. The musty room smelled of winos and unwashed vagrants, who were living there--indigents that the French refer to as the clochard. At night, they snored, talked, and even yelled aloud at all hours. I had no earplugs. It was a sleepless night. It was nothing like home or Vienna. I thought about Charrat’s company, their return, and getting out of there. Although the food was very good, the next day I searched for yet another place to stay.

My teacher, Mme. Debeljak had a friend in Paris. I set out to find her residence in rue Passy, near the Metro station of the same name. It was my lucky day! The lady was at home, and received me very kindly. She offered me the former chambermaid’s quarters, currently rented by a student boarder, who was away for another two weeks. This room was a present from heaven--it was all white. From the window, I could see the Eiffel Tower, place Iéna, and the Seine. It was quiet, clean, and neat. Now with food, lodging, classes, and an opportunity to enjoy the city’s beauty, I awaited the company’s return. I was happy and looked forward to all the new possibilities before me.

During my first two weeks in Paris, I had plenty of time on my hands. One of the Russian pianists suggested that I pay a visit to Serge Lifar, director of the Paris Opéra Ballet. Why not? So, I introduced myself to the great Lifar. He was a good-looking and pleasant man, in his fifties and still quite fit. Although he was born in Kiev, he looked Persian or Asian instead of Slavic.

As my head was filled with hundreds of wonderful stories about his dancing career, I was very reverent. He probably saw in my eyes, the admiration that I had for him. He was very cordial and asked what he could do for me. I explained that I was fresh from Belgrade, flat broke, studying with Preobrajenska, and obsessed with dancing for Charrat’s company. I told him that I wanted to see his company, but could not afford a ticket. He understood. He offered kind words of support, plus an unlimited pass to the box reserved for Opéra dancers! I was really touched and very impressed with his kindness. He knew many of my teachers, and mentioned that I would dance some of his ballets with Janine Charrat’s troupe. And I did--Romeo and Juliet, Noir et Blanc, and Les Créatures de Promethée. It was the beginning of a nice friendship. He wished me much luck and success in France. After he retired from the Opéra, we often met at Studio Wacker, where we talked about old acquaintances.

When Charrat’s company finally returned, I spoke with Miskovitch and Sparemblek, who arranged my audition. Mme. Charrat seemed pleased by my timely arrival, as she had just lost two dancers. My knees shook from fatigue or excitement, diminishing my capabilities and my double tours were off. My audition was--to me--unsatisfactory, yet she engaged me, along with André Prokovsky, a dancer French by birth, Russian by parentage, who would quickly become well-known. In fact, everyone hired for the corps later became prominent.

Among my new cast mates, was Tessa Beaumont, a nice looking girl who later married a tenured dancer of the Paris Opéra--which was a great boost to her career. We frequently danced together in Charrat’s ensemble. (Surprisingly, her sister strongly resembled my last girlfriend in Yugoslavia. As I barely spoke French and she spoke nothing else, we did not become acquainted.) Tessa and I continued to cross-paths at various points of our artistic development, including in Ludmila Tcherina’s and Léonide Massine’s troupe and in television work. After we had retired as performers, I found her teaching in Paris and discovered that the parallel in our lives had continued. She had a daughter, whom I met and who subsequently accepted my offer to visit Pittsburgh.

Charrat’s rehearsals started immediately. Jean-Bernard Lemoine conducted them, plus taught repertory. In six days, I learned six ballets. This was a very radical change. In Belgrade, I was accustomed to working on one ballet for six weeks! In just six days time, we were off on a tour that opened in Lausanne and Geneva, Switzerland with additional stops in Lyon and Strasbourg. The Paris Opéra Ballet’s Peter van Dijk was with our troupe as a guest artist.

In all, there were six étoiles, five soloists, and a corps of nine--all very strong dancers--to perform an impressive repertory that included ballets by Serge Lifar, Janine Charrat, Maurice Béjart, and several of Marius Petipa’s adagios. I was very proud to be with this company. My salary was immense. I was earning forty-thousand francs per month, plus per diem. I learned much from working alongside these great dancers, as I copied their manner and style, imitated their behavior, and tried to duplicate their onstage allure. Our performances garnered accolades, reminiscent of the outstanding public response this troupe received in Belgrade.

In Geneva, Switzerland, we took classes with Boris Kniaseff, famous for his floor barre. I was glad to meet him, as I had heard so much about him from Marina Olenjina and other dancers who knew him when he was a ballet master in Belgrade before the war. He taught in a Geneva casino--a facility that resembled a winter garden, with marble columns and exotic flowers. He carried a big stick--like a shepherd’s staff--and pounded the ground to underline the rhythm of the music. He was very bombastic and that was accentuated by his very deep piercing voice.

Class began with our backs pressed against the floor. We retracted our legs, in movements similar to plié. This was easy to execute on the back, but much more difficult face down, as the floor surface painfully forced the turnout. We were paired face-to-face with partners (ideally of equal leg-length), with whom we reciprocally pushed and pulled to open hips and knees for increased turnout. After class, we felt as though we were walking in plié--and our hips hurt! He proudly presented his students and bragged that in just a few years they had acquired perfect turnout and high extensions. This was really impressive--until they started to jump and turn. The turns were passable but the jumps were very poor. As one-third of the exercises were executed on the floor, the body failed to develop resistance muscles. The muscles that propel the body into the air did not develop to the same degree as those required for adagio, which needs less abrupt effort.

I adjusted to these classes and subsequently, when I visited Geneva, I never missed a class with him. Today, as a teacher, I understand the benefit of Kniaseff’s exercises and recommend a weekly floor barre to my dancers.

I was thrilled with the company and its repertory, but disappointed that Maria Fris had departed for Maurice Béjart’s troupe. In the early sixties, I learned of her suicide. This saddened me very much.

Of the ballets we performed, I especially liked the bravura Le Massacre des Amazones (1951). Here, representing a horse, I caught an Amazon rider in mid-grand jeté on my shoulder and danced with her perched there. In Héraklès and Romeo and Juliet, I stood beside Prokovsky, who turned more easily to the left. As I executed double tours and pirouettes to the right, he spun to the left. He was an amazing turner, who could whip out fourteen pirouettes--in street shoes.

We worked under Serge Lifar, whose Romeo and Noir et Blanc, were already in the repertory and with Maurice Béjart on Haut Voltage. I was pleased to learn different styles from internationally famous choreographers. Lifar sometimes observed rehearsals and provided suggestions to the ballet master or dancers, as he had specific ideas of how a pose should look. Béjart’s creative process included collaborating with the dancers, rather than imposing his own movements on them. At that time, I was still too shy to offer suggestions, but later, after I had taken classes with him and with Mme. Rousanne, I was braver about contributing my five cents.

It was great to see Peter van Dijk in Don Quixote, Milorad Miskovitch in Romeo and Juliet, and Janine Charrat in La Mort du Cygne. When I was not onstage, I watched from the wings, soaking in as much as I could. As Van Dijk was a guest artist, he was with us infrequently. His body was perfectly built, comparable to Nureyev’s or Bujones’. Miskovitch was a blonde-haired, blue-eyed handsome prince, with an air of sophistication. Although elegant and personable, his technique was less sparkling than René Bon’s. Charrat interpreted different roles, but I was most impressed with her Dying Swan. I eventually realized that her technique was not great. (How much my opinions had changed since seeing her in Yugoslavia that first time!)

Janine was typically French--small, cute, charming, and a pleasant person, who always wore a foxy smile. I enjoyed working with her and socializing with her in restaurants. Initially, my French was rudimentary--my friends had to translate for me--but that little smile implied that she understood everything I said.

Much later in her career, during filming for a television production, her tutu caught fire as she waited backstage for her entrance. She went off like a torch and was seriously burned. Her pianist, Jacqueline Emery volunteered for skin grafts. I was shocked to see her after the reconstructive surgery. She became another “Janine,” as the accident affected her physically and mentally.

Seasons were short and periodic, which was the downside of freelancing in French companies. As a neophyte, I worried about pending unemployment. However, between 1955 and 1965 work was abundant. I was never unemployed for more than a month. As freelancers, we floated from one company to another, often returning to the same troupe. This was artistically satisfying and advantageous, as it provided opportunities to work with many groups, artists, and choreographers, plus opened us to a wide variety of repertory. It never got stale. I felt like a bee floating from one flower to another (hoping the next flower would have more pollen that was to my taste).

After the tour with Charrat, I immediately joined Irina Grjebina’s Ballet Russe, a character company à la Moiseyev. I was introduced to Grjebina by Darinka Ilic, whose sister Beba was engaged to Milko. I was impressed by the strong, bravura technique of Grjebina’s dancers. Eight or nine pirouettes were the norm.

I was not a phenomenal turner--but could do six pirouettes to the right and four to the left. I was specifically taking Preobrajenska’s classes to develop my turns (as most of her students could do ten pirouettes). With Grjebina’s guidance, I mastered eight pirouettes to the right, in character shoes.

In Grjebina’s company the prisiadki (Russian squat) was refined to a very high level. I actually hated this step in my character classes back home, but now I had to knock myself out with them. In America, many dancers shun the Russian squats--which they fear will hurt their knees. On the contrary, I think that these character squats strengthened my knees and gave me better pirouettes.

Irina was an older Russian lady, overweight for her short frame, but still a good dancer. She always smiled, but was a bit stubborn and temperamental. She was impressed with my background. As a former member of the Russian Theatre, she had worked with my teacher Nina Kirsanova, plus many of my other instructors. Reciprocally, she became my “older sister,” mentor, and advisor. She was a great lady.

I worked with her for many years. Each time I signed on, I felt like I was back in Eastern Europe. We spoke only Russian, and those who did not, had to learn. Following in Diaghilev’s footsteps, she re-christened French dancers with Russian names like Hokhlova, Lanova, Cejkova, and Barsoukov, just as the impresario created Alicia Markova from Lillian Alicia Marks. This alteration is ridiculous, but if Diaghilev could do it, so could Grjebina. The public loved the bubble of illusion. As only one-third of the dancers were actually Russian, those who spoke Russian fluently were trotted out to greet the public and sign autographs. Although I was born in Serbia of Russian parentage on my father’s side, I played the role well, as my Russian was superior to my French.

The performances received standing ovations. Gigs lasted for only a day or two per city. This gypsy existence was exciting, but tiring. Character dancing itself, consumes a tremendous amount of energy, as it demands full-out execution or the dancer looks lousy. Most of the pieces were pure dance with little or no adagio and mime for respite. Therefore we were at full steam with maximum energy at all times. That physical expenditure coupled with insufficient sleep and traveling (tours sometimes stopped in fifteen or twenty cities in one shot) took a lot out of us. Living out of suitcases also had many drawbacks--it was challenging to always have enough clean underwear and it was exhausting to drag around big, heavy suitcases that felt like you had packed the kitchen sink, plus a couple of barbells.

In Lyon, we got into trouble. The impresario sold us as a Soviet company. When the truth came out, the public, which threatened to invade the stage, responded violently, by throwing tomatoes (and possibly other items) at us during the first part of the performance. Some of the dancers were hit by projectiles that stained their costumes. I was somehow spared--I made an abrupt exit when I saw the public’s reaction.

The show halted mid-performance. The police arrived. We finished the concert--under duress. The second evening was cancelled, as we left town immediately. Only then did I learn about the false advertising scam. It now seems funny. It was our only clash with the public. Our remaining performances (in other cities) were very successful.

We happily retuned to Paris. I spent more time on tour than in the city. I worried about my technique, as I frequently missed daily class. However, one of my teachers at home had said, “One performance is equal to six classes.” I noticed that after the tours my technique improved, even without regular class.

At Studio Wacker, Nikola Artimovski told me that Léonide Massine, then working in Sweden, was looking for dancers. He was in charge of recruiting and asked if I was available to depart immediately for Göteborg (Gothenburg). My heart raced and I could hardly contain my excitement. When I watched The Red Shoes featuring Massine as the shoemaker, I felt a great urge to dance for him. I was inspired by his artistry and attracted to his ballets. Here was the opportunity to realize my dream and to work with the great Massine--and without the agony of an audition! The next day, despite bad weather, I was on a bumpy flight bound for Göteborg. This was my first airplane ride and I was amused by it (not knowing that in the future I would develop a phobia).

I arrived in Göteborg on a snowy winter evening. I was struck with the city’s beauty--the streets of icy white, contrasted to the richly decorated shop windows. These were the equivalent of the most sophisticated stores in Paris and London.

Rehearsals of Massine’s Le Beau Danube (1924) conducted by Madame Massine (Tatiana Orlova) began the next day in Stora Theatern. Mme. Massine was a good-looking middle-aged woman, whose relaxed rehearsal mien was contrary to her husband’s. First, we watched a film of the ballet. Afterwards, she ran about sixteen measures of the music and we had to learn the dance from the film (that was how we revived any of his older ballets). This was a surprise. I did not initially realize that this was Massine’s rehearsal process. In Yugoslavia, the ballet master always taught the ballet using only a notebook for a reminder. Until these rehearsals, I had not realized that it was possible to work from films. I grew accustomed to--and later favored--this restaging procedure for my own works. I was more fortunate, as I had the advantage of video machines, which synchronized the audio and visual components.

I became Madame’s favorite dancer and enjoyed the relaxed environment (but the work still got done), yet continued to wonder when Léonide Massine would arrive. He appeared after the first week of rehearsals. Tension filled the room when he walked in, with an aura a little bit like Napoleon himself. He scrutinized our movements, refining, detailing every nuance of the wrist, finger, eye, and hair--anything, everything that the human body possesses. His specific manner was to yell, “Tickiti, tackita, tickiti, tackita,” and so on. It reminded me of an Indian dance.

He summoned me to his office. I remember his steely eyes and piercing look, as he observed me. I was mesmerized. He wrinkled his brow and stared straight at me--Aha vous etes Nicolas Petrov.

At that point, I forgot about the magical shoemaker from The Red Shoes, but it was a General that gave me chills. In time, he would become like my father, but that moment was utterly formal. I was a bit startled by his statement because it was in French and not Russian. I replied in Russian «Da ya Nicolai» and added that I was Preobrajenska’s student and that Nikola Artimovski had sent me.

He answered in Russian, “Very well I hope you will work hard.” Obviously, I promised it and started to blush.

My future was uncertain, but I sensed his interest in me. This was a turning point, as my life steered onto another path. In time, working with him was very pleasant. He always provided his dancers with several choreographic options, allowing us to choose the steps that suited our abilities, but he suggested what looked best on us. I needed to learn a profound amount of movements to master his new works. These became part of my vocabulary and when I choreographed, I drew from this movement pool, which was ingrained in my muscle memory.

Most of Massine’s ballets had storylines that I could sink my teeth into, not only as a dancer, but also as an actor. I was comfortable with his work. He was fully involved in his productions and insisted on a great number of rehearsals. This work ethic produced the artistic excellence for which he is remembered.

Massine was never warm and gregarious. My relationship with him became more intimate, a few years later, when I rejoined his troupe for a stint in Italy. Generally, he avoided being chummy with his dancers, but was more approachable to veterans, such as Leon Woizikovsky, Harry Haythorne, and Tatiana Leskova. A bond developed between us, perhaps because I was of Russian descent and he felt kinship with me or because Mme. Massine favored me.

In Sweden, I met the friendly and helpful Gabay family. Especially kind was Papa Gabay, who presented me with a handsome wool jacket and often invited me to dinner. His son, Eugene Gabay and Eugene’s wife Nina were the leading dancers at the Stora Theatern Ballet, but I seldom saw them.

Here, I also met Marion (Mary) Brookes, who later became my wife. Mary’s training began at age thirteen in South Africa, but both she and her mother felt that more opportunities were available in London. At about age seventeen, she began studying with Cleo Norde and Audrey De’Voss. She was recruited in London along with Sheilah O’Reilly and another female dancer for the Massine gig, just as I was sent from Paris with Zvonko Potkovac and Nicolas Chkalikoff. The six of us became very friendly, as we resided near each other for this eight-week gig. We often purchased food that I cooked for all of us. Slowly, our group pared off as Mary and I became very close. After the day’s rehearsals ended, we had plenty of time to attend movies and events, but I guess the cold evenings and the warm hugs did the trick.

Mary accompanied me to Paris. We joined Irina Grjebina for a tour and then participated in a film with Janine Charrat, Le Lumier du Soir. I lost my apartment on 21, rue Serpent in St. Michel and moved to Hotel Fiat in rue de Douai, near Studio Wacker. We concentrated on taking classes, until I obtained a summer job--performing Der Zarewitsch in Steckborn, Switzerland--as a Russian character dancer. The choreography was laden with split leaps. Meanwhile, Mary was alone in Paris, job hunting, as we could not afford to be idle for long. However, with her previous experiences in films and television shows, including a three year stint with BBC-TV, she was very employable. She landed an eight-month gig on a boat bound for Cape Town and Johannesburg, South Africa. Her job put our personal plans on hold.

Mary left; I returned from Switzerland, remaining alone in Paris. I did a couple of short films and then signed on as a leading dancer in Verviers, Belgium at the Opera Ballet, which produced ballet and opera every week. This season was very rich. I worked hard, dancing with principal dancer Nicole Martin and a corps of sixteen. The ballets drew from the opera ballet repertory, for example, “Walpurgis Nacht” from Faust, which received an excellent review in the February 26, 1957 issue of Chronique Théatrale and a one-act version of Coppélia. Martin was a good dancer, but less developed as a choreographer. I offered help, but she ignored my suggestions. I suspect that she felt threatened and feared losing her job. She probably did not understand that my stay in Verviers was temporary.

Mme. Debeljak, whom I had not seen since my school days, visited me in Verviers. After my departure from Yugoslavia, she had fallen victim to political intrigue. A jealous competitor reported that she had exported her dancers to foreign countries. There was no foundation for that--in my case, I had departed six years after I had completed school in Novi Sad--we all left on our own. The authorities put her in jail, where she remained for several years, until she proved her innocence. After her release, she traveled in Europe and stopped to see me. It would be another twenty-five years before we would meet again.

My tenure in Verviers was dull, but made tolerable by my landlord--Dr. Hess, a dentist and his family, who made my stay comfortable. To pass time, I frequented the lively night spots in Liege and attended performances of Joseph Lazzini’s prosperous young ballet company. Here, I first saw Ismet Mouhedin, who would become a close friend. At the time, he was an impressive dancer with a great technique, who was guesting from the Marquis de Cuevas Ballet International. He executed chaînés on his knees, which brought down the house. I was surprised by the number of Parisian ballet critics and balletomanes who attended the performance.

While I was residing in Verviers, a revolution erupted in Hungary against Soviet occupation. Many Hungarians fled to Belgium. As one of the few city residents who could speak both French and Hungarian, I was called upon by a humanitarian organization to be a translator for the Hungarian refugees encamped there. It was interesting volunteer work, as I served as a go-between for people who were afraid and uneasy about being in a strange land, yet relieved to be out of their county and away from oppression. I received newspaper recognition for my service.

Before our separation, Mary and I agreed that this parting would provide an opportunity to evaluate our futures. Mary said that if she returned, we would get married. I counted the days until my contract ended. I spent my time writing to her and making plans for our spring wedding in London. I looked forward to re-visiting the city as I needed a little vacation.

Mary and I had initially visited London just before my Belgium sojourn. As I recall, usually foggy London was somewhat sunny that spring. I happily explored the city and took classes taught by Kathleen Crofton, whose teachers had been Nicolas Legat and Olga Preobrajenska, our common denominator. She had been a member of Anna Pavlova’s company, at the same time as Edward Caton.

Miss Crofton was quite different from my other teachers, but her classes were comfortable. She liked to whistle while she composed adagios. And she liked me because I was Preobrajenska’s student. Later, she would become director of the Niagara Frontier Ballet in Buffalo, New York. She also worked at the Chicago Opera Ballet, with Bronislava Nijinska, whom she invited to Buffalo in the early seventies to stage Les Biches (1924). She introduced me to Nijinska.

During this London visit, I also met Cyril Beaumont in his small, narrow bookstore on Charring Cross Road. His attractive window display helped me to spot the shop. He cut a tall, fit figure and there was an aura of aristocracy about him. Personable and talkative, he could converse for hours about everybody and everything that happened in the dance world. He greatly admired Belgrade’s prima ballerina Jovanka Bjegojevic. As I had recently come from Belgrade, he immediately associated me with her. He knew everybody in England and all over the world. Very helpfully, he introduced me to English dancers and choreographers. It was always a pleasure to visit his bookstore, with its long shelves filled with volumes of dance books, and to converse with him.

The year was 1956. Mary and I were having a wonderful time in London, which included a visit to Covent Garden. I brought a big bouquet of red roses to the stage entrance and informed the doorman that I wished to see Margot Fonteyn, who was in rehearsal. He was very helpful, as he immediately placed a call and asked us to wait.

At the rehearsal break, Margot fetched us. She seemed delighted to see me again and thanked me graciously for the roses. She invited us to observe the remainder of rehearsal--but as it was so close to the end, there was not much left to see. I was thrilled to watch the dancers in action, especially Fonteyn and Somes and to observe the Petipa/Ivanov version of Swan Lake. Fonteyn presented us to the company, and spoke very highly of Nina Kirsanova’s Belgrade production. She generously provided us with tickets to that evening’s sold-out performance, which we accepted.

We arrived early and took the two front seats in a box that was always reserved for dancers. It quickly filled with company members, none of whom I knew personally, so I enjoyed the performance without having to make small talk. The stage was somewhat bigger than ours in Belgrade. I liked the costumes and the set design. Its darkly shaded décor captured the Middle Ages ambience, but looked worn. The choreography was very similar to Kirsanova’s.

I certainly enjoyed Fonteyn’s performance, but was disappointed with the corps de ballet. The technical level was substandard, especially for a troupe that was about to be renamed “The Royal Ballet” on October 31, 1956 by a Royal Charter. The corps dancers minced their movements. I was also surprised to see that only two of the men--Michael Somes and Alexander Trunov--were proficient in turns. This is not to say that good technique is based solely on clean, multiple pirouettes, but the Sadler’s Wells Ballet was lacking in virtuosity. Ultimately, I think the company looked restrained.

Later that week, I visited the Royal Academy of Dancing where I met Serge Grigoriev and Lubov Tchernicheva, his wife. I observed Mme. Tchernicheva’s class, and found her students to be very well trained, with very precise and clean movements, in respect to the body’s classical geometry. They were just shy of brilliant technique.

My knowledge of the Russian language always opened doors for me with the Old Russian dancers, who regarded me with familiarity. I met the contemporaries of Tamara Karsavina, Vaslav Nijinsky, and Léonide Massine. Although Grigoriev was lingering in the hallways and Tchernicheva was eager to introduce him to me, ours was only a short conversation and handshake. I never saw either of them again. Their names, however, were constantly brought up in subsequent conversations that I had with other former Diaghilev company members.

London was different from Paris; even the subway had a special odor that emitted from the disinfectants used exclusively on the trains and in the tunnels. I immediately noticed this scent whenever I was in England. I enjoyed browsing the London streets with their unique shops and Old World ambience.

I saw Charlie Chaplin’s film, The Great Dictator which spoofed Hitler. As I was a great fan of Chaplin’s I really enjoyed the film in which he easily created this fantasy role and accentuated the parody with a ridiculous mustache.

I also saw a short film about Anna Pavlova at a kinoteque, a small movie theater that specialized in only one type of film. I was surprised by the style and speed at which she moved in the excerpts from Dying Swan, Bayadère, and short repertory pieces. In one section, about her life, she was seen playing with and feeding the swans in the pond on her front lawn. It was like watching a Greta Garbo movie because it was filmed at sixteen frames per second, the standard for silent films. The institution of talkies necessitated increasing the speed to twenty-four frames per second. Consequently older films looked odd when played at the faster speed, which was the new standard.

Following my stint in Belgium, we returned to London, as our wedding day approached. I had waited a longtime--or at least it seemed so--for Mary’s return from South Africa. Neither of us had family in London. However, Mary’s mom had friends--Mr. and Mrs. Morris--with whom Mary had lived when she initially arrived. They assisted us with our wedding plans. Mary wore a gray gown and I wore a gray suit for our civil ceremony, which was followed by a small gathering. It was very nicely arranged, but nothing like the extravaganzas popular in the U.S. As I did not speak fluent English, much of the conversation passed over my head.

Mary was my interpreter--most of the time, but amid all the excitement, I repeated the wedding vows without really understanding the words. I must have been in some kind of haze. After the event ended, we went off to the Dorchester Hotel for our honeymoon. That was probably the nicest time I spent in London. My future visits were business trips or related to BBC television productions.

Mary and I did not fit into any mold--we created our own. Looking back, I realize that our lives were extraordinary. We were in the same craft, but our relationship was not based on professional association. Mary is petite and I am tall. We were not an onstage partnership and rarely danced together--except socially. We frequently joined the same companies and traveled around the world together, but onstage were worlds apart, cast in different sections of the same ballet. Even in television work, we were often in separate productions--and when I had a television choreography project, she had a gig elsewhere. However, I choreographed certain pieces for her, including the Russian princess solo in Swan Lake. The last time we danced together was in Carmen, which I choreographed for the Pittsburgh Opera in 1969. We were a couple, not bound through dance, but more through friendship and love. Yes, we debated artistic issues and sometimes disagreed. Her British upbringing and my Slavic temperament did not see things the same way, but we never had overheated arguments with swords and daggers.

Chapter Four: Me and My Suitcase

After the wedding, we returned to Paris and joined the newly formed Le Theatre d’Art du Ballet, which had been organized in August 1956 by Evelyne Cournand, a modestly talented American dancer known professionally as Anna Galina. Her Paris-based company specialized in revivals from Diaghilev’s repertory--specifically the ballets of Michel Fokine and Léonide Massine. The company employed Vaganova technique, as taught by Tatiana Piankova, former dancer of the Imperial Russian Ballet. Vitale Fokine, son of the great choreographer who revolutionized ballet, served as our régisseur. There were about twenty-one dancers in the troupe.

I had learned from working with different ensembles that the rehearsal process varied according to the ballet. If we concentrated on perfecting technique, then the rehearsal was boring and repetitive. I hated it. Roles with stories or substance were always my favorites and I could rehearse them tirelessly.

Our rehearsals were long and difficult. We plunged into six Fokine ballets: Les Sylphides (1909), Islamey (1912), Les Elfes (1924), Igrouchki (Les Poupees Russes), Eros (1915), and The Adventures of Harlequin (1922). Two of these, Islamey and Eros, had never been performed outside of Russia. The company commissioned Nathalia Goncharova, Diaghilev’s celebrated collaborator, to design sets and costumes.

The Fokine Festival received mixed reactions from both audiences and critics. Everybody expected more technique and artistry, but the company was slow to acquire these. Galina was a strange lady, who was a late-starter, but had been brainwashed by her mentor Tatiana Piankova that she could rival the talents of Pavlova and Ulanova--hence her stage name, “Anna Galina.” She was fanatic to re-create the Diaghilev era and even opened in Monte Carlo, following in the Ballets Russes’ footsteps. She lived for dance and molded herself after her idols.

Galina was wealthy and could afford the best choreographers, costumers, designers, and dancers. However, she was very careful not to hire any dancers who might outshine her. Echoing Anna Pavlova, Galina insisted on being the troupe’s only prima ballerina, but lacked the charismatic Russian superstar’s power and talent. Consequently, her ego contributed to the company’s mediocrity. We rehearsed very hard to achieve artistic harmony and to improve the company’s quality before starting our intensive 1958 European tour. We presented double programs with the option of offering a third, if necessary. Typically, we performed two or three concerts per city.

Le Theatre d’Art du Ballet spent most of the summer of 1958 in Italy. We performed in big, small, and medium sized towns, each turned out to be one that I loved. Milan, Rome, Padua, and Verona each held its own special charm and left vivid impressions. Naturally, some of the cities were more inspiring than others, and some places even yielded more nerve-wracking experiences than inspirational ones.

In Florence, we stayed in a hotel situated on a typical narrow lane. Any and all sounds echoed through the streets and permeated through the windows. In those days, the most popular vehicle was a “vespa,” or small motor scooter. Their motors were so loud and nerve-wracking, that I was unable to sleep. Whenever I drifted off, that dreadful growling would whiz by again and awaken me. Finally, I purchased my first set of earplugs at a pharmacy. Yet, Florence was one of my favorite cities. The museums, the architecture, and the sculpture were captivating. Italians, in general, were very friendly. I was inspired to learn as much of the language as I could, in order to better communicate. I was a rather quick study, with a previous handle on French and Latin, which I learned in school.

At the time, newly invented soft ice cream machines, just imported from America, were all the rage. Ice cream was readily available and became one of our daily staples. Vendors also sold a delightful mixture of fruit blended with ice and sugar, called “frulatte,” which was another favorite.

Our Florence performances were outdoors on a platform stage in Palazzo Pitti, a park that could accommodate over two thousand people. The park’s perimeter with its tall, leafy Cyprus trees interspersed with tall Grecian statutes of athletes was most picturesque. Rows of wooden folding chairs were placed on the ground and to enhance sightlines; the stage was slightly raised and raked. We won enthusiastic cheers and bravos. The Italians liked Fokine’s ballets very much. We felt very comfortable performing in this venue.

Beautiful Lake Maggiore in Northern Italy was surrounded by private villas. I was pleasantly surprised to discover that one of the most impressive of these had belonged to the Taglioni family (but was then privately owned by another family). It was a large, white house with several white columns surrounding the main quarters. On either side were stonewalls with steps leading down to the water. These were docks for the boats. Adjacent to the right dock was a boathouse. The mountain peak in the background provided a glorious setting.

Again, our stage was outdoors--this time it actually floated on the water. The Taglioni house was our backdrop. We hoped that Marie and her father, Filippo, liked our performance. It occurred to the girls in the company to pay thankless homage to Filippo. Although he did not invent those pink satin torture boxes ballerinas wear, he popularized their use in La Sylphide (1832), as a vehicle for his daughter.

A cool breeze arrived with the evening air, raising goose bumps on our ballerinas’ arms. It heightened the mood of Les Sylphides. As the dancers moved, their long, white tulle tutus blew in swirls. The effect was eerie almost ghost-like and unintentionally enhanced Fokine’s choreography. Maybe Filippo enjoyed having a Romantic ballet performed in his front yard. If he had been “sitting” on his balcony, he would have seen the culmination of his ideas carried into the twentieth century.

William Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet was set in Verona. It was also the inspiration and birthplace of my ballet to Prokofiev’s score. Verona is actually a small town of great beauty, with its preserved Gothic and Byzantine architecture. Shakespeare wrote the story of Romeo and Juliet, but the Italians exploited it for all it was worth, and more. For five hundred lira (about a dollar) per site, I was escorted--tourist style--to the buildings that were dubbed Capulet’s house, the piazza Del dojdo, the tomb of Romeo and Juliet, and Lorenzo’s church. I snapped tons of photos that set designer Henry Heymann later used to create scenery for my ballet.

In Verona, I tasted “American” pizza for the first time. The Italians had imported multi-shelved metal pizza ovens from America. The pizza was sensational and tasted very different from traditional Italian restaurant pizza, especially from the square Napoli pizza, which was simply dough and tomato sauce, topped with onions and tomatoes.

Parma, one of our tour stops, was a small, very quaint town with friendly people. We arrived in the early afternoon. As Evelyne was always ready to rehearse, our bus dropped us off at the theater instead of at our hotel, which was across the street. We filed off the bus like soldiers of a defeated army and piled our luggage in the yard. At first glance, the limestone theater appeared to be very old. It may have been built in the sixteenth or seventeenth century. Its metal trimmed doors were five inches thick and resembled those on churches.

A full-figured, middle-aged woman, wearing an apron, welcomed us. She was the caretaker or concierge and lived on the premises. We immediately asked her, «Dovè il posto per cambiare?» (“Where is the dressing room?”)

«Primo guarda la scena,» she replied, while rapidly opening the heavy door. Before we could step inside, a number of ducks, chickens, and turkeys, charged from the theater. We burst out laughing and joked, “Attention, attention, don’t slip on the chicken shit.” Someone added, “The duck runs are even worse.”

Inside the auditorium we discovered that the rods for the décor were totally empty. There were no legs or borders. The two middle stage rods were lowered to the height of five feet and were covered with laundry--clothes, pillowcases, sheets, towels, and funny lace underwear. A couple of roosters--with an aura of superiority befitting of resident actors--were perched atop the rods, as if waiting to execute their lines. One of our dancers quipped that our performance was a “co-production” with the chickens.

The lady grabbed a sizable broom and swinging it, yelled, «Aspetta un’attimo!» as she chased the birds offstage. Then she rapidly yanked the laundry from the rods and prepared the stage for our rehearsal.

When we climbed onstage, we discovered that it was not as slippery as our jokes implied. However, it was hardwood, bumpy, and severely raked. It was an accomplishment to safely execute a circle of consecutive steps without falling into the orchestra pit. Pirouettes were out of the question, and the women were praying for their safety in their pointe shoes. I envisioned that the ballerinas would fall on their noses because of the knotty, uneven surface. As these were the days before portable floors, we had no choice but to perform on the stage the way it was. Clearly this theater was originally built for actors and singers. Despite these conditions, we were a great success with the cheering Parma public and were happy to depart injury free.

The days in Parma ended with a feast of the best lasagna I had ever eaten. We heavily indulged in the local wine, an exceptionally good variety of Lambrusco. Italy was always a pleasure to revisit, as the climate, the people, and the foods were all so appealing. After many return visits, Italy became my second home (after France).

Theaters across Italy were similar to the one in Parma--small, with raked stages and seating for about a thousand patrons. The exception was the stage at Parchi di Nervi, an expanse sixty yards wide by sixty yards deep!

We reached the resort town of Salsomaggiore at the end of our second month on the road. It was just what the company needed. Our program featured the usual repertoire: Les Sylphides, Igrouchki, Le Spectre de La Rose, and The Adventures of Harlequin. The theater here Teatro Nuovo (New Theatre) was built with the tourist trade in mind and was thankfully more modern in design. As the floor was not raked, we could relax knowing the surface was safe.

Towards the end of the tour, we enjoyed downtime along the Adriatic Sea. The first few days were very pleasant, as we tanned. I loved to do summersaults in shallow water. While doing just that, my friend Stefan, called to me. I froze upside down in midair, missing the part where I should have normally turned. I landed smack on my head, nearly passing out from the force. I sported a neck brace for several weeks, and had to endure a most uncomfortable train ride back to Paris.

Subsequent tours took us to Germany, Switzerland, and back to Italy, where we already felt very much at home. In Germany, we performed on the lake. The stage was a bit too mobile. At least it was still summer and a pleasant, experience. Next, we went to Geneva, Lausanne, and Zurich, which were familiar from my gig with Jeanine Charrat. This time, Michel Fokine’s four-year-old grandson accompanied us. We enjoyed snapping photos of each other in front of monuments. I thought, “Hey if I don’t know the grandpa, at least I know his offspring.”

In preparation for our upcoming Far East tour, we launched into an intensive rehearsal period that included polishing Sylphides, and working with Massine, who arrived to stage Ballade, for Anna Galina. I was very happy to see Massine, whom I called “Léonide Fedorovich,” and as usual, he was always so busy that our main conversations took place in the dressing room as he prepared for rehearsal or was changing to depart. He was not generally complimentary to anyone, but I judged from his expression, he was not too enthused with his work. He was very money-conscious and Anna paid him quite well.

As members of the company, we had a wonderful time touring all over the world. The Far East tour was one of those unforgettable, once-in-a-career trips. Paul Szilard, an American impresario, presented us. He exaggerated our brilliance, which raised the audiences’ expectations. They anticipated more than the company could deliver. He booked very comfortable travel arrangements with ideal itineraries that allowed for ample recreation and rest in some of the finest hotels.

We were greeted at the Tokyo airport by local dancers from Japanese companies who offered us bouquets of flowers as hordes of camera-bearing paparazzi, aimed five-inch lenses at us. It was the first time in my life that I saw Nikons and Cannons, as these were not yet available in Western Europe. The camera flashes were nonstop from the door of the plane to the airport exit, accompanied by resounding cheers and bravos.

I doubt that any member of The Beatles rock group was ever better received. We were immediately whisked away to the Imperial Hotel--by far the most luxurious hotel in Tokyo. Needless to say, we were extremely impressed, and yet fearful of how we were going to live up to such grand expectations!

On a more personal level, the Japanese received us very cordially and hospitably. We were invited into the homes of several important people. Among these hosts was Heihachiro (Henry) Okawa, the lead actor in the film, The Bridge over the River Kwai.

I became quite friendly with a professor at Tokyo University, Dr. Fujisava, who spoke thirteen languages and served as our interpreter and guide during our residency. At the time, I had command of seven languages and felt inadequate. He was a wonderful fellow. We often conversed in Hungarian, one of the languages he had little opportunity to use. He was a very good interpreter, as well as a gracious host to the entire company.

We danced in Kyoto, Kamakura, Osaka, and Tokyo, where the tour closed. Kyoto was the most interesting. There, we wore kimonos and slept on the floor, à la Japanese style. We participated in the traditional Japanese bath. En masse, we bathed naked in big wooden barrels, as the hotel’s female servants swatted us with willow-like branches. At first, we felt a little uncomfortable assembled in our birthday suits, but we quickly got over that, because the whole experience was simultaneously invigorating and relaxing. With tingling skin, we retired to our Japanese beds for regenerating naps.

Kyoto’s gardens, in particular were beautiful and meticulously arranged. The artistry of the bonsai gardens with their colors, textures, and detailed arrangements of sand, stones, flowers, and small streams with bamboo bridges, generated an extraordinarily peaceful feeling.

Japan was recovering from the devastating war. Tokyo was still rebuilding, but today’s modern architecture was yet to come. The Ginza and Avenue Zed were nearly completed, while metropolitan life was fairly well reestablished.

As Mary and I were strolling on the Ginza, I glimpsed an enormous box of cornflakes in a department store window. I was longing for a good, old fashioned breakfast and I yelled to Mary, “Look cornflakes!” Mary sort of shrugged, “Oh so what.” But I persisted and she agreed to enter the shop.

Unlike stores in the West, where behind-the-counter assistance is scarce, there were actually too many service girls in this shop’s food section (maybe six workers within a four-yard length of countertop). I slowly articulated “Please cornflakes.” Two of them vigorously bowed and rapidly repeated “Cornflakes, cornflakes, aha,” and one of them disappeared--I assumed to fetch the box. Instead, she returned with her supervisor and I had to repeat my request. He responded as the service girls had, by repeating the name of the product, bowing, and smiling. Mary and I supposed that he understood.

The salesgirls were giggling and speaking quickly in Japanese. They looked at us curiously, as if trying to determine what planet we were from. The supervisor’s supervisor now appeared. And the entire group was repeating, “Cornflakes, cornflakes, aha.” Shoppers gathered, stopped around us and raised their hands, and remarked quite correctly, “Cornflakes.”

It was hopeless. Finally, I grabbed the hand of one of the service girls, who initially attempted to jump away. As I dragged her out the door and towards the display window, the whole procession of employees followed. I pointed my finger at the window and the ensemble yelled, “Aha, cornflakes, aha cornflakes.” We marched back into the store and I was finally served, as spectators nodded in approval, “Cornflakes, cornflakes.”

I attended a Japanese performance similar to a Radio City Music Hall extravaganza. Instead of thirty-two girls in the kick line, there were sixty-four! I was amazed at the precision of such a large group. Of course, physically, they were much smaller than their Western counterparts. Their showmanship was very apparent. They performed five shows per day, non-stop from 10:00 a.m. until 10:00 p.m. Astonishingly all the shows were very well attended.

When Japan’s young emperor married a non-royal bride--an exceptional event--the women from our company, including Mary, were invited to perform at the Imperial Palace as part of the wedding ceremony. Excerpts from Les Sylphides were chosen for the occasion. Unfortunately, our men were not invited, so we opted to spend the evening watching the showgirls at the Ginza. I went with Stefan Wenta, who usually danced the poet in Les Sylphides, as he was Galina’s partner. Before the show, we ate some doubtful-looking green soup. It looked so awful, as if it was dished out from a swamp or from stagnant water--and teased each other about who had the guts to eat it. It really tasted good and we did not get sick afterwards.

Mary reported that our girls arrived at the palace, were escorted through very elaborately decorated hallways, and led into a beautiful hall where the stage was erected. The emperor and his entourage, plus members of the royal household, sat on gilded chairs. The royal party was quite reserved in their reception of the dancers, who sensed that their hosts were unfamiliar with Western dance. The ballerinas did their job and departed, but not without a tour of the sumptuous royal gardens.

We performed the following day in Tokyo’s Kyoritsu Hall to full houses and appreciative audiences. The performances were successful, but the newspaper critics responded with mixed degrees of enthusiasm.

On the bill were Igrouchki, Les Elfes, and Islamey. Les Sylphides opened the program. That night, I danced the title role in Igrouchki (The Russian Puppet), plus the pantomime role of the Shah in Islamey.

Igrouchki is a comic Russian folk tale about young love. In true Fokine fashion, it was highly demanding of my technique, requiring polzounok, prisiadki, and a manège of coupé jeté en attitude (barrel turns). My most vivid memory of this ballet is pulling a donkey cart onstage with one hand, while simultaneously traveling towards center stage executing prisiadki (the Russian squat). I relished this role, as it required both character dance technique and mime.

Islamey was an abbreviated Schéhérazade. I personally did not care for it. Both the story and music were weak. Vitale Fokine’s staging did not uphold his father’s reputation. This particular ballet was appropriate for charity benefits. My impressions were later echoed by a Bombay critic, who panned it.

We spent New Year’s Eve in Tokyo waiting to ring in 1959. It was one of the most memorable holidays of my life. Since we were not performing, we collectively agreed to celebrate in a Japanese bar, similar to a British pub. The waiter brought over a bar list boasting an outstanding selection of liqueurs. We chose whisky, mostly because the price suited our purses. After the third or fourth round, we were quite cheerful and very much in the celebratory mood for ringing in the New Year. We decided to greet it on the Ginza, the Broadway of Tokyo. We asked for the bill and when it came, we nearly had heart attacks! It was ten times more than we had expected. We summoned the waiter and attempted to explain that on the price list, a shot was about thirty-five yen (about twenty-five cents). We could not understand why our drinks were charged at 875 yen--$1.50 per drink! With at least ten of us at the table, the bill totaled 26,250 yen! Collectively, we could not come close to shelling out that much money. When we explained to the waiter that according to the menu prices, we should have owed 1,750 yen, he replied, “You ordered Johnny Walker! The thirty-five yen is Japanese whisky!” Well, we could not pronounce the names of the Japanese whiskies and had no idea there would be such a price difference between Japanese and American bourbons!

Now the heat was on. We stared at each other until the police arrived. They were at our table in no time!

They yelled and screamed at us in Japanese and in broken English. Some of the girls got hysterical--both laughing and crying! We tried to explain what had happened, and who we were. We offered to bring the money the following day, as we simply did not have the billed amount with us. A great commotion erupted among the bartenders, owners, waiters, and police. During the peak of the tension, one of the owners agreed to accept whatever sum we had, which was about five thousand yen--about a third of the tab--and they let us go.

Suddenly the somber mood lifted. We ran out into the street, hugged, and kissed each other in the rain, holding our mushroom-style umbrellas. At last, it was 1959! And we agreed that the Ginza was a superb place to celebrate the New Year!

We left Tokyo in the midst of winter. Six hours later, our plane landed in the tropical climate of the Philippines. That quick seasonal transition was somewhat difficult on our bodies. I was particularly impressed with the countryside and its landscape of profuse palm and fruit trees, yielding pineapples, coconuts, and bananas. And I was also impressed with the bare-chested women, who sold that fruit by the roadside. The local white rum, a little lighter than most rum, mixed with the coconut milk, which I loved, made an excellent cocktail and cooler.

The Theatre Diliman in Quezon City was on the outskirts of Manila, as Manila’s central theater was still in ruins from the war. The Theatre Diliman had been built for the American GIs and was in the style of an army barracks shell. Many celebrities had performed there, including Bob Hope and company. The house held over four thousand.

We were transported from the city to the theater via an open-air minibus. Inside the Diliman, the temperature was surprisingly cool--by contrast to the afternoon heat--an impressive feat of architecture, which generated natural air conditioning.

The day before the first performance, we were invited to the Palace of President Carlos Garcia, who wished to see what dancers from Poland, Russia, Yugoslavia, and France looked like. We were ushered into a great, velvety hall. Garcia, his wife, and many other dignitaries, including Vice President Diosdado Macapagal were seated on a platform behind a long table which was placed in front of a large, red velvet curtain that was adorned with paintings and flags. We walked down a long aisle that was lined on both sides with armed guards, dressed in formal parade uniforms. They reminded me of the British Beefeaters at Westminster Palace in London. It was eerie to be on display and under inspection by statesmen and politicians. A smiling Garcia received us with island hospitality. In his welcoming speech, he immediately attempted to make us feel comfortable, expressing his admiration towards our multi-national company.

The Bayaniham Folk Ensemble hosted an opening night party for us. The gathering was held in a very picturesque park, near a wooden structure that resembled a Chinese pagoda. Here, in a square in front of the building, the folk dancers performed some of their dances in our honor and offered us a buffet table laden with food similar to Hawaiian cuisine mixed with Spanish flavors.

They challenged us to participate in Kon Tiki, their national bamboo dance. This is a kind of game that involves two people, who hold long, bamboo sticks in each hand. They rhythmically hit them on the ground and clap them together while others jump in and out of the moving sticks. The objective is not to get trapped or bumped. It was much harder than it looked, and I was sure that my legs were going to get crushed that night and I would not be able to dance! I must have had a terrified expression on my face, because they did not pressure me to continue for too long.

To save face, I performed a parody of Flamenco dancing, as I knew that this culture was influenced by Spanish dancing, which I had studied from Olga Torez at home and later in Paris with her partner Jose Torez. As I had pretty good zapateados (footwork) and could perform with authenticity, I easily overdid that and exaggerated the emotional demonstration of the Flamenco style. Performing in my party clothes and with two pieces of wood held together by a string instead of with castanets, I stomped through my performance. I must have impressed them, because they were rolling on the ground with laughter as they cheered me on.

We offered all four programs during this successful residency. The first, featured Les Sylphides, Igrouchki, Ballade, and The Adventures of Harlequin. Program II consisted of Les Elfes, Danseuses D’Opera, Islamey, and Le Carnival. Program III repeated Program I, except that Igrouchki was replaced by Spectre De La Rose, and program IV showcased Les Sylphides, Ballade, Danseuses D’ Opera, and Le Carnaval.

The public was enchanted with all of these programs. I deduced that they were impressed because they lacked previous exposure to Diaghilev’s Ballets Russes and could not compare us to the legendary troupe.

Danseuses D’ Opera was choreographed by my dear friend, Janine Charrat. This period piece pivoted on a Second Empire dancer, who was seen preparing in the wings. The audience followed her entrance, her onstage triumph, and the post-performance congratulations offered by patrons and dandies. A polka-dancing patron carried her away, probably to supper at Maxim’s. The style of this ballet reminded me of Degas’ dance paintings. It was a charming ballet, indicative of Charrat’s signature good taste and was easy to perform, as I was cast as one of the dandies.

The Adventures of Harlequin, a Fokine ballet, was inspired by the Commedia dell’ Arte. Harlequin called forth laughter and tears as a result of his pranks with two coquettes--the wives of Pantaloon and the Captain. Here, I had the “bad guy” role as the Captain, a leading character. I enjoyed chasing Pantaloon around.

As word of our company’s success spread, more than a few autograph chasers surrounded us after each performance. I was especially popular with the local dancing school students, who toward the end of the run became our close friends. They lingered around the theater to watch rehearsals and preparations for the performances. I called them our “Philippine Balletomanes.” One girl in particular, must have had a crush on me, because she presented me with a rosary for good luck. As she bid me goodbye, I saw tears in her eyes. Overall the Filipinos were warm and hospitable people.

On January 10, 1959 we headed for Hong Kong, where we resided at the Cate Pacific Hotel, which was near Tiger Balm Garden.

We arrived a week prior to our residency and welcomed the break. We now had time to explore the city’s shopping Mecca and purchase inexpensive jade, silks, and other fruits of the land. The hustle and bustle of the shopping district had an infectious high energy. The local street artisans busily prepared their wares and lured the tourists to buy. I was very impressed by the dried ducks sold in the open markets. Some were chained together in a line that resembled a banner. For the most part, they hung by various body parts looking like they had been run over by a truck; their legs in perfectly turned out second position! Everywhere were great varieties of cured and roasted pork, which filled the shopping plazas with a thick, meaty aroma.

After roaming through the gluttonous wealth of the shopping districts, we visited the Tiger Balm Garden, a miniature replica of Chinese monuments and statues from ancient Chinese folklore. This hybrid was part Disneyland in its entertainment value and part Colonial Williamsburg in its historic preservation. It was on the honky-tonk side, but also very interesting and amusing.

We were invited to dine at the residence of a wealthy local developer. His skyscraper designs defined Hong Kong’s cityscape and have become familiar through films starring Jackie Chan. Our host (who resembled movie villain Fu Man Chu), had grandiose manners and welcomed us with an unforgettable Chinese feast.

Four gorgeous Chinese servants offered dishes in tiny serving bowls. Initially, we suspected that we would be underfed, as each vessel held a tiny portion. More was coming. The food was of the highest quality; we gorged ourselves. When the thirtieth dish arrived, we were already full; as the fortieth appeared, we thought that we were going to explode. We could see each other expanding like blimps. We looked like Mr. Fu Man Chu, himself!

Russian exiles from Harbin, who had been expatriated by the Red Chinese, populated the hotel. They were en route to Australia. The Chinese were extremely harsh, even vicious with these Russians because of the escalating political situation. Hong Kong was the only escape route from Communist China to the democratic world.

Isabelle Borgeaunad, Annie Dolbeu, my wife Mary, and I were invited by a Russian family to join them in their hotel room for a Russian Orthodox Christmas celebration. Festivities began in the afternoon, with the traditional Russian zakuski, (hors d’oeuvres) and high-octane vodka, as we sang «Paie do dna!» (“Drink to the bottom!”)

Among the guests were two British sailors, who were courting our host’s daughters. After two or three hours of toasting, both sailors were sprawled on the balcony, fairly green and nearly passed out. Our girls were admirably wasted. I, on the other hand, had balanced food and drink, and was the only one available to carry them back to their rooms. Their hangovers lasted for two days. I was very proud of myself for only getting slightly blitzed and living up to a good Russian guy’s self-image.

The Hong Kong engagement opened at the King’s Theatre with the Asian premiere of Léonide Massine’s Ballade, a contemporary ballet created especially for our company. The piece featured one male dancer with a female corps. As I recall, it was not particularly successful on tour.

The bill offered the Far East tour’s standard repertory of Les Sylphides, Igrouchki, and The Adventures of Harlequin. Hong Kong’s critics were more receptive than those in Japan. On January 16, the South China Post printed a review by Ruth Kirby, entitled, “Full House at Last Ballet Night--Brilliant Final performance Well Received by Audience--Popularity Established.” She opened with “…This Company of cheerful, gay and spirited young dancers has achieved success in Hong Kong.”

We added two ballets to the second program: Carnaval and Islamey. Fokine’s popular Carnaval (1910) was one of his most successful works for Diaghilev’s Ballets Russes. It unfolded as a series of character sketches set to Schumann’s music. Our production recreated Bakst’s scenery and costumes, which critic Ruth Kirby noted were integral to the success of this period piece. The original starred Tamara Karsavina and Vaslav Nijinsky, as Columbine and Harlequin, respectively. I danced the role of Pierrot, created for Adolph Bolm. I researched the ballet thoroughly through reading material and from information provided by Vitale Fokine. I gave my all to live up to Bolm’s original interpretation. Likewise, Conrad Derevsky and Anna Galina worked to uphold the Karsavina and Nijinsky roles. Of Islamey, Kirby noted in the January 16, 1959 issue of the South China Morning Post:

Islamey is in a Persian setting, somewhat reminiscent both of Schéhérazade and the Polovtsian maidens. Balakirev’s music can be both caressing and rousing, and finally rises to a pitch of high excitement, when Islamey, the Shah’s favorite, indulges in a wild orgy with the Shah’s slaves and serving maids. There was some beautifully synchronized dancing by Carmen Valesca as the favorite and Conrad Derevsky as the slave-lover; they seemed to dance as one. Nicolas Petrov as the Shah was a fierce and unbending character, a contrast to the mobility of the slave. There was a mounting dramatic tension about this short ballet. It is also a creation of Fokine, but less well known to audiences than some of his others.

We arrived in shabby Singapore at the end of January. There was no need to acclimatize; the humidity was higher than Manila’s, but the tropical climate was similar. Instead, we needed to adjust to our less luxurious surroundings and to the downtrodden and unkempt Chinese and Indian people. Like all port towns, the city was bustling with activity from the markets and import/export traffic. The bars were packed with sailors, and the streets strewn with vagrants begging for handouts.

The city was preparing for a religious observance--a day of repentance and reverence to Buddha. The participants engaged in exceptionally strange and unusual practices designed to illustrate suffering. These torture rituals employed needles, sticks, and hooks that were embedded in the body. We saw people with six inch metal rods running through their mouths that pierced both sides of the cheeks, holding the mouths painfully closed. Others wore large metal hooks accessorized with heavy ball-shaped weights that hung vertically from their chests and abdomens. Most disturbing were the men who knelt inside domelike contraptions made of wire. They walked with and carried these structures, as their companions pushed yard-long metal rods, attached to the domes, into their skin and muscle, both front and back. Still others, had their gluteus muscles pierced with large genuine silver hooks, attached to cables, which held carts. They walked through the streets, pulling these carts loaded with flowers, peacock feathers, and hay. Throngs of natives and foreigners lined the streets, encouraging the procession, as it wound its way through the city. The smell of burned meat from street-side hibachis permeated the air. These odors mingled with the aromas of flowers and herbs. The environment was unique and unforgettable. After all these years, I am still impressed by the unexpected oddity and intensity.

Weird religious rituals aside, our Singapore residency was otherwise uneventful, although we were something of an anomaly. Foreign dance companies were uncommon. Our repertory had solidified and our performances had achieved a sense of harmony, which garnered our success. The next stop was Bombay.

Travel to exotic India had been my youthful fantasy inspired by my idol Dancia Zivanovic, the only Yugoslav dancer who performed Indian dance. I wanted to study Indian dance techniques and begged Dimitri Parlic for a recommendation. Parlic, however, thought my idea absurd, and teased me for a longtime; “Here comes the Indian dancer,” forgetting that he always called me “Marble,” (which everybody called me anyway). “Marble” suited my unpredictable behavior. When I left Yugoslavia, they said, “Look how Marble rolled around the world and ended up in Paris!”

Night had fallen in Bombay. From the plane, we saw an illuminated city. Thousands of light bulbs swathed the big landmark buildings, as if lit for Christmas. It was a spectacular sight. We wondered for an instant, if this was in honor of our arrival! The next day, we learned that it was actually part of a major Hindu holiday celebration--Diwali, the festival of the lights, honoring goddess Laxmi, the goddess of wealth.

India is a country with many fascinating surprises; some pleasant and some not. It is neither as clean as Japan nor as industrious as China. Masses live in the streets, using straw rugs as places of meditation and sleep. These professional beggars subsist on handouts. The street dwellers roll themselves up inside rugs to sleep. Those who overslept were whisked off the streets by dead-body collectors--manned trucks that picked up the bundles and deposited them at the dump. After witnessing this practice first hand, I wondered why such an atrocity could be common place and acceptable! I was reminded of the Paris clochard--the street vagrants--who lived in far less numbers on the entranceway vents of the metro stations. Our hosts explained that according to Hindu belief poverty earns favor with the gods. Consequently, practices have evolved to avoid work and the possibility of becoming wealthy. Similarly, for economic reasons, some fanatics mutilated their children by breaking their fingers or dismembering their limbs in order to keep them as beggars for the rest of their lives.

We stayed in a modern, European-style hotel in central Bombay that offered suites with two enormous rooms, plus an equally spacious bathroom. I remember wondering why we needed a rehearsal hall in the bathroom. Possibly, the hotel was constructed without plans for bathrooms and as an afterthought; tubs were shoved into any available room.

Our balcony directly faced a Parsi cemetery. The faithful do not bury their dead. Instead, the body, wrapped in leaves, is placed on a t-shaped pedestal, known as the “tower of silence.” Naturally, this attracts crows, which in India, are the size of large eagles, sometimes bigger. The crows eat the body, thereby disposing of the cadaver’s flesh. On our second morning, Mary and I slept late and ordered breakfast in our room. We took full advantage of the spacious bathroom, lingering in the bath while our breakfast arrived and was wheeled into the living room, in front of the open French doors that led onto the balcony.

We planned to eat our quiet breakfast there. A few minutes after we finished dressing, we entered the living room. The crows were feasting on our breakfast! I yelled. I clapped my hands. The obstinate birds refused to move. With Mary hysterical in the background, I beat the birds with a pillow, forcing them to abandon the food and flee through the open doors. We reordered our breakfast from the restaurant, where the waiters had a good laugh--this kind of thing was probably a regular occurrence.

Later in the week, we noticed that some restaurants had postings which read: Dogs and South Africans Prohibited. Naturally, that was very disconcerting for Mary, who was then carrying a South African passport. This indignity aside, the Indian people were very friendly and warm. They took our whole company on tours of ancient temples and caves.

On the outskirts of the city was a revelation of a temple--its entire façade was carved with Karma Sutra positions. (Karma Sutra is the “treatise of sensual love” or explicitly, a sex manual.) Despite the eroded limestone that left a few fine points to the imagination, the remaining graphic details provided a sex education course and an eye-opener for all of us. The caves too, bore interesting carvings and their entrances were framed by heavy limestone columns, which appeared to uphold their ceilings.

Among the tourist curiosities, was a three-story high boot. We climbed it to the top. Oddly, it was a typical Biedermeier shoe of old Europe, yet there it was in India. We watched performances by snake charmers and street entertainers, including dancers. It was obvious that Indians were knowledgeable about their native dances.

The dancers unrolled an oriental style carpet to serve as a performance platform and prepared their instruments--finger cymbals, tambourines, mangiras, and sitars. They warmed up by stomping their feet to the rhythm of the jingles worn around their ankles, and chanting the desired rhythm: “Tay-tay-tah-tah,” or “Tay-tah-tah,” etc., depending on the type of dance to be performed. Each time of day required its own kind of dancing.

Enthralled with the richness of the styles and the finger language, which told stories, I was determined to learn as much as possible about these dances before my departure. I was familiar with Kathakali, a dance and drama form from Kerala in South India, Manipuri, a slow, sedate ritualistic form from Manipuri, and Bharata natyam from Tamil Hindu, which is the most popular form of Indian dance today.

Generally, the quality of the dancing was exceptionally good. Clarity of meaning was as important as technique--and the audience was very discriminating. The better groups attracted larger crowds. When dancers made too many mistakes or performed badly, the onlookers spit on the ground and walked away. As a professional dancer with experiences only in proscenium houses, I envied these high-level performers who had only to answer to the immediate reaction of an audience, not to paid newspaper critics.

A Shiva temple stood across the street from our hotel and I decided to attend a ceremony. I entered the building with much humility, as I was unsure about what to do once inside. First, I removed my shoes, as everyone was barefoot. Most of the people were kneeling, sitting on their heels, and repeatedly bowing to the command of an enormous gong that stood in the middle of the room. The gong, which was at least twelve feet in diameter, immediately reminded me of those used in an Arthur Rank film production. One man struck the gong with a huge leather mallet. An altar was before it, which held a four-foot by one-foot cylindrical column of white marble jutting from an eye-shaped basin in the floor, an analogy for the penis and vagina union that signifies creation. This is the Shiva Lingham & Durga Yoni (Lingha--Yoni). Women took turns placing flower garlands around the white column and dousing them with water. The water that collected in the basin was then used as holy water.

Submitting to the intense power of the gong’s vibrations, I slipped into a trance that compelled me to join the repetitive bowing. No church service, new, or ancient, ever affected me as strongly as that one did. Now, I can still close my eyes and vividly recall scenes from that single service.

Afterwards, I walked to the temple garden where a dozen barefooted women, clad in national dress, had been dancing for hours on the hot stones. This modern Indian dance troupe performed a new style that emphasized physical technique over expressive storytelling. Although I was very impressed with what I saw and enjoyed watching it, I realized that maybe Parlic was right about my Indian dance aspirations. I stuck with ballet, but carried a love for Indian dance and did study some of the systems. However, had I dared to perform in public, I am certain that my audience would have spit on the ground and walked away.

As we were again an anomaly, audiences were curious and receptive. Our residency was successful, but Islamey was panned. Critics disliked our ballet pantomime, which was simplistic, unpolished, and unsophisticated compared to the Indian standard. Consequently the movement in Islamey looked very contrived. I suspected they misunderstood that we were executing choreographed movement, which restricted our self-expression. I was just happy that they did not throw tomatoes or spit on the stage.

Bombay had a red light “chawl” district, frequented by sailors who docked in the bay. It held a curiosity for tourists too. Our hosts arranged a limousine tour for us. Here, groups of men sat around makeshift bonfires, cleaning each other’s ears, grooming nails, and administering massages. These men were pimps. We kept the car windows closed to prevent them from aggressively soliciting their women to us. We stopped in front of a guarded bungalow and were allowed to enter. The interior was divided with curtains. Each room was occupied by a woman, seated on an ottoman, fully clothed, surprisingly unattractive, and certainly not clean. And I thought, “You couldn’t pay me enough to even consider using their services!” They reminded me of monkeys in the zoo and indeed “chawl” refers to a cage for prostitutes. It was a most unusual sight for us.

India was wonderful and terrible. I loved the country. I despised both the child mutilation and the begging. Small children relentlessly pestered us in the mornings when we left the hotel. I was accustomed to filling my pockets with small change and allowing the urchins to follow me for a short distance before I tossed the coins behind me. As they collectively scrambled, I made my escape.

On another occasion, Mary, Stefan, and I were strolling in the enjoyable mid-February warmth. Suddenly a youth approached. He beckoned us with pantomime gestures, repeatedly pointing from his hand to his mouth--an obvious plea for a handout. With little choice, we reached into our pockets for something to give him. We pulled out a few paises (which, by the way, are now obsolete) and placed them in his palm. He promptly bit on a coin, threw it to the ground, and launched into a raging, screaming fit. Jumping up and down on top of it, he yelled at us, “Rupees! Rupees!” We were dumbfounded that a presumed mute was perfectly capable of a verbal outburst. Consequently, we decided against giving this ingrate anything. We walked away.

Once I was taken for a fool, and fooled I was. It was typical for merchants in the marketplace to aggressively peddle their wares. A man selling “gold” rings accosted me from behind--nudging my arm until I acknowledged him. He pushed one of his rings in front of my face, nearly hitting me in the nose, calling, “Twenty dollar! Only twenty dollar!” He did not spark my interest in the least. I simply refused. He immediately changed his price. “Ten dollar! Ten dollar!” Still, I tried to tell him “no.” At which point the ring became “Five dollar!” Reduced to two dollars, I mulled it over, “well, maybe.” The stone was a fake diamond, but the stamp inside indicated that the band was eighteen carat gold. Perhaps it was hot merchandize and he was eager to get rid of it. It happened that the ring fit my ring finger perfectly. “What the heck,” I thought, handing over two dollars, with smug pride that I was getting such a bargain. The disappointment hit me in the hotel. The minute I entered the lobby to take my key, the desk clerk started laughing aloud at the sight of my ring. He said, “They got you!”

He told me it was nothing but brass, and that it would turn green in no time--which is exactly what happened. I learned my lesson and refrained from buying anything else during the remainder of the tour.

A visa processing error inadvertently shipped half of our company to Israel, while the other half (including me) flew to Egypt. Political tension between these countries compounded the mistake, as commercial flight was impossible between the two countries. Reuniting in either Israel or Egypt was not an option. With a company divided, we could not perform. Consequently, we were stranded at the Cairo airport until Anna Galina ordered us to reconvene in Greece, the next stop on our itinerary. We fast-forwarded to Greece, where we spent an unscheduled two week vacation.

The month was February, and spring was budding over the blue sea and skies of sunlit Greece. The bright atmosphere reminded me of Italy, as did the temperament of the people, which was also similar to those in Spain. The food was familiar too, as much of it was available in Yugoslavia. We stuffed ourselves with baklava, souvlakia, and Turkish coffee. I felt at home.

During free days, we visited the Parthenon. I photographed the Acropolis and snapped a wonderful picture of Mary standing in the same spot where Isadora Duncan had posed. All those exquisite statues, the classic Greek architecture, and the ruins were powerful inspirations. The impact of that aesthetic is difficult to describe. Even the partially destroyed and yet elegant statue of Homer evoked feelings of harmony. At last, I understood what Isadora Duncan meant when she described the creative energy she drew from such an abundance of inspiration. Without a doubt, the Greeks had an uncanny eye for human movement, and the skills for capturing it in sculpture and in architecture. Stirred by it all, I stripped down to my underwear, despite the late winter chill and posed as one of the early Greeks may have appeared--in summer. These are some of my best photos, although they are in black and white.

Our performances went very well, especially since we were well-rested and our spirits were high. During these concerts, our troupe finally achieved artistic consistency, as our movements were more articulate and precise, refined after many performances. This was a fitting conclusion to our long Middle and Far East tours.

It was odd to soar over Yugoslavia en route to Paris. Only a few years had passed since my indefinite departure. I had matured and gained experience in life and art, especially on this last tour. I now regarded the world and its inhabitants differently. I had seen various customs, encountered different temperaments and ideologies, and tasted unfamiliar food. I had become a citizen of the world.

After recovering from jetlag, I focused on landing a new gig--as I disliked unemployment. Since my technique needed some perfecting too, I returned to Preobrajenska’s classes, while studying in the evenings with Serge Peretti at Studio Constaunce. For me, ballet technique came easily. I achieved whatever I wanted--with practice. Mine was a strong technique and I was especially good at entrechats. My jumps were very high. In my schooldays, I impressed people with my aerials. However, my turns were less prodigious, which was why I eagerly took classes from Mme. Preobrajenska, who produced so many good turners. Perhaps I was not as bad as I thought, but I was always surrounded by men who could breeze through ten pirouettes. Consequently, my six to eight revolutions seemed to me, a weakness. I was not fanatically competitive--I danced for the pleasure of the craft and enjoyed doing it.

I liked Peretti’s classes. The barre was set, though he changed parts of it--like a battement tendu or rond de jambe combination. And yet, his class was never routine. On non-performance days, it was the perfect place to expend the last drop of leftover energy. During barre, Peretti would approach each dancer, share a joke, offer a reassuring pat, or give a correction. We were comfortable with his encouragement and remarks. He cheered, he nudged, he pushed us hoping to prompt us to jump higher and repeat movements longer--for example to survive thirty-two entrechat sixes or to squeeze out as many pirouettes as possible. While our jumps achieved extraordinary heights, the process was physically stressful--our tendons became sore, our calves cramped, our ligaments pulled. A dancer must be very sparing with his energy; otherwise those great bursts of competitive spirit and adrenaline can be more damaging than useful.

Peretti’s classes attracted Paris Opéra Ballet stars and members of Marquis George de Cuevas’ troupe, who were seeking extra training to improve their techniques. Regulars included Roland Petit, Renée (Zizi) Jeanmaire, Jean-Paul Andréani, and Michelle Renault. It was a competitive class, among dancers, stars, and emerging artists, such as Gilbert Mayer and my friend Jean-Pierre Bonnefous, who introduced me to the nightclub scene.

Back then, all the fashionable and important people frequented members-only, BYOB night spots. One of these open-all-night clubs was St. Hilare, where Bonnefous had gained access through his friendship with singer Jhonny Holliday. We gathered there often. One New Year’s Eve, we spied opera diva Maria Callas in the club with her boyfriend Aristotle Onassis. I had no clue about who he was, though everyone else was impressed. The revelers were dancing the popular social dances of the day--the Bump and the Raspa, a jumping, hand clapping dance. The band broke into Gopak, a Ukrainian folk dance, but no one got up. So, Ismet Mouhedin nudged me, “Hey, why don’t we do a little of it?” Within minutes, the whole club had become our audience and they were clapping to the music. Onassis rose from his seat to applaud us. And after our impromptu show, a bottle of Johnny Walker arrived at our table, courtesy of Mr. Onassis.

As I recall, Peretti taught in a medium-sized studio, which had a wooden staircase in it, going up to somewhere. I remember that the very petite Zizi usually stood near me, at the barre beneath that staircase. She often asked boys to stretch her arabesque, as she enjoyed a good stretch. (I never understood if it was a necessity, as she already had a high arabesque, or if it gave her pleasure and prestige to be stretched by all the boys in class.) She always complained about something. I found her vocabulary a little bit shocking, unexpected for a superstar, but appropriate for a truck driver. I will never forget how she used to sit in a wide second position with her hands on her knees, fiercely criticizing the events of the day. She could also be very cynical, not malicious though. She was quite a contrast to her husband, but both were colorful characters.

Roland was a friendly chap, with a penchant for clean, white socks. He was intelligent, but very much the aristocratic French snob, while Maurice Béjart was more intellectual. Roland could also be a pain in the butt--I took class with him daily for years and assumed that he was familiar with my technique. What irritated me was that each time he held an audition; I was forced to endure the general cattle call. Perhaps this was why I never worked for his company.

Finally, I confronted him, “Why the hell do you need an audition? You know me.” He replied that he needed to compare the dancers he knew with those he did not. He always had an answer. His other audition trick was to request dancers to waltz. Those who fumbled this simple social dance--even if they could whip off ten pirouettes or soar upwards doing entrechat huit--were automatically eliminated.

He did invite me to dance in one of his films--Black Tights (1960). At the time, he was also filming Carmen and needed more dancers. I was torn between participating in the film and joining Theatre d’Art du Ballet’s Far East tour. In Paris, film offers were more abundant than opportunities to travel extensively in the Far East. I went on tour.

Roland was pissed by my refusal. Why anyone would turn down his offer was beyond his comprehension. I thought to myself, “Well, too bad for you, as you always ask me to come to auditions. How come this time, you want to take me without one?”

Aside from his peculiarities, he was a nice guy and indeed, one of France’s top chorographers. He was also well-known in the U.S. and during Ballets de Paris de Roland Petit’s 1954 tour, he introduced film star Leslie Caron to New York audiences.

I especially enjoyed Petit’s Cyrano de Bergerac, Notre Dame-de-Paris, and certainly his creation with Jean Babilée, Le Jeune Homme et la Mort, (the role which was later danced by Mikhail Baryshnikov).

While I had many teachers in Paris, my favorite was Victor Gsovsky, who took over Mme. Rousanne’s studio immediately after her death in 1958. Now, when I think about that time, a vivid picture of Rousanne comes to mind. She was small and thin with coal black hair and black eyes. She chanted corrections in a husky voice--the result of a heavy cigarette habit, offering corrections not necessarily directed towards anyone in particular. She talked through the combinations or adagio, barely rising from her chair, and somehow anticipated their outcome. Her barre never varied, but the center combinations and adagio changed. She disliked repeating information, so it was the dancer’s responsibility to fill in the blanks if he did not understand her. With stars like Babilée, Chauviré, Verdy, and Béjart in class, the focus was on what they did and no one complained if they improvised. Madame knew the stars were her drawing card and never corrected them, but rather mumbled--Trés bien, through her teeth. The importance was that they curtsied or kissed her and that they paid before they left.

Although Gsovsky’s personality and teaching approach were different from hers, most of her students remained with him, though some of the lower level students were incapable of meeting the demands of his adagios and variations. He did not rely on a pre-set barre and gave beautifully choreographed adagios in the center. His allegro combinations were dancey and filled with many jumps. His class was not difficult, but it was mentally challenging. I took it whenever I could. I also enjoyed conversing with him afterwards in Mr. Hugo’s coffee shop. Gsovsky had a personality similar to Edward Caton’s--he made one feel comfortable and friendly. I always felt important when I was with him, because he regarded me as important. It is nice to socialize with your teachers. There is always plenty to talk about--dance, performances, class, and your progress, which also counts as personal attention. This was the advantage of taking classes at Studio Wacker, as it facilitated interaction between the teachers and their students.

Yvette Chauviré was among Gsovsky’s admirers. Taking his classes also afforded me with an opportunity to meet and talk with her and other ballerinas. I can remember for instance when Chauviré danced at the Bolshoi Theatre in Russia. After her return, she described how it was in Russia. She had been very successful and we wondered what she had done that made the Russians like her so much. She explained that she had danced in her own style, with her mannerisms, and her interpretation of the music. The Russian ballerinas found that to be very refreshing, intriguing, and different.

On the job front, I rejoined Irina Grjebina’s troupe, which performed at summer festivals and in various French cities. I also began auditioning for different gigs, as I assumed that Galina’s Theatre d’Art du Ballet might go on summer hiatus. Among the more interesting opportunities was a spot in the touring company helmed by ballerina Ludmila Tcherina. She happened to favor my friend Stevan Grebeldinger as a partner. Stevan, whom she had re-christened “Stevan Grebel”, was a very good partner. A good partner, by definition is one who senses how to keep the ballerina balanced and has good lifting power. Stevan was also very reliable and had attained a high level of technique. Tcherina was not the easiest person to lift, but Stevan easily accomplished what her other partners could not. For men in dance, partnering skills are handy and worthwhile. If you can catch a great ballerina or “if she catches you,” it can change your future.

Ludmila was the daughter of a Russian immigrant. Educated in France, she had fair technique and was aware of her strengths and weaknesses. Her career in film (which included The Red Shoes with Massine and the Tales of Hoffmann) carried through to the stage and set her apart from the average ballerina. She was beautiful and played the movie star role well--down to the make-up and black wig. (She had a soldier’s crew cut, but always wore a black wig.)

I knew of Tcherina from films and since Stevan was her partner, I was comfortable with joining her group. Also on the roster were Milko Sparemblek and Vassili Sulich. Milenko Banovitch and I joined simultaneously--without an audition. As I was taking class with Paul Goubé, Tcherina’s ballet master, who knew my capabilities, my audition was very informal.

My artistic goals had shifted. I was phasing out my association with Galina’s company. Mary remained with it, while I took a leave of absence. The news that I had joined Tcherina’s troupe spread quickly through Paris’ dance community. I worked hard in Peretti’s class to improve my technique. Two months before our tour of Spain, I began rehearsals with Goubé and Sparemblek. Milko was rehearsing Triunfo De Corazones, and Goubé was rehearsing Les Sylphides plus one of his ballets. As the company lacked men, rehearsals were quite demanding.

During week number two, I tried to showoff with a double tour to one leg. I fell out of it, rolled over on my ankle, hitting the floor with my metatarsal. I fractured three bones. That was the end of my rehearsals. My doctors offered a choice--six weeks in a cast, plus physical therapy or forego the cast and submit to morning and afternoon treatments to electrolyze the injury, create a calcium deposit, and accelerate healing. This process could heal bones in three weeks instead of six.

I had to see Spain. I just had to. At the time, Spain under Franco had no diplomatic relations with Yugoslavia, as I was a Yugoslav--under other circumstances--I would be denied entry into the country. Fortunately, Tcherina was well-known and extremely popular in Spain. As a special favor, the Spanish ambassador issued special visas for the Yugoslavs in her troupe.

I opted for the treatments and the twice daily taxi rides to get them. I became preoccupied with my injury and obsessed with the healing process. Three and a half weeks later, I was back in rehearsals, carefully treading on my foot, which hurt very badly. I ignored the pain and whenever anybody asked how I was, I just answered, “fine, fine,” with a soft smile.

Our first stop was San Sebàstian, a small, French-influenced city on the Bay of Biscay. Here the water was quieter than on the open sea. The city was similar to Bilbao or Vigo. It seemed that all the cities--expect for Madrid, Seville, and Cordoba--were on the seashore. We were going as far as Cadiz, which is just beside Gibraltar and sits on the Atlantic Ocean. The other side of Spain--including Malaga, Alicante, Valencia, and Barcelona--was situated on the Mediterranean.

None of us spoke Spanish, but we managed to communicate with the San Sebàstian natives, the shopkeepers, and bar maids via a mixture of French and Italian. We picked up a few useful words--fast, rapido and one beer, uno cervesa pour favour and thank you, Gracias.

The Spaniards rose early, while temperatures were still mild. As the sun peaked, everyone napped, for the obligatory midday siesta. Life resumed after five. The curtain rose at 11:00 p.m. and fell at 2:00 a.m. Nightlife, which began at 10:00 p.m. ended at 4:00 a.m. It seemed as if people never slept, slept in increments, or were always sleeping.

The living was cheap, as the franc was stronger than the peseta. I purchased a leather jacket for myself at one-third the price I would have paid in France. The food was very good but we had a big problem. Within several weeks, everyone was sick--some sooner, some later. A few of us formally turned yellow from the food. Consequently, we toted digestive syrups and tablets to the restaurants. Nobody was spared.

We performed in bullfighting arenas, where a forty-foot by forty-foot stage was erected in the middle of the space, with the audience watching from all sides. Because ballet is constructed on the principles of épaulement within a proscenium space, only a minority of an audience-in-the-round has an esthetically correct view.

The Corridas were held late in the afternoon. After the event, the crowd carried the victors on their shoulders--and Tcherina as well! The ballerina, famous from films she had made in Spain, was quite the celebrity. Initially, we found it strange--even shocking--to see her honored this way. Later, we found it to be charming. In all, I enjoyed Spain--except for one misadventure that occurred in San Sebàstian.

The curtain fell at 2:00 a.m. I was on a performer’s high and not sleepy. As the arena lacked showering facilities, a group of us decided to hit the beach. At 3:00 a.m., the night was still warm, we were euphoric, and the sea seemed inviting. We dove in. We emerged from our swim, about fifteen minutes later, salty but refreshed. Suddenly, a policeman appeared. He grabbed me. I could not understand his fast and excited barrage. I was laughing--the giggling dummy. He did not take it kindly and gestured that I should follow him. I called to my companions, “Well, I don’t know what’s going on, but you will have to tell Tcherina to find me in the prison if she wants me to dance in the evening.” As dancers are generally yellow chickens, nobody offered to accompany me. They promised to inform our manager about the mishap. Off to jail I went, with a policeman who was barking at me in a language I did not comprehend. At the station, he put me in a cell, locked the door, and disappeared. I was upset, especially since I had no embassy to defend me. I did not want to reveal my nationality. My passport was of course, in the hotel. I had no papers with me.

Over and over I repeated, “Ballet Tcherina, Ballet Tcherina,” but that failed to impress him. Seemingly, he did not like ballet. I sat in the cage for several hours. At seven o’clock, he fetched me and brought me before his superior, who had just arrived on duty. In French, this official explained that swimming in the nude was prohibited on the beaches. From my SAS flight bag, I pulled out my swimming suit, still dripping wet. I explained to him that we were not skinny dipping and as performers with Ballet Tcherina, we did not know that swimming at night was prohibited.

The captain yelled at his constable in Spanish, apologized to me, and said, “No nude swimming,” and let me go. I was back on the street by 8:00 a.m., unsure of my location or the hotel’s. I only knew that rehearsal began at ten in the arena. There was no time to sleep. I needed to find the arena.

“Corrida?” I asked as people directed me towards the arena. I walked slowly, looking for an eatery to buy coffee and a sandwich. I stopped at a shop selling deep fried shrimp in a basket. After my breakfast of shrimp, bread, and coffee, I still had time to spare before rehearsal. I arrived at rehearsal in my street clothes, as I had no rehearsal gear with me. Goubé nudged me--asking about the girl that I spent the night with. My accomplices from the early morning swim burst out laughing. I had to confess. The story amused everyone--except me.

The rehearsal, beneath the beating sun, was really painful. We dripped puddles of sweat. I was ready for my siesta long before it was time.

From San Sebàstian, we traveled to Vigo, a pleasant town near the Portuguese border. Here, we had few rehearsals and more time to browse the shops. Madrid, which was similar to Brussels, was our next stop. I particularly enjoyed visiting the Prado Museum, which houses most of Francisco Goya’s paintings noted for their images of horror and suffering. I could almost hear the cries of the people emanating from the silent canvases. My opinion of Spanish painters was directly influenced by the museum’s collection, as it exhibited different periods of Goya’s paintings, plus a rich representation of works by El Greco, Pablo Picasso, and Diego Velàzquez.

Seville impressed me with its many white houses, black forged doors, and fences. Santa Cruz was a fairy tale wonderland. There were benches, trees, and fragrant roses. One clear, mild night, as I sat on a bench, the moon was shining brightly overhead; I realized that the world possesses so many beautiful spots. When you are fortunate to visit these enchanting places, the memory of them stays with you forever.

In the southern city of Cadiz, I overindulged in my pleasure for paella and Tia-Maria, a pink sweet operative wine, almost like liquor, but a little bit thinner. It reminded me of Tokai, golden Hungarian wine. Paella, a sensational national dish is made from rice, seafood, and chicken. Slowly prepared, it cooks in a pan with a one-foot diameter and a three-inch border. Emerging from the oven, it resembles a pizza minus the dough. As I love it, I was packing it in, when my stomach rebelled. I got extremely sick. Well, after all, I heroically survived in five other cities before it caught up with me.

We traveled to Algeciras, on the border of British-controlled Gibraltar, but could not enter. During the Second World War, possession of Gibraltar had been crucial to the War’s outcome, as it provided access between the Atlantic Ocean and the Mediterranean Sea. The severe concrete and steel framed walls that formed the channel between the two bodies of water created scary imagery. It resembled a large whale with a gaping jaw, ready to devour the passing boats.

In Malaga, where even with a sea breeze it was quite hot, I saw my first bullfight. The bull ran into the arena, steaming and puffing like a train engine. Then, two to four horsemen--picadors--entered. Armed with long lances, these men prodded the animal. When the agitated bull was near frenzy, the picadors exited. The matador, with his red cape and sword, made his grand entrance, bowing and dancing for the audience. Positioned in front of the bull (Toro) he permitted it to charge at him, as he masterfully swung his cape and sidestepped the rushing beast. With each maneuver, the public roared with exclamations and bravos. The matador projected an air of superiority. He aimed and embedded lances with spearheads in the bull’s neck, drawing first blood. With three or four lances stuck in his neck, the animal was bleeding profusely and was extremely agitated. Tension rose in the audience, as the spectators jumped to their feet yelling. Finally, the matador ran his sword into the bull’s neck, as the animal collapsed.

It was a very gruesome, cruel, and shocking exhibition, which reminded me of the gladiators depicted in films. However, the celluloid did not affect me the way that this bloody spectacle did. The event continued with comic relief--some clowns chasing smaller bulls. Round two followed. The process was somewhat similar, only this matador was less lucky. A bull caught him suddenly. The picadors dashed in to protect him and carry him from the ring. Fortunately, he was not fatally wounded. At the end of the Corrida, the matadors were carried on the shoulders of their admirers.

From Malaga, we traveled to Granada, which was under North African influence. Here, the castles, fountains, and garden pools were Arabic in style. I remember thinking that these are the perfect sets for the ballet Fountain of Bakhchisari (1934). I was also impressed with Alhambra, a castle evocative of the Middle Ages.

With several weeks behind us, and mid-summer approaching, the heat grew unbearable. We were fried and dehydrated. At least my Spanish was improving and I was able to converse with the locals.

I admire Spanish dance--Flamenco and folk forms. In Madrid, we were invited to the nightclub-restaurant where Antonio Ruiz Soler’s group danced every evening. He was not tall, but possessed a great stage presence and electrified audiences with his footwork and solo showcases. That evening, they danced for us, making every attempt to impress us--which they did very well. We were very proud. As their performance customarily ended with mutual applause, we applauded each other.

Valencia followed Granada, with the tour wrapping up in Barcelona. By that time we were ready for a break and to return home.

Chapter Five: Dancing for the Camera

In 1959 there was only one television channel in all of Paris. A sister station--Channel 2--went on the air the following year. As TV was new, it afforded many creative projects. Here, I worked mostly with choreographer Jean Guelis, a former member of Massine’s company, who had especially won acclaim in America. He had been a facile turner--easily whipping out ten pirouettes--and had an excellent jump. He was not handsome, but compensated for it with a sympathetic and easy-going nature.

We did many shows together. He engaged performers on a per project basis and initially, hired me as a dancer. Later I became his assistant and friend. I reminded him of Massine’s dancers and he constantly teased me into speaking with a thick Russian accent, which he imitated. Like me, he was also a Sagittarian. We liked the same things, preferred the same type of dancers, and often thought alike. He created choreography rapidly; it was comfortable enough, as his movement style was influenced by Massine’s, but I was not inspired by it. I regarded him as a brother, not as a boss.

Actually, I shared a brief gig with Jean immediately after I first arrived in Paris. It was in a movie house. We performed a take-off on the cartoon Popeye the Sailor prior to the film and were onstage four or five times daily similar to the Radio City Music Hall format. The screen was enormous and the stage, rather endless. Guelis played Popeye, the sailor. I was one his sailor buddies.

In this classic Popeye yarn, Brutus kidnapped Olive Oyl. Popeye gulped his spinach, shared with two sailor cohorts and we chased Brutus to rescue Olive. The bit was not art, but it was amusing and it served as a basis for our friendship.

Following my tour with Ludmila Tcherina, Jean, who was working in television, invited me to join him. We did a series called “A La Fete Aux Buttes” and also “Music Hall Parade.” When he was hired to choreograph for the murder-suspense film Le Plein Soleil, directed by René Clement, he brought me into the project.

In my first acting role, I was typecast as a dancer. Here, the character was so obsessed with his art that he was oblivious to the intrigue surrounding him. His self-absorption served as a counterpoint to the underlying tension.

Among my cast mates were Alain Delon, Marie Laforet, Maurice Ronet, and Elvire Popesco, who played my mother. Marie and Alain were neophytes, but he became famous and enjoyed a long career that included mature roles. His then girlfriend was well-known actress Romy Schnieder (and, as I recall, they were always fighting). At the time, she appeared in cameo roles, just for fun. Many great actors were taking parts as extras, a fad created by Alfred Hitchcock, which may underscore that there are no small roles, there are only small people.

It was very glamorous to work with these actors. We filmed in Rome and I remember shooting a scene in a posh hotel lobby. I never forgot the gold trims, tapestries, and textile wallpaper. In this ornate venue, which represented a studio, three couples--an ensemble of local dancers and me--simultaneously performed a pas de deux. This scene represented an adagio class and served as a sidebar to the suspense.

Elvire’s character was a ballet teacher, who essentially dragged me around through the proceedings. My lines were so minimal, that it was practically a mime role. When I saw the film, my character almost seemed mute and yet that silence was befitting to the plot.

Brothers Robert and Raymond Hakim of Paris London Film were the producers. They insisted that I had artistic potential and promised to develop my cinematic career. Actually, they wanted to downsize my salary by luring me with a prospective film career. I disliked memorizing lines. Talking is much more difficult than dancing. As dance contracts were plentiful, nothing serious developed from my foray into films, though I appeared in an enormous number of television shows and other films. These were always connected with dance--or I portrayed a Russian spy.

Between shoots, we visited old Roman ruins and museums, plus observed people circulating on Via Venuto. This time, I was living in luxury, as we were lodged in a grand hotel in Via Venuto, quite a contrast to the moderately cheap accommodations booked by ballet companies that would keep within our per diem. I purchased a sweater from an exclusive knit shop in Rome. It was really a fabulous garment. I wore it proudly, to remind myself of my film career. By the time of the movie’s premiere, I was in Paris again. A number of the dancers I knew there were jealous of me and teased, “Here comes the film star.”

Following Le Plein Soleil, I signed on with Irina Grjebina for a tour of small French towns. In Paris, Mary and I did a few short films and a television series called “Café Concert” with Jean Guelis.

Mary and I were involved with Ludmila Tcherina’s famous film Les Amants De Teruel (1959), directed by Raymond Rouleau. Initially, Ludmila hired Dimitri Parlic as choreographer, but disliked the results. Milko Sparemblek re-choreographed it in his modern style, plus played the villain--a jealous circus ringmaster. Milko’s interpretation of modern ballet was somewhat a field from the modern dance of that era. His vocabulary was midway between Maurice Béjart’s and Léonide Massine’s, though he did not like Massine’s work.

This film was extraordinary. We were often painted from nose to heels and wore masks so that it was difficult to recognize us. We were faceless, but the pay was great.

Here, I danced with Maina Gielgud, niece of the famous British actor Sir John Gielgud. Prior to this film, she worked for Roland Petit and subsequently joined the Marquis de Cuevas’ company. I never would have guessed that she would become a well-known ballerina with London Festival Ballet or Maurice Béjart’s Ballet of the Twentieth Century. Much, much later, after my tenure with Pittsburgh Ballet Theatre, I applied for the directorship of the Australian Ballet--not knowing that she was a candidate. I suspect her pedigree gave her an edge.

Many of my other colleagues in the film, later worked with me in Balletto Europeo di Nervi, which was Léonide Massine’s last grandiose adventure.

Chapter Six: Massine’s Last Grandiose Adventure

After Tcherina’s film, I planned to take a short vacation. However, I received a call from Studio Wacker--Massine wanted me. He needed dancers for his newly formed company--Balletto Europeo di Nervi--based in Nervi, Italy. Mary and I accepted the offer, even with minimal pay. As it was already late spring, we envisioned days on the beach with moderate rehearsals. We were really mistaken. This was one of the most exhausting summers of my entire dance career.

Nervi, a summer resort, is located just beside Genoa. We leased a nice apartment, with a bedroom, living room, and bath in a pensione (a room and board facility). The rooms were pleasant, like a little apartment. We took our meals downstairs in the lounge.

Our schedule was set--class in the morning, a break for lunch, afternoon rehearsals, a dinner break, and evening rehearsals, as needed. Free evenings were the only downtime we had.

Headquarters were in a school, which had a park, where an unusually huge stage had been erected. Generally, theater stages are between thirty-six feet and fifty-six feet wide and maybe seventy feet deep. This one was enormous--180-feet wide and 180-feet deep (approximately sixty yards by sixty yards). This facility seated at least thirty-five hundred to four thousand spectators, plus offered standing room. A string of Cyprus trees, which hid the railroad tracks, served as a backdrop, but not as a sound barrier. Passing trains distracted from our shows. Raised barracks resembling low barns housed the costume and prop shops and gave the semblance of a cinema studio workshop.

The best seamstresses from Paris and Italy were on staff to construct approximately 380 costumes for La Commedia Umana, De Cameron stories by G. Boccaccio. This was a gigantic, three-act production designed by Alfred Manessier, whose décor included castles, horses, and towers wheeled on the stage. We joked that this ballet was Massine’s Trojan horse. It unfolded as ten different stories, from Prologue to Andreuccio, Ginevra, Amore E Morte, Nastagio, Peronella, Elena, Calandrino, and Griselda to a score of fourteenth century music, adapted by Claude Arrieu.

I was cast as Mort. My costume included a skull, that was mounted atop a stick that I held in my hand, which made me appear to be twelve feet tall. It was very impressive. However, my mobility was limited--I had the skull in one hand and a sickle in the other. I merely hovered above the plague victims--writhing dancers, who rolled on the floor.

In Ginevra, I danced Il Saladino, and partnered Duska Sifnios, Belgrade’s prima ballerina who--along with Carla Fracci and Tatiana Massine--was among my favorite partners. This parodied an Arabian Shah. The burlap costumes were painted at performance time. Consequently, they were a little bit stiff and hard to dance in. It created a different look from anything expected in ballet.

Umana was a vehicle for its leading dancers, including Leon Woizikovsky. He was, at the time, probably one of the oldest then living members of the Diaghilev Ballet. He had replaced Massine in the Diaghilev troupe. Retrospectively, I realize that I had the opportunity to share the stage with one of Diaghilev’s leading dancers.

Massine’s roster was pretty spectacular. Among the stars were Carla Fracci, Tatiana Massine (the choreographer’s daughter), Nicole Nogaret, Adolfo Andrade, René Bon, Ivan Dragadze, Alfredo Koellner, Vassili Sulich, Vjera Markovic, Yvonne Meyer, Duska Sifnios, Paolo Bortoluzzi, Harry Haythorne, Léonide Massine Jr., Enrico Sportiello, Woizikovsky, and Milorad Miskovitch. There were also fifteen soloists and twenty-four corps de ballet dancers.

I was hired for the corps de ballet because the soloist positions were filled. I had to explain this discrepancy to company manager Vladimir Augenblick, (who incidentally was related to designer Jean Cocteau). Although I was by contract a corps member, I was consistently cast in soloist roles and therefore appeared to meteorically rise from the ensemble to a leading dancer. I was extremely proud to share the bill with Bon, my friend from Janine Charrat‘s company, who initially invited me to come to France; Fracci, then the leading dancer at La Scala; Miskovitch, my mentor in the Janine Charrat Company; Woizikovsky, who with Tatiana Leskova, represented the past; and the future Italian superstar, Paolo Bortoluzzi.

In the mid-seventies, I hoped to produce Umana for Pittsburgh Ballet Theatre. The ballet was spectacular and Pittsburgh audiences responded to full length story ballets, but unfortunately my plans collapsed.

That summer, we repeated Le Beau Danube and I learned Choréartium (1933), an old ballet which was mounted by Tatiana Leskova, who knew it well. This was a symphonic ballet in four parts with costumes designed by Constantine Terechkovich and a décor by Andre Beaurepaire. The second movement, which projected a sentimental mood, was performed exclusively by the female ensemble. The women circled the stage in a snake-like pattern that reconfigured as a semi-circle, a circle, and a diagonal line.

Michel Fokine’s version of Schéhérazade, with its Rimsky-Korsakov score and Leon Bakst costume design was also revived. I was cast as both the Shah and his brother, roles I shared with Vassili Sulich. Tatiana Massine was Zobeide, and Leon Woizikovsky, who alternated with Enrico Cecchetti in the original version, danced the Eunuch--this time alternating with Enrico Sportiello. The Slave was danced by Gerard Ohn, a tall, athletic man, who did the role very well. In my opinion, Fokine’s version was more subdued and less bloodthirsty than Marina Olenjina’s, which I performed during my student days in Novi Sad.

Massine’s comic Bal des Voleurs (The Ball of Thieves), which had scenery similar to Beau Danube’s was also in production. The libretto was written by Jean Anouilh with music by Georges Auric, who was then the director of the Paris Opéra. I was cast as Lord Edgard, and danced with Carla Fracci, Vjera Markovic, and Yvonne Meyer, while the thieves were portrayed by Harry Haythorne, and Ivan Dragadze.

My role was technically and dramatically satisfying--I prefer ballets with some mime over those of pure dance. Because I had previous dramatic training, I enjoyed acting. It offered a way to comfortably express myself. And, it provided a release from the physical exhaustion incurred when executing a variation. That is the advantage of having pantomime in ballet. As a choreographer, I still prefer story ballets to pure demonstrations of virtuosity which for me are slightly inhuman, unemotional, and produce mechanical results.

While dancing in Bal, my double tours to the right became shaky, but my double tours to the left were perfectly clean. So, I transposed every time; instead of turning right, I turned left. I remain mystified about why this occurred. Now it seems so long ago. During the course of a career, you repeat the same ballets many times. Only the details from those career-building years linger because at that point in your development, you are fighting to improve; applying yourself fully to the role; doing the best of your ability; and proving your value as an artist. That was the time when it happened to me.

Carla was then still quite young, but because of her musicality, it was inspiring to dance with her. She took her job very seriously and adapted herself to her partner, which produced a synchronized partnership. Many years later when I saw her in Washington, we kidded about Juliet, (her role) in Bal des Voleurs. I remember her words, “You know Nicolas, somehow when you get older it is more and more difficult to dance. I always had the impression that as you get older that everything will become easier, but it seems that’s not true.”

Of all the ballets we presented, the most important to me was Il Barbiere di Siviglia (Barber of Seville), which utilized both the story and music of Gioacchino Rossini’s opera. I was reunited with cast mates from Janine Charrat’s company--René Bon, who danced Figaro and Tessa Beaumont, who was cast as Rosina. I also worked closely with Massine, who created the role of Don Basilio for Vassili Sulich and me to share. (As he was on tour with Milorad Miskovitch, the role, which incorporated mime and character dance, became exclusively mine.)

All roles were challenging and interesting because I approached them with full energy and attention. However, I enjoyed the firsthand creative process over learning existing repertoire, in which I felt less involved. Unfortunately, sixty percent of the ballets I performed were revivals and only about forty percent were original works. Working with the choreographer from the outset facilitates communication and the dancer receives that special something that occurs as the choreographer’s concept takes shape. Massine provided insight to movements and eliminated those that were meaningless. The result was that I could communicate through movement the same way that actors communicate with words. With Massine, Jean Guelis, Janine Charrat, and Maurice Béjart, it was an intellectual approach, which led to an emotional interpretation of the role.

In Barbiere di Siviglia, singers in the pit performed their roles, while onstage the dancers personified the roles of the singers. (As I recall, the singers were not pleased with this arrangement.) I studied Italian in order to grasp the lyrics. My character frequently interacted with Don Bartolo, danced by Enrico Sportiello, an Italian demi-character dancer with strong mime skills. We became close friends and often worked together, analyzing movements and developing expressive interpretations of our roles. As the pianist could not sing and play the piece or project the same mood as an orchestra, Sportiello and I worked--with recordings--to interpret the music.

I relished my role and this ballet, which closed our Nervi season. After months of rehearsing and performing, I was in peak condition. In the ballet, I danced a variation while my counterpart--the Don Basilio in the pit--simultaneously sang «la calunia» (“Rumors are starting like a little wind and it grows into a hurricane until finally, it sounds like shot from a cannon”). At the crescendo, I was to illustrate that “little wind escalating into a hurricane” via movement. The music was very loud and very high. With adrenaline surging, I jumped as high as possible soaring upwards, like the cannon ball mentioned in the lyrics. Applause burst from the audience and they cheered.

Following that opening night performance, Massine told Mary, “Mary, your husband is a great artist.”

I was truly surprised by this accolade from the maestro, as he rarely gave compliments and was very stingy with praise. Although indirectly delivered, it was the greatest compliment he bestowed on me. Maybe he felt more comfortable relating it to Mary. This role really justified my abrupt rise in the ranks. Afterwards, my peers regarded me as a leading dancer. I had hoped to revive this ballet in Pittsburgh and purchased it from Massine, but like Umana, the production never materialized.

As the Nervi festival was concluding, I met choreographer Ruth Page and critic Ann Barzel of the Chicago Tribune, both had come from Chicago to attend the event. I never read what Ann Barzel wrote about the festival, if she even wrote anything. I also met Clive Barnes, who was then writing for English newspapers. As I recall, his critique was mixed. However, the Italian critics really enjoyed the festival and highly praised it.

Maurice Béjart staged his Alta Tensione (Haut Voltage), as a vehicle for the still youthful Léonide (Lorca) Massine Jr. This ballet, which I performed with Janine Charrat’s company, was contemporary and typical of Béjart’s style. Jack Carter’s Senora de MaÑara, created as a showpiece for Milorad Miskovitch, was also on the program. It had a Tchaikovsky score and a libretto developed by Irene Lidova, patron, critic, and wife of photographer Serge Lido. As Milorad was her pet project, this ballet was designed by her to showcase his personality and character.

Massine owned a huge, chauffeur-driven green Chrysler, which looked so important and impressive. One day, Miskovitch appeared with an enormous black Ford coupe and allowed Stevan Grebel to drive. I was impressed with these huge American machines. I vowed to have one--someday. On break, Stevan and I cruised through Nervi’s neighborhoods and took a quick trip to Genoa, where we bought a zillion knit T-shirts, which were unobtainable in France.

I had few free days--or even hours--off. Occasionally, I caught a film in one of the two cinemas. I saw an Italian “Spaghetti Western,” with Clint Eastwood, an actor who would eventually become famous in the U.S. Films provided relaxation and honed my Italian language skills. When a guest choreographer arrived from London to stage a ballet in which I was not cast, I found myself with three days of leisure time. I sunbathed and went swimming in the sea, just like a typical tourist. I liked Nervi, with its park and festival ambiance. The presenter, Ariodante Borelli made our stay comfortable.

During our tenure in Nervi, my mother, whom I had not seen in six years, arrived for a two week visit. It is difficult to describe my relationship with my parents, as they were always removed from my schooling, performing, and career. I regularly corresponded with my father via postcards from exotic locales and major cities where I performed--I tended to showoff my fame. My mother attended my early performances in Novi Sad. As I recall, she missed my performances in Belgrade. This was the first time she had seen me perform as a professional leading dancer--how different from the typical American ballet moms. This was also the first time that she met my wife.

Both of my parents visited me in Paris the following year. My father, who spoke fluent French, enjoyed the visit as it fulfilled his youthful dreams. Mother, who preferred Italy and driving through the Swiss mountains, disliked Paris’ bustling atmosphere and the heavy traffic, which made her nervous and fearful of crossing the streets. They realized that I was in no hurry to return home, as I had promised when I departed.

While with us in Italy, Mom cooked our dinner and had it ready when we returned from rehearsals. After the festival concluded, she and Mary vacationed in Rome, while I, unfortunately, rushed to Paris to rejoin Irina Grjebina’s troupe. Mom was very religious. This was her opportunity to visit the Pope and the Vatican. I was relieved that Mom was no longer angry with me for deserting Yugoslavia.

The conversations between Mary and Mom must have hit a language barrier, as Mary did not speak Serbo-Croatian or Hungarian and Mom did not speak English. Together, they took a bunch of photos. Mom looked happy, so I assumed they had a nice time. However, when Mary rejoined me in Paris, she remarked, “Next time you take your mom on vacation.”

Grjebina’s troupe was off on an extensive early autumn tour to twenty locations that included outdoor arenas. During this blur of one-night stands, we arrived in town with only enough time to eat lunch, find a hotel, and take a brief siesta. After the curtain fell, we ate a quick dinner, perhaps napped, boarded the bus, and hit another town. We saw only the city’s main street, a few restaurants, and the hotel. Otherwise, we were too exhausted to enjoy the surroundings.

In unfamiliar cities, we piled into the most crowded restaurant. By rule of thumb, popularity indicated good food at fair prices. Once, I impatiently opted for a chic, but empty establishment. Service was excellent, the food was rather bad, and the price was almost double that of the other restaurant. That was my last independent experiment.

We performed at a horse race track where some youngsters were there feeding the animals. The children’s little faces lit-up when they saw us. “Here are the Cossacks!” they said. They insisted that we mount the horses and demonstrate how to ride in Cossack style. We were not horsemen, but the locals said that the animals were very tame. I mounted one that ignored my commands, as I probably held the reins incorrectly. As the horse galloped off, I lost the reins and grabbed his neck. The horse bolted for a grove, where tree branches nearly swept me off his back. I yelled, “Stop the horse!” I was in peril, but the locals rolled with laughter. I vowed never to mount a horse again. I was utterly humiliated by my ridiculous spectacle and my dance performance suffered. With my inspiration low, my dancing was quite mediocre.

After the tour, I returned to Paris and worked on the televisions shows “Rue de la Cle de Sol” and “Music Hall Parade” with Jean Guelis.

In September, Mary and I were off to Edinburgh, Scotland, home of the annual International Festival, where we performed with Massine’s ensemble. Edinburgh was artistically very active and had been since Diaghilev’s time. Richard (“Dicky”) Buckle was presenting a Diaghilev exposition. Buckle had thoroughly researched the Ballets Russes and had interviewed its London-based dancers, among them: Tamara Karsavina, Serge Grigoriev, Lubov Tchernicheva, Olga Spessivtseva, Marie Rambert, Ninette de Valois, and Lydia Sokolova. He also traveled to Paris to broaden his research, edited the memoirs of numerous celebrities, and wrote In the Wake of Diaghilev, an extensive study of Vaslav Nijinsky. I think Buckle did a fantastic job as a dance periodical editor, critic, and writer. He was one of the three important dance writers of his time, along with Arnold Haskell and Cyril Beaumont.

We performed at the Empire Theatre, offering a bill of Schéhérazade, Choréartium, Le Beau Danube, and La Commedia Umana.

I danced in Schéhérazade with Tatiana Massine, who had a soft spot for me. She was a little bit rebellious towards her father. The script required us to fake a kiss. I guess she wanted a realistic acting approach--she gave me such a passionate kiss that I got goose bumps. I was embarrassed, but Léonide, who was in the audience, did not react to this scene. He just shrugged it off but I am sure that he noted Tatiana’s enthusiasm. In life, we end up kissing a great number of people but only a few kisses linger in the memory forever.

By this time, I was quite friendly with Carla Fracci and she knew that I was fond of her sister Italia (Marga) Nativo. Marga was a very good-looking girl with piercing black eyes and an ever-present smile on her lips. I interpreted this as her affection for me--and we eyed each other for awhile. She was still quite young and I was married to Mary, so that was that.

Prima ballerina Katarina Kocka was still with the company. She was a native of Slovenia and had spent most of her career in Sarajevo. Although I facilitated several television gigs for her before she joined the Ballet Europeo de Nervi, she lacked the patience to pursue freelance opportunities in Paris and did not appreciate corps de ballet contacts. If I remember correctly, after touring Scotland she danced in several television shows and then returned home.

I remember little of Scotland, only that some of the people were heavily inclined towards booze. On Fridays, you could get drunk on the breath of the people riding the bus. The Scottish accent differs from the British. To my surprise, people asked if I was from America!

The performances were successful; the offstage time, uneventful, as the towns blurred together. In late September, we returned to Paris, with plans to film some of Massine’s older works in Germany. It was my job to sort out his music. I was becoming like an assistant to him and he depended more on me.

We arrived in Germany to film Massine’s Le Beau Danube and La Boutique Fantasque. The film studios, GaisellGastaig were quite new and comparable to Paris’ television studios and very well organized. They were located in a suburb of Munich and surrounded by a beautiful green pine forest. As it was already autumn, the evenings were a bit damp but still very refreshing. I had no time to tour Munich, as our filming schedule was tight. I remember the hotel was very clean and the food was rather good.

At 6:00 a.m., the chauffeur parked in front of our bed and breakfast. He always arrived precisely at six--not a minute later. It was quite difficult to rise so early in the morning and be ready for shooting. As I was cast as the Russian father in Boutique, I needed to apply extensive make-up--an hour-long process--to transform my appearance with a big beard and large belly. Le Beau Danube was easier, as I was only in the waltz, a corps de ballet part. I already knew my place and could dance it easily. Massine maintained the same casting policy used in Diaghilev’s company. All soloists and premiere dancers had to assume all parts, plus fill-in as needed. I did not mind because my hotel, including board, was paid, we were given per diem, and it was not a difficult assignment. At the time, the German mark was about four to one to the dollar and was already relatively strong and stable compared to the Eastern currencies.

Two decades after the war, Germany was still recouping from devastation, though there had been remarkable improvements since my previous visit. Most of the structures in Munich were rebuilt. Those with minor damaged had been refaced. The Westside of the famous wall had been renovated with new parks and trees. (I visited Berlin after the wall fell and even then, the Eastern part still looked damaged.) From Germany, we returned to Paris for about six weeks. There we resumed regular activities, classes, and television work, plus began rehearsals of Massine’s Laudes Evangelii, a ballet we had toured in Italy and would film in London.

Laudes Evangelii, formatted as a choreo-drama, traced the life of Christ from His birth to His death. Group scenes were transposed into dances, such as the dance of Barabbas, and the dance of the weeping women (after the crucifixion). In general, the dances captured the characters’ moods. The roles were very well chosen to illustrate the Biblical story. I was cast as Saint Joseph to Tatiana Massine’s Saint Mary.

In London, we rehearsed at the BBC studios which were more impressive than those at the French ORTF television station or at GaisellGastaig, the German film studio. The sets were excellently constructed and every detail was carefully planned--I even had a live donkey to act with. In the studio, work paused each afternoon at five. I was puzzled until one of the workers explained that in England that was teatime.

They printed little cards and programs--featuring Tatiana, the donkey, and me on the cover. These were for publicity purposes, but I never saw the show on European television. During my first Easter in America, Laudes Evangelii was broadcast by ABC and repeated annually for another four years, much like The Nutcracker at Christmas. The film is now in the archives of the New York Public Library’s dance collection.

As Laudes is very suitable for a church presentation, I wanted to restage it (with my choreography after Massine’s) in Pittsburgh and proposed this idea to Bishop John Wright. He expressed an interest in the project and envisioned the performance in St. Peter’s church in Pittsburgh, with an orchestra.

My next move was to approach the Pittsburgh Symphony’s director William Steinberg and manager Seymour Rosan. Rosan, a big guy, looked more like a horse trader than an artistic manager. I presented the concept to him. He regarded me suspiciously. His smile was tinged with irony. I later heard that he had remarked, “Who is this Petrov, with the guts to ask the Pittsburgh Symphony to accompany his choreography?” The project failed to materialize, but by Pittsburgh Ballet Theatre’s second season, the Pittsburgh Symphony Orchestra, under the baton of Dr. Michael Semanitzky was playing for my choreography--whether Rosan liked it or not. Needless to say, this guy and his wife never liked me and targeted me for slander. However, I did feel quite superior in the wake of his uninformed remark.

Whenever I could grab free time away from working on the BBC production of Laudes Evangelii, I took class with Kathleen Crofton, visited Mr. Beaumont, and spent time in Piccadilly Circus watching cartoons. London was much less vital than Paris, yet I preferred it to Brussels or Madrid. I regret that I did not forge acquaintances with former members of Diaghilev’s company, who were then still alive. Alas, I was much too involved with the future to be interested in the past. Now, I see so many opportunities lost. Then again, if one knew at twenty-five, what he knows at seventy, he would live a different life--the whole world would revolve on hindsight.

All the choreographers of the day had their own specialties, as did Jean Guelis. His was a contemporary form of ballet, influenced by jazz, but characterized by soft-shoe dancing, which followed in the wake of the tap era. France had only a few American jazz dance teachers offering classes in the Luigi or Matt Mattox systems. Valerie Camille taught a mixture of these two styles. George Reich taught mainly Luigi, while Gene Robinson offered a blend of Katherine Dunham and Luigi.

At the time, we were obsessed with jazz and all wanted to learn it. Initially, I was not aware of many individual styles. Now, it seems that every decade inspires a new form, style, or technique. Luigi’s style was the most comprehensive and systematized. When I met him in New York, he explained that while recuperating from a serious accident he had formulated his jazz system. Later, he published books and made recordings. His teachings attracted numerous disciples, who went on to forge their own systems derived from his.

Mme. Preobrajenska was aging. She was becoming forgetful and sometimes skipped exercises or scrambled their order at the barre or in center. When her veteran students were present, the classes were always more complete, as seeing certain faces jogged her memory.

Margot Fonteyn used to fly over from London to take class or to celebrate Madame’s birthday and would bring her a big bouquet of red roses. On one such occasion, Preobrajenska was sitting by the table in Studio Wacker’s lobby and Margot and I were sitting across from her on a bench. Suddenly Preobrajenska remarked, “Oh my, how fast the time is running. It seems like it was yesterday when I boarded the sled and took off from St. Petersburg to Finland.” She looked at me, pointed, and continued, “And he was a little guy and now look how big he is.” Margot and I exchanged a glance.

I never remember Preobrajenska missing a class or being sick, until she left this Earth in 1962. Sadly, she lived in a small apartment with a cat. Her glorious artistic life and teaching talent were all she had. She was buried in the Russian cemetery in Paris, where other famous and royal Russians were interred.

Dancers switched from Preobrajenska’s classes to those offered by Lubov Nikolaevna Egorova, in her apartment/studio on rue Chaptal, a nice space with a well-to-do ambiance--superior to Studio Wacker’s. Both Egorova and Preobrajenska had studied from the same teachers--Nicholas Legat, Paul Gerdt, and Christian Johansson--and their classes were similar. However, Egorova liked to choreograph one hundred and twenty measure adagios--which I found endless. Learning one of her adagios was like memorizing a whole ballet. These were lovely compositions, but one had to attend every class. Otherwise, a big chunk would be missing. I wondered if she did this deliberately to force students to attend daily or if it was just her style. She was a very nice lady, already in her mid-seventies, already corpulent, but still very elegant.

All Old Russian ballerinas moved and looked the same. They had some distinguished superiority, compared to the average woman. As for Egorova, she was indeed a princess, on and offstage--a princess by marriage to Prince N.S. Nikita Troubetzkoy, whom I never met.

Paris and London were Meccas for dance celebrities, former members of the Maryinsky Theatre, and the offspring of the Ballets Russes of Serge Diaghilev. Here, they lived and taught. These were Russians, trained by Frenchman Marius Petipa, who now were teaching the French. Visitors frequented Egorova’s studio and were recognized by the other students, but not by me. I saw Mathilde Kchessinska a few times before I discovered her identity. I thought she was just an old lady, or maybe a pianist. Later, I learned that Jean-Bernard Lemoine was her student. As I admired Jean-Bernard, I wanted to take Kchessinska’s classes too, but because of her advanced age and for other reasons, I never had the opportunity. After I read her memoirs, I realized her connection to Preobrajenska and Egorova.

In 1962, the Massine ballet dispersed. Only a few remaining members--Lorca, his sister Tatiana, Jean-Jacques Bechade, and Nini Stucki, plus several of my television associates--continued to work as a concert group. We rehearsed in Massine’s Neuilly residence, where he also had a studio. He was planning to launch a troupe, featuring works from his repertory, including those previously presented during a 1942 U.S. tour as Ballets Russes “Highlights.” We rehearsed Les Matelots (1925), which I filmed with his A-reflex camera. In the meantime, I tried to persuade French television stations to produce and broadcast other selections of his ballets.

I was also assisting Jean Guelis in television work and participating in short tours. The winter passed. Mary and I got jobs. There was some advantage to maintaining separate careers--if one of us was unemployed at least the other was earning money.

In the summer, I often visited Cannes in the South of France, where Rosella Hightower taught classes and operated a ballet boarding school that was situated on La Galia Mountain. It had been jointly established with her husband, who had been the costume designer for the Marquis de Cuevas company where she had been prima ballerina. The housing facility offered new and well-furnished rooms, plus access to a swimming pool in the garden. Usually, we took morning or evening class, though some of us took both, and spent the remainder of the day at the pool or at the sea. It was an ideal place to maintain technique while vacationing. She charged much less than any hotel or private apartment.

I knew Rosella from Mme. Preobrajenska’s Paris classes. Stevan Grebel was her partner for awhile, which cemented our friendship.

Edward Caton was then teaching at Rosella’s school. I loved his classes. He was personable and always made the students feel good. Despite his gruffness, he was fond of me and was the first to suggest that I try my hand at teaching.

He also worked for Marika Bezobrazova in Monte Carlo. I chauffeured him to Monte Carlo and sometimes took his class there. At the time, Rudolph Nureyev, who had recently defected from the U.S.S.R., was also taking Bezobrazova’s classes.

I saw Nureyev perform at le Palais de Sport in La Bayadère, with the Leningrad (Kirov) Ballet when it made a rare appearance in France. While the troupe, as a whole, looked outdated in comparison to the Bolshoi, which was already imitating the West, Nureyev was phenomenal. In Act II, he executed a series of double assemblés en tournant, which was then an unusual feat. Everybody tried to imitate him. With his outstanding movement style, Nureyev riveted audiences and won tremendous success. I still have the film shot with an eight millimeter camera, which I sneaked in and used to film his solo.

Caton convinced Bezobrazova to let me teach a character class at her school. Naturally, I was quite shy, but agreed. As I was exceptionally well versed in character technique, it was easier than I thought. However, Rudy invaded my space--he entered the studio, placing himself in the corner to stretch. Although he was visibly inattentive, I was inhibited, especially since this was my teaching debut.

On the return drive to Cannes, Caton proclaimed that my class was a success. He exaggerated, but I was proud of myself, as I had offered a credible class. Later, I taught a few ballet classes, which now seems like an eternity ago. In my career, I have given thousands of classes. Caton’s encouragement positively influenced my career development. Later, when I established Point Park College’s dance department and the Pittsburgh Ballet Theatre I invited him to Pittsburgh.

Shortly after Rudy began dancing with Rosella, we--Rosella, Stevan, and I--went to the beach. While Rosella, Stevan, and I conversed, Rudy sat apart from us, throwing pebbles into the sea. I felt sorry for him, as he seemed to be left out. I sat beside him and addressed him in Russian. I was taken aback when he demanded that I speak in French, as he did not want to respond in Russian. Perhaps he feared the KGB or Soviet backlash. He certainly was adamant about it. A good many years later, after he had settled in the West, our conversations reverted to Russian. But at that moment, I felt slighted. I had planned to compliment his Paris performance, but let the praise slide. Instead I made small talk and then returned to my friends. It took me several years to realize that he could be quite a funny guy, but that he was reserved with strangers and seemed unfriendly.

During those twelve to sixteen hour road trips between Cannes and Paris, I tested all the restaurants en route. Just passed Aix-en-Provence, I found a restaurant specializing in frog legs à la Provençale. Anytime I happened to be in that neighborhood, I scheduled a stop at that little eatery for frog legs. These were simply so good.

Mary and I were never in Paris for long. We eagerly signed contracts which took us to Aix-en-Provence to rehearse la Comédie en Provence au XVIIIe Siecle’s production of La Comtesse Cathleen. This was a musical comedy based on a work written by William Butler Yeats, featuring Joseph Lazzini’s contemporary choreography. The French were experimenting with total theater--Essai de Theatre Total-- a concept embracing triple threat performers who could sing, dance, and act, plus demonstrate a comic flair.

I knew Lazzini, director of the Marseille Opera Ballet, from my stint in Belgium where his ballets had been popular and successful. (Actually, the Aix-en-Provence gig was a wise decision, as he subsequently invited me to dance in Marseille--he liked to include guests on his programs. I have an old poster from 1961 that has Colette Marchand on top with seven other stars--including me. Among his leading dancers were Janine Monin, who was Peter van Dijk’s girlfriend; Adolfo Andrade, a colleague of mine from Balletto Europeo di Nervi; and Luis Diaz, who danced with me in French television.) His Maurice-meets-Milko style produced usual works, among them Ace de coeur and Hommage á la Jérôme Bosch (1961), which I performed. In Bosch for instance, which had a score by Meyrowitz, he tried to illustrate the artist’s strange, beautiful, and sinister paintings. These reminded me of plain sand dunes with a few bones jutting out. As I remember, there was a large ball constructed of tiny pipes placed center stage and it was possible to dance inside of it. The choreography was very sensual--we rolled around on the ground with our partners and could feel every breath and every ripple of the abdominal muscles. His works were always challenging, but I was eager for return engagements, as the public was enthusiastic and in appreciation, we were wined and dined. (I liked Marseille, birthplace of Petipa and home to the best fish bouillabaisse. I was honored to dance in the same studios and stages as the former and delighted to inhale the spices of the latter.)

During the rehearsal period for La Comtesse Cathleen, we resided in the same Aix-en-Provence hotel where I stayed when I performed with the Avignon Opera in 1961. (That time, I injured a muscle and was grounded, forced to rest while it healed.)

The show’s six-week tour was partially successful--but certainly, not a hit. The fusion of different disciplines did not mesh smoothly enough. Then again, it is very difficult to judge what the public sees while you are onstage.

We expected a return engagement, but I immediately landed a television gig while Mary was cast in an operetta at the Theatre Port St. Martin.

In early autumn, Massine summoned me for a Milan television production of The Three Cornered Hat. I decided to drive my two-year-old Renault Dophen to Milan, which was cheaper than buying a rail ticket. This popular little car lacked body durability and dented easily--it “gave” to thumb pressure, but it was economical and had a good engine. Regardless, I liked my car, which was my second vehicle. (My first car, a four-horse quatre chevaux was smaller than a Volkswagen Beetle, which was popular then. And, incidentally, I remember having trouble passing my first driving test.)

It was a relatively easy trip to Milan, but it required crossing the Swiss Alps. At the top of the mountain, which seemed to be as high as the clouds, I stopped. The view of the mountain and surroundings was breathtaking. I wanted to enjoy it outside of my car. I felt like I was on the doorstep of heaven.

On reentering my car, I lost my grip on the handle. The door slammed on my thumb, as I was not fast enough to catch it in time. The pain was tremendous; the swelling instantaneous.

The injury would not have been a great catastrophe if my role in Massine’s ballet had not been the comic Corregidor. I had to jump through a window and fall on a mattress. Generally, that jump would have been a snap. Instead, it created a throbbing pain in my thumb that felt as if someone was lopping it off. The ache brought tears to my eyes and consequently hampered my comedic abilities.

My partner was Tatiana Massine, who was cast as the miller’s daughter. When she saw the expression on my suffering face, she burst into uncontrollable giggles. Whenever possible, I held my thumb up higher than my head.

Well, this tour was far from over. On the second or third day, we dined in a restaurant that served breadsticks from a glass container on the table. I was nibbling on one with a glass of wine and as I bit into it, my capped front tooth broke. So here I was with a tooth missing and with a thumb in the air--I looked a mess. I never saw the film, but hope these problems were invisible on screen. As much as I enjoyed Italy, I was very happy to finish this job and return to Paris to repair my tooth and pamper my thumb.

Chapter Seven: Grounded for Life

My thumb was nearly healed when I signed on with Irina Grjebina for a North African tour. We were engaged to perform for the Green Berets, an offshoot of the French Foreign Legion--professional soldiers of all nationalities, tough killing machines. The political situation was quite tense between France and Algeria, which was in the state of revolution. Large numbers of the local Algerians never confronted these soldiers, but instead planted mines and blew up anything connected to France or the French army. Popular targets included post offices and cinemas. The locals called themselves “freedom fighters,” but they were the personification of terrorists at that time.

In Tunisia (or maybe it was Oran), I entered a post office to purchase stamps for postcards. Seconds after I exited, the post office exploded. While in a cinema, something triggered an evacuation from the theater. People were yelling and pointing to some chairs, indicating that a bomb was beneath them. The intense panic nearly triggered a stampede, so powerful that people nearly trampled each other to death. It was a false alarm. The “bomb” was merely a bag of forgotten tennis balls.

I liked the climate, the food, and the local French, known as Pied Noir (Black Feet), who made our stay pleasant. On the downside, performances began at 5:00 p.m. as la loi martiale (marshal law) was enforced from 9:00 p.m. until 6:00 a.m. We were frequently invited to post-performance parties, but if we missed the couvre-feu (curfew), we were forced to sleep on the floor because we could not return to our hotel. At night, grenade explosions in the streets echoed through the empty avenues and awakened us.

I was uncomfortable when the Green Berets escorted us. Two of them sat like sentries at the front of the bus. I felt that we were sitting ducks. Otherwise, we personally did not feel like targets.

Capping this tension, we flew from Algiers to Oran in a twin engine, ninety-seat crate. People stood in the aisle with chickens and other animals in their hands. The plane flew through a hurricane on the Mediterranean Sea. As we hit air pockets, the plane “fell” instead of moved forward. An incessant squeak gave me the impression that the wings were about to snap off. I broke out into a cold sweat. I kept telling myself, “If I get down in one piece from this plane, I will never take another again.” I repeated this mantra until I hypnotized myself.

Consequently, I vowed to sail to Marseilles and then finish the trip home via the train. My friend Karoly Drach decided that was quite a stupid thing for me to do, so he bought a box of Valium (an over-the-counter drug at that time) and insisted that I swallow a lot of it. The Valium calmed me down--and put me solidly to sleep. I spent the three and a half hour flight to Paris unconscious. I made only one more roundtrip during my domicile in France, plus the flight from Paris to Pittsburgh.

My phobia lasted for more than fifteen years--finally ending with my flight to Yugoslavia in the mid-eighties. In the meantime, my life and activities were curtailed. I was forced to seek jobs that would keep me in Paris or only require ground travel. Consequently, I refused many excellent opportunities and accepted less advantageous offers. Now, when I look back, I see the devastating effects of my fear.

A phobia literally paralyzes you. Thoughts of flight induced a sweat. I was overcome with an uncomfortable, suffocating feeling and from the moment I consciously realized that I would have to fly, I felt sick. It was out of the question to accept any job where flight was necessary. Immediately, after that Algerian tour, I even had difficulty taking a train or a bus. I felt restricted and closed-in, a sensation that fortunately dissipated six months later.

I joined tours with dance companies that traveled by bus, train, or car. I often drove to summer jobs. I accepted numerous film gigs and submerged myself in the cinema-television medium, accepting offers ranging from “extra” to eventually producer and choreographer. Later, when I founded Pittsburgh Ballet Theatre, I realized the great value of these acquired skills.

Grjebina’s company embarked on a summer tour that took us from the west of France--around Bayonne--to Lucerne, Switzerland. There were highways from Paris to Marseilles, but nothing from western France to the eastern part of the country, which was largely obstructed by the Swiss Alps. We were supposed to sleep on the bus as we traveled all day and all night from Bayonne to our next destination in Switzerland. The route was extremely exhausting and difficult.

Owing to poor planning or lack of options, we just rushed onward--with only a few pit stops and food breaks. When we reached the Swiss Alps, the bus had to climb the mountains on a steep, narrow, serpentine road. It could only accelerate to fifteen or twenty miles per hour. This tripled the travel time. The road, which was barely twenty-five feet wide, was cut into the side of the mountain. Consequently, the bus could not drive too near to the left edge. Over the right side was a drop waiting to swallow us. One car could barely pass beside another. We had reached the peak of fear.

We were tense. We prayed that the brakes would hold and that our driver was a good one. We eventually reached an old-fashioned arched stone bridge that resembled the gates to heaven, as both sides of it rose above a several thousand foot drop. Some of the stones looked loose. I wanted a parachute.

The bus driver stopped. The bridge had a fourteen ton limit--our bus was probably about double this weight. We had to cross.

My nerves kicked. My impulse was to get out, jump in front of the bus, and help to guide it. Many of the dancers opted to just walk across. The driver speculated that an empty bus would be nearer to the weight limit. As we walked ahead, the bus inched across this bridge. I walked backwards--step by step--beckoning the bus driver, whose eyes were bulging. I sensed his enormous tension and fear. Since the bus could not drive itself, he had to risk his life. About five minutes elapsed before the bus was safely across.

Re-boarding the bus, I noted that the driver was dripping with sweat. We decided to call that bridge Price of Fear, after a film that was very popular at the time.

Our arrival in Lucerne was scheduled for mid-afternoon. Curtain was at 8:00 p.m. We arrived an hour late. I was surprise that the public was waiting for us. We hurriedly unpacked, dressed as fast as we could--skipping the make-up, and flew onstage.

Everybody was on edge and charged with pent up energy, as we had been sitting on the bus for almost twenty hours. We caught a collective second wind and--feeling guilty about making the public wait--we outdid ourselves onstage.

I was surprised by my performance. I had to execute a series of relevé double tours for sixteen consecutive counts. Even when I was well-rested, this was challenging. This time, I executed it effortlessly and finished the last revolution smoothly on one knee. In all of my other variations, I was electrified--even pirouettes, which were problematic, came easily, as I whipped off some eight turns without any major difficulties. My performance elicited bravos and tremendous applause from the audience.

I loved the excitement of the onstage experience. As a dancer, I derived self-satisfaction from it, especially when the public cheered and when I felt that I was performing well. I was pushed by adrenaline and felt no fear--no fear, unless I was under-rehearsed. However, I had an advantage. Sometimes, if I forgot something, I instinctively improvised the section, which developed my choreographic sensibilities.

Most of the time, I gave my maximum in performance. When I got offstage, I felt drained of energy and was ready for dinner or a drink. However, after this show, exhausted from the bus trip, and spent from the performance, I was ready to collapse--we all were. We headed for the hotel.

I bunked with Branco Urosevic, whom I had met in Belgrade. He was one of the best male Spanish dancers in the Olga Grbic Torez Spanish Company. (Before I mastered the castanets, I was quite envious of him.) Our accommodations were comfortable, but Branco thought that a bath would make him sleep better. I told him to go ahead and that I would shower afterwards. I collapsed on the bed with my legs hanging over the side. I dozed off. When I awoke I checked my watch. It was already 2:00 a.m. I looked around, but could not find Branco. A little disoriented, I dragged myself to the bathroom. There, my heart stopped!

Branco’s thin six foot frame was motionlessly slumped in the tub. Only his nose projected above the overflowing water that was spilling onto the floor. He looked dead. I froze for a moment, ran to him, and attempted to pull him out. At that point, he awoke. Dazed, he muttered, “What’s the problem? What’s happening?”

I was thrilled to hear his voice. I turned off the water and let the tub drain. I helped him to get out of the tub. He looked back at it and said, “Gee, I had a good sleep.” Maybe he did, but I almost had a heart attack.

Consequently, Branco, who still lives in Paris, became a target for jokes. When we arrived at a hotel, the company would tease him, “Branco, you don’t need a room--just a bathtub.”

During the next six years, I became a regular member of ORTF, as a dancer, choreographer, and assistant. I also contemplated self-producing dance concerts. I experimented with both contemporary and folk styles. In August 1963, I debuted as a choreographer at Paris’ Theatre Salle Pleyel with a pas de deux to Igor Stravinsky’s Scenes de Ballet. I was fond of this music, which had originally been composed for a ballet featuring Alicia Markova and Anton Dolin, with a small corps de ballet. My initial creation was constructed as a pas de deux for Cannsius, a dancer from Béjart’s company and Monique who worked with me at ORTF, where we also rehearsed for this concert. In the seventies, I re-choreographed it as a vehicle for Edward Villella and Violette Verdy.

I also presented my original version of this ballet at the American Center in Paris, which was sponsoring a competition for young choreographers. Both Pierre Lacotte and Merce Cunningham, who happened to be in town, were adjudicators. Back then, Merce was unknown in Paris. I had never heard of him, but he was extremely nice and we talked at length about the future of dance--which was a favorite subject for a young choreographer. Any feedback on my little pas de deux was extremely important to me. Lacotte was very encouraging and said that with experience and work, I could become a good choreographer. Merce concurred, but emphasized the modern influence in dance and suggested that I study modern dance technique. It was not until I arrived in the U.S. that I understood Merce’s perspective.

Young choreographers accept every opportunity just to present work. They lack negotiating power and even if the work is quite good, their output sells cheaply. Public opinion is crucial in establishing artistic credibility.

Dancers do not realize the problems and complications of producing dance. At first, it felt strange to be on the other side of the barre. Today, I realize that without managerial experiences--if I had not organized a few companies and run them for others and myself--I would have been incapable of building Pittsburgh Ballet Theatre. These experiences provided a new perspective on production. As a performer, I complained, criticized, and was difficult; the shoe was now on the other foot. I would warmly recommend dancers to experience the production side--I suspect that they would become much more manageable and much easier to work with.

A company’s survival depends on money for costumes and other essentials. I had to find employment that funded the troupe and covered my living expenses. Shoestring budgets and minimal costume expenditures are the norm for emerging choreographers--which is just the opposite of Diaghilev’s aesthetic. He assembled a perfect unit of the best quality available in dance, music, painting (including costumes and décor), and lighting. He believed that none of these elements could stand alone or if they did, the result was artistically inferior. I was of the austere generation that experimented with the bare minimum. Obviously, as an emerging choreographer, I did not have a Picasso, a Stravinsky, or a Karinska on call. Then again, every generation has its own great creators. The trick was to discover them before they became famous and unaffordable.

I experimented with contemporary ballet and tested the waters with an unincorporated folk company, which the French newspapers christened “Ballet Petrov.” While I might have named it something else, the moniker stuck.

Unfortunately, for the folk troupe, I needed authentic costuming that represented each nationality accurately. I spent some money on costumes with the proper trims for the dancers and instead of buying designer street clothes for myself; I bought blue jeans from the bargain basement.

I was never enthralled with long-running gigs that repeated their content everyday for years. However, my airplane phobia necessitated that I take whatever work was available, including the show Temps de Guitar. Tino Rossi, a great Corsican singer, already in his decline, was its star. The show’s format was similar to the television program “Café Concert.” Here, a vedette (star), in this case Rossi was surrounded by dancers and a comedian to underscore his importance.

My friend Jean Guelis may have choreographed Rossi’s show, which ran in a small theater located between Richelieu Drouot and Bonne Nouvelle. I lived just a couple of blocks from there, on rue Trevise, which was convenient, as after work, I walked home and collapsed in my bed.

Our dances were not great art, but I made a living. I was proud to have worked with the handsome and charming Tino Rossi, whose career began in Casino de Paris as a foil for Miss Tangette. Although his star was not as bright as Maurice Chevalier’s, he was popular and recognized.

After a successful gig in Nice, Rossi invited us to his wonderful villa in Ajaccio, Corsica. We were also scheduled to perform there for a week. Everybody was excited about it, except me--we had to fly from Nice to Ajaccio and back. That was absolutely against my better judgment! There was no way that I could pullout. It was a short trip via Air France. The weather was fine, but I needed to be coaxed to board the plane.

Rossi hosted a party in his home. His swimming pool was filled with baskets of black shellfish, indigenous to the Mediterranean region. These shellfish--with their antennas resemble “porcupines.” Grabbing a king sized one; I just cut the upper part off, put lemon on the top, and sucked out the pink flesh, which looked a little bit like salmon. It was not stringy though--it was like raw eggs. I still remember their fantastic taste.

On another evening, we were invited to Ajaccio’s most expensive restaurant and served an entrée of little birds on a bruschette. This house specialty and Corsican delicacy was delicious, though it now sounds cruel to eat little birds.

Overall--except for the flight--I enjoyed my visit to Corsica, an island surrounded by blue seas and enveloped in a wonderful climate. I still dream about the Corsican nights on the Mediterranean and promise to vacation there after I retire.

In 1963, our impresario, Madame Sarrade, booked us for a tour of Spain and Portugal, plus for summer theaters in France. The tour was cancelled because of an unfortunate political crisis--somebody exploded a couple of grenades in a hotel in Madrid. However, we proceeded with the gigs in France.

I amassed a company of about thirty-five technically strong dancers--my friends from ORTF (some of them danced in Irina Grjebina’s troupe), plus René Bon, as a guest artist. Most of the choreography was mine, but others also contributed. Zvonko Potkovac staged a Croatian shopsko, the Lezghinka was staged by Ismet Mouhedin and Karoly Drach helped me to set a Hungarian dance. The rehearsals went quite smoothly except for some minor discussions. We rehearsed for four weeks in Paris before we took off with a repertory including Quadrille de Village Rusee, Dance Noble, Russian Sailor Dance, Lezghinka, Danses Tziganes, Suite de Danses Moldaves, and Gopak.

According to an August 30, 1963 headline and review in the French newspaper, Nord Matin, which reported on our performance at the Théâtre des Verdure des Allée “Five Thousand Citizens of Aragon Cheered Colette Renard and Ballet Petrov.” As translated:

Ballet Petrov had great success, which they largely deserve. With colorful and rich costumes, and excellent dancers, the Russian, Caucasian and other folkloric numbers were admirably danced. It was impressive, homogenous, and of high class. Our people will remember the exceptional balletic interpretation with a rare brilliance, with the star dancers of the Bolshoi, Maia Manalova and Ismet Mouhedin.

We performed in a Bordeaux suburb that boasted a Roman amphitheater--a great venue for summer performances. We drew an enormous, enthusiastic crowd that cheered our numbers. La Marseillaise, a local newspaper, ran a front page article, with a headline that translates as: “The acrobatic dancers of Nicolas Petrov’s Russian Ballet offered us a beautiful evening.” The review raved about our quality and technique.

Early in my career, I watched Charrat’s troupe, Fonteyn, Somes, and Massine in rehearsal or in performance and was fascinated. As a leading dancer, I was less impressed with others, but admired Rudolph Nureyev, Mikhail Baryshnikov, Violette Verdy, Natalia Makarova, and Peter Schaufuss, all who held my interest and won my admiration. As a choreographer and director, my attitude shifted again. I was extremely pleased with the success of my company. My dancers, who were also my friends and colleagues, made me proud. The enterprise held promise for the future, which gave us a good feeling.

I was honored to have René Bon dancing with my company, as I had idolized him during my youth and had followed his suggestion to move to Paris. He was also proud of me and of my success, which evolved from his invitation. My ensemble included Karoly Drach, who became a lifelong friend, Ismet Mouhedin, who later taught on my faculty in Pittsburgh, and Ella Jarozewicz, a Polish mime actress with a solid dance background. She and I danced a comical pas de deux, where I portrayed a staggering drunk Russian mujic (peasant). She was the wife, who attempted to sober me up. Many years later, I discovered that she had joined the famous French mime artist, Marcel Marceau, whom she married. Our first stage manger was Daniel Astier, who was trained by Petrus van Muyden and was a cast mate of mine in television. When I became explosive before a show, he would always calmly say, “Nicolas, you’re making everyone nervous, cool it.”

It took a year for me to convince French television to showcase some of Massine’s works and in 1963, my persistence paid. Producer Yves-Andre Hubert agreed to produce The Nutcracker. Frankly, Massine was disinterested in it, but accepted the offer for his dancers, who needed the money. He was devoted to the people who worked for him and would always reengage them if possible. He invited Iranian dancer Michel Katcharov, who had also been his ballet master, to stage the classical portion of the ballet (the snow scene and its pas de deux, “Waltz of the Flowers,” and the “Grand pas de Deux”) from Mordkin’s version. Massine re-choreographed and staged the remainder.

At the time, I was already Massine’s assistant. The job of auditioning additional dancers for the corps and soloist positions fell to me. Mostly, I relied on my television cast. We also engaged the American born Nicholas Polajenko, who was then the handsome leading dancer of the Grand Ballet du Marquis de Cuevas and Swiss ballerina Nini Stucki, a product of Boris Kniaseff’s methodology. She had extraordinary placement and was perfectly turned-out. From the Paris Opéra Ballet, we hired Jean-Jacques Bechade. Massine’s whole family was in it--Tatiana (his wife), Tatiana (his daughter), and Lorca. I performed several roles (besides being Massine’s assistant), including “Drosselmeyer” and danced the “Waltz of the Flowers.”

The ballet aired at Christmas. I missed the show in Paris but luckily obtained the sixteen millimeter film. It was the first Nutcracker broadcast on Paris television and it was the foundation of the first Nutcracker that I staged in Pittsburgh in 1968. Eventually, I staged different versions of it, but my ballet played for more than five hundred performances. Following my departure from Pittsburgh Ballet Theatre, the succeeding administration invested heavily on a new production, which was far less successful than my modest version, based on Massine’s interpretation.

During my “flightless” years, I thrived on television work, especially at the Buttes-Chaumont Television Studios, which was France’s first television studio and later at the cinema studios in Chateau de Vincennes and Studio Boulogne. Mostly, I worked with Jean Guelis and other choreographers on special projects. Although I was a dancer--and was paid as a dancer--my responsibilities included organizing the shows and arranging auditions. I gained managerial skills and experience in working with people--and that included doling out post-audition rejections. “We only need six people, and we have twenty. Darling, we will take you next time,” I said. There were other stage managers but few of them were also dancers. Owing to budgetary considerations, I was a commodity because I was a dancer with managerial experience.

Our day began at 6:00 a.m. and sometimes we stayed at the studio until 11:00 p.m. In the winter, we arrived and departed in darkness. Just as we unwound, it was time to return to work. We were paid in two hour increments, which meant that the 6:00 a.m. to 11:00 p.m. workday, translated as nine hours of service. Consequently, we tried to put in as many two hour time blocks as possible. Someone had to approach management to fight for the dancers’ overtime pay and that someone was me.

We never complained and were always eager to stay as long as possible, but it was extremely tiring. Sometimes we worked in the morning on one show, in the afternoon on another, and in the evening on a third program. This meant two or three service hours per show, which did not appear as inflated hours to the directors.

These were my most financially lucrative years. I was in the station most of the time. I had little free time to spend my money, which instead funded my company.

Initially, I only worked on a few shows, but as time passed, opportunities became more frequent and I was involved with regular weekly programs, including a series called “Un Quart D’Heure…” (With the guest singer’s name always tacked onto the end of the show’s title.) An opportunity to choreograph for a special project with national exposure was an artistically rewarding experience.

Retrospectively, I realize how lucky I was to hold a job as a permanent choreographer for national television. The joke circulated that we--dancers and choreographers--were much better known to the public than the stars of the Paris Opéra. Ironically, there was much truth to it, as our faces and names were broadcast into private homes inside and outside of Paris, while not everyone attended the Opéra regularly. I became a household name.

Fortunately, other choreographers did not turn against me as I became a competitor. I established relationships without big fanfares, remained modest, and did whatever people asked me to do. Many soloists refused to accept gigs beneath their status. I was too money hungry to care if on one day I was the leading dancer and on the next just an extra. It did not tarnish my image. I landed bigger and bigger assignments. At least I was always financially secure.

At the studios, I was in the cafeteria. I was in the shows. I was in the rehearsal studios. I was everywhere. Important people remembered me and could rely on me--“Oh well, Petrov will do that.” During my seven year tenure in television production, I learned to wear multi-hats.

Success has its price. I gained experience in dance and lost my technique, as I was unable to take class regularly. Initially that was unapparent, but as time passed, my technical decline was blatant. Then, I decided to change the course of my career.

I pitched my idea for an Easter production--similar to Massine’s Laudes Evangelii--to some TV executives. However, in television, suggestions only generate counter-suggestions and are rarely approved. In my case, the powers that be preferred a Christmas show using composer Arthur Honegger’s Christmas Cantate.

I was unfamiliar with Honegger’s score. My dancers insisted that I accept the offer--no matter what. I would just have to acquaint myself with Honegger. Stage director Pierre Roger and I had previously worked together. However, this time I was the choreographer, not a dancer. He explained his vision for the thirty-five minute piece. He wanted to film it outdoors, in the woods. While this was an exciting idea, we realized--much later--that filming in snowy sub-zero temperatures is difficult.

We rehearsed in the studio. The dancers executed my choreography beautifully--I was satisfied. Outdoors, everything changed. We gulped hot broth, hot chocolate, coffee, and tea by the gallons. Fingers and bodies were completely frozen. Buried beneath layers of coats and outerwear, the movement was barely visible. Naturally, it was very disheartening for me and I constantly barked through a handheld megaphone.

Pierre Roger stopped me. He said, “When you are a director, you do not constantly use a sound amplifier.” He deflated my spirit--I felt that I was overdoing it, was overanxious, and not fully in control. We wrapped up the outdoor shoot in three days, while the remainder was filmed in the studio.

Curiosity consumed me. Although we reviewed the takes daily to determine what needed to be corrected or enhanced--and these actually were not bad--it was impossible to judge what the finished product would look like with all the pieces assembled.

The show aired during Christmas week. As I did not have my television, I watched at a friend’s house. We had a couple of drinks, cheered each other, and laughed about the production, as we knew what happened during the parts that were deleted.

The reviews were favorable. While not raves, they were encouraging, especially to an emerging choreographer. The show has now been long forgotten. Still, for me, it launched my career as a chorographer in television and film.

Occasionally, I worked with hot, young choreographer Dick Sanders, who choreographed “Do Re Me,” which aired regularly and sometimes alternated with “Café Concert” or was broadcast on the same night with it. His style, primarily contemporary modern dance with a pinch of jazz, was much more modern than Massine’s or any of his predecessors’. It was a departure from my definition of modern style, which was rooted in Massine’s aesthetic. I was uncomfortable in Sanders’ works and not especially excited by his choreography, though I did not dislike it. A job is a job and I regarded it as such.

Besides working with Jean Christophe Averty, Sanders had an assistant--Nicole D’heue, a cynical blonde girl, who was quite jealous of me because I had more jobs and was more famous than she. We were competitors, but she was more possessive and bitter. For me, the rivalry was less intense and I often employed her in Jean Guelis’ productions. Surprisingly, she invited me to work with Sanders. I thought perhaps I had misjudged her, but in fact, I did very few “Do Re Mi” shows.

Jean Guelis and I worked on many shows, including: “Ecole des Vedettes,” “Le Bal des Deux Vagabonds,” “Les Joies de la Vie,” “A.L. Ecole des Vedettes,” “Festival,” and “Voyez Come on Danse.” These programs featured a leading actor or singer, or pivoted around a special concept. In France, all shows were built around a vedette (the central figure) like Bernard Blier, Charles Aznavour, Colette Renard, and then rising star Gilbert Becaud, who incidentally fell for an English girl in our corps de ballet. Consequently, as the star’s girlfriend, we were obligated to give her a prominent role.

The shows were piling up--“Revue des Revues,” “La Petite Fadette,” “Tout la Chanson,” “Orchestra avec Camille Sauvage,” “L’Oeuf de Paques,” “Rengaines,” “Monsieur tout le Monde,” and “Opera Croquis”--and tended to blur together. As each show had a short run, we learned or taught the choreography before we got onto the set and in costume. We filmed phase-by-phase, section-by-section and were lucky to execute a whole dance in one take. To our advantage, mistakes were easy to repair by inserting the corrected version. On the downside, we worked in increments--similar to when actors deliver a few lines in one shot before the camera cuts to something or somebody else. This is okay for an actor, but uninspiring for a dancer. It was almost impossible to warm-up and really get into it, get sweaty, and give it your all. However, close-ups were a plus as the audience could see a dancer’s face more clearly than in the theater.

Popular French cinema star Felix Marten who was a very active actor (but more admired than great) enjoyed novelties. The television producers thought that we were a perfect match.

Marten’s program followed the familiar star-driven show format and included other vedettes (supporting actors like Nicolas Bataille, Leo Campion, Perrette Pradier, and Claude Darget), plus incorporated singing, dancing, acting, and comedy. Marten offered a suggestion for his show and my task was to concoct an unusual ballet for dancers attired in jailbird outfits or “something uniformed.” The designer created a soldiers’ barracks that looked like a prison, surrounded by a wall. The dance movements had to compliment that.

I came up with the idea of positioning a big trampoline (unseen) behind the wall. As the dancers jumped on the trampoline, they were propelled upwards and flew like birds to an unbelievable height. Since the trampoline was hidden--it looked as if the dancers were jumping six or eight feet in entrechat six and splits. They also jumped off the top of the wall, rebounding to the height of twelve or fifteen feet (including the height of the trampoline). Of course, the public would realize this was beyond human capabilities, but the effect was immense. Initially, we practiced bumping, kicking, falling, and colliding, without the trampoline.

True, the piece was not purely dance and had a circus-like ambiance, worthy of Cirque de Soleil. The feedback was mixed. The newspapers were enthusiastic; but dance lovers preferred more dancing; while the average person--specifically several actors Marten invited to the party after the opening--raved about the show. Overall, it was not a great hit, possibly because of the libretto. Translated from the April 27, 1964 issue of Combat--le Journal de Paris:

Those who demand to have a pleasant and relaxing time, especially on a Saturday evening, I think the Felix Marten show really catered to them. It is only a one-hour show but behind there was great work in preparation for it. Marten was greatly held in his efforts from those whom he knew and surrounded himself with. Writing this, I especially think mostly about the ballet of Nicolas Petrov. Himself, he proved a serious quality of a choreographer and the ballet created a sensitive atmosphere towards the dancers, especially Huguette Figaret who overcame the rest. However, they were all exceptionally good.

Tele-Mac reported that my choreography was “spirited.” In the Sunday, April 26, 1964, issue of Le Parisien Libere, writers Jean Valton, Bernard Regnier and Bob Duparc proclaimed that they would have danced with my troupe themselves.

I was delighted by the positive notice and compliments. This show contributed to my artistic maturity and bolstered my self-confidence as a choreographer. I decided that I liked being a choreographer.

A succession of new shows followed, including “Les Djinns,” “Du pour et Du Contre,” “Chaka,” “La Fille de Madame Angot,” and “2 Quart d’Heure,” which I did with G. Jouvin. Television is a little bit like the lottery. Sometimes you earn small change and sometimes you hit the jackpot. The 1965 season was a winner. In Paris, all actors and dancers are sometimes in “vogue” and at other times, are forgotten. This season, I was in demand. My career was going great guns with numerous opportunities, highlighted by television productions of Tales of Hoffmann and “C’est la Vie,” which starred Maurice Chevalier, plus a performing role in “Jeanne d’Arc au Bucher.” (However, in a few years the scene would change. As more stations went on the air the demand for new programming increased, but brought a shift in tastes. The variety show format was headed for a downturn. News broadcasts, films, talk shows, and imported programming would dominate.) The year 1965 was also pivotal in my life, as a casual conversation in a café set in motion events that eventually led to a contract in the U.S.

Frano Jelincic, who had been teaching ballet in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, returned to Paris. He was seeking a director for the Playhouse Ballet School, as he was leaving the job for one with Philadelphia’s Pennsylvania Ballet. Barbara Weisberger, PB’s founder, had just offered him the position of ballet master. We met for coffee and tasty French pastry at an outdoor café, Deux Magots, on le boulevard Saint Germain des-Prés along with another old friend from Yugoslavia, Stevan (Grebeldinger) Grebel.

Stevan, then a Washington National Ballet principal dancer, was vacationing in Paris. I was still a leading dancer with Léonide Massine’s company and a choreographer for French National television.

Frano was on a mission. He asked for suggestions on how to locate a professional teacher, willing to replace him in Pittsburgh. He had Mr. Wood in mind.

I had taken many classes with the boastful Wood, whose ego ranked him as incomparable among ballet instructors, but he had no following of devoted students. I was unimpressed with him and suspected that he refused to adapt to the times and to the dancers’ needs.

Frano reasoned that without many devotees in Paris, Wood, who must have been in his sixties, could easily depart without much ado.

Stevan piped up “Why not Nicolas?”

Frano responded, “With pleasure, but I didn’t think that Nicolas would just leave Paris so easily. He is busy and making good money.”

I pondered it for a moment. I had already traveled from Tokyo to London and had crisscrossed Europe, Asia, and Africa. The idea appealed. Maybe it would be an interesting experience for a few months. I saw it as a stepping stone to New York City, San Francisco, or Chicago. Although I had seen a film starring John Wayne, who portrayed a leading steel producer during the Second World War, I knew little about Pittsburgh. I announced that I would be interested in taking the job, but remained mum that my commitment would be short-term.

Frano had a critical nature and made no attempt to sugarcoat the assignment. He was not enthusiastic about Pittsburgh’s cultural life, though he suggested that there might be opportunities to work with the Pittsburgh Opera and Pittsburgh Symphony Orchestra. He clearly explained that it was a steel manufacturing city of beer and whiskey drinkers.

I promptly forgot this conversation.

The television studio planned to produce “Les Contes d’Offmann” (Tales of Hoffmann.) Management decided to invite Jean Babilée to choreograph it. Babilée, who was comparable to Nijinsky and Nureyev, had created many unforgettable roles, including the young man in Roland Petit’s Le Jeune Homme et la Morte. While sipping coffee with Babilée at his favorite coffeehouse Deux Magots on le boulevard St. Germain des-Prés, he told me of the project. Besides the fact that he was France’s most popular dancer, he was a special guy, a little bit strange, but basically very nice. He loved to wear leather jackets and to travel via motorcycle.

I had met him in Mme. Rousanne’s classes at Studio Wacker. We became friendly, but he was not talkative and neither was I. We often just sat and watched people pass by on le boulevard St. Germain or silently sipped coffee.

This day, was the exception. He was not inspired by the offer and planned to decline. Our conversation became much more animated. I responded, “Jean, you can’t do that! You know that dancers depend on these shows and every lost opportunity is lost income for them!”

He sympathized with the dancers, but simply disliked Offenbach. I hatched an idea. I told Jean to accept the offer and not to worry about anything. I would engage dancers for him and rehearse the show. He could just walk out of the studio for a cigarette whenever he felt uninspired and I would complete that particular scene. I said, “You will sign and I will tell the dancers that you told me to do that. It will basically be your choreography.”

Jean looked at me doubtfully, certainly without enthusiasm. “Is that a good idea?”

I insisted on it, telling him what a wonderful collaboration it could be. I would do anything that he wanted.

He agreed. When he met with the producer and the director at the television station, I tagged along, as his assistant, just to take notes.

Rehearsals were quite exciting. I easily amassed a large ensemble of freelancers and dancers who frequently worked with Jean Guelis and me. Babilée created good choreography until he got bored. We repeated the existing material a few times. He looked at me and announced, “Well, go on, rehearse. I need a smoke,” and he left.

I was a stage manager and the ensemble’s ballet master, so this little charade was uncomplicated. At the end of the gig, everybody was happy and regarded Jean with respect and reverence. I wore as many hats as possible to earn the maximum money. All in all the show was very successful.

In September 1965, while working on this production, I unexpectedly received a contract from the Pittsburgh Playhouse, a professional theater company in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, as the result of my cavalier remarks uttered two months earlier to Frano Jelincic. The three-year, renewable contract was for both Mary and me. The offer covered a nine month period for each year, with the option to teach summer classes. Nine thousand dollars per year seemed fair, but I knew little about American taxes. (I had no idea that the government would take twenty percent and that all fringe benefits were automatically deducted from the salary, without changing the contractual sum.) The deal also assured roundtrip tickets from Paris to Pittsburgh. The offer was tempting. We signed the contract. Jean Babilée had been on hand when it arrived and as I needed a witness to counter-sign it, he did the honors and wished me good luck with the new venture. However, it would be two more years and several major projects later before the next major leap in my career.

My friend Milko Sparemblek, then a popular choreographer, was creating a satiric television drama about Joan of Arc (“Jeanne d’Arc au Bucher”) and wanted to cast me as the Archbishop Pig. I never had a problem portraying either heroes or villains. It was most important to me to do my best and net a fairly large salary for it.

Although it was a supporting principal role, the part required very little dancing. Yet along with the roles of Lord Edgard in Bal des Voleurs, Don Basilio in Barbiere di Siviglia, Corregidor in The Three Cornered Hat, and the Russian Father in Boutique Fantasque, it was among my favorites.

I was heavily costumed in large cloaks, richly ornamented with precious stones, and wore a pig mask and an archbishop’s miter. When the lights caught the sparkling jewels, I resembled a Christmas tree. Essentially, the jury and the people who had condemned Joan of Arc carried me around.

I enjoyed working with Milko, as it had been a longtime since our last association. Throughout my career, I crisscrossed paths with various artists and choreographers, working with them for a time, then drifting in another direction. Milko, who later became the Metropolitan Opera Ballet’s ballet master, was serious about every job. He was always an intense and energetic dancer. By contrast, Stevan Grebel and I took jobs as they came and made the best of them--always waiting for the next opportunity.

I was now Jean Guelis’ permanent assistant and was responsible for organizing most of the shows. With him and our usual ensemble, I worked on “Festival Frank Pourcel” and “Gala de l’Enfance Inadaptee,” as well as “Sur un Air d’Accordeon.” We opened the 1966 season with “Contes de Perrault.” Other shows included “Variation no. 27,” “Riquet à la Houppe,” “Pour la Premiere Fois,” and “Au Risque de vous Plaire.” Today, I no longer remember the details. In one show, I was cast as a referee; in another, as a Musketeer, or a pimp, or a policeman. With guest star Claude Bessy, who was from the Paris Opéra Ballet, I appeared as a Turkish harem guard, while she danced with eight men in a Schéhérazade-esque skit. These shows presented opportunities to work with cinema, theater, and ballet stars including Edith Piaf, Charles Aznavour, Jacques Brel, Gilbert Becaud, Maurice Chevalier, and Serge Gainsbourg. Of these, our production with Maurice Chevalier--my last major show in France--was most memorable.

“C’est la Vie” was directed by Jean Christophe Averty, who usually worked with choreographer Dick Sanders, not with Guelis. As Guelis’ assistant, I engaged the dancers, held the rehearsals, and danced too.

The scenes were staged in front of a stark, white background, with colored strips glued to the floor to create depth. In this white vacuum, the dancers seemed to float in the air. Typically, they entered very sharply and surrounded Chevalier, who was positioned in the middle, singing his traditional songs.

The elegant Chevalier was the epitome of a French star. His manner, his dress, and his way of talking with people differed from other contemporary Parisians, whom I had worked with, lived amongst, and was accustomed to. Such role models no longer exist. He personified a throwback to Paris in the twenties when the French aristocrat was distinguished from ordinary people, like his English counterpart, who sported an umbrella, bowler, and gloves.

As Guelis’ assistant, I was constantly around Chevalier and attempted to engage him in conversation about my pending departure for America. He was unimpressed and uninterested--yet, was otherwise very pleasant. Consequently, our conversations were merely small talk.

Danny Kaye, whom I greatly admired, visited him on the set. Our meeting made my day--and helped to refresh my English. Chevalier enthusiastically greeted him, as they were good friends. They cracked jokes, which to me were not funny, but perhaps they were inside jokes or maybe my English was just too bad. As I recall, Kaye’s French was passable, but heavily accented. They spoke more English than French, possibly so that the dancers and others on the set would be unable to follow their conversation.

This was Chevalier’s last show in France, as he was already in his late seventies. He did not actually sing, but lip synced to his records.

I missed the broadcast in France, but caught it on the ABC channel in Pittsburgh while I was staying at the Howard Johnson Motor Lodge in Oakland. I was proud that it aired in America and that many people saw it. I identified with this production, as a dancer, an organizer, and ballet master. I tried to buy the film or at least a copy of it, but never contacted the right people and now I am doubtful that I will ever obtain it.

Chapter Eight: To Visa or not to Visa

Although the contract arrived in 1965 to teach at the Pittsburgh Playhouse School, the American Embassy threw a monkey wrench into our plans. As foreign nationals, we were subject to immigration quotas. Officials at the American Embassy in Paris informed me that I was ineligible for immediate departure and would not arrive in Pittsburgh in time to begin the semester. We had to wait our turn.

A flurry of letters exchanged with the Playhouse’s Mark Lewis assured me that he was doing his best to bring us to Pittsburgh as quickly as possible. However, Lewis who was beleaguered with the Playhouse’s financial crisis, acted slowly to resolve the visa issue. A year later, I sought legal counsel and spent more and more time at the American Embassy. I was sad, uncomfortable, curious, and uncertain that the visa would ever really be granted. I was raised in a socialist country. America was still very sensitive about communist ideology. Although I stated that I was not a party member, I worried that the officials who were in charge of granting the visa might have doubts.

Job insecurity and uncertainly clouded our employment picture, limiting us to short-term engagements. Surprisingly, work was plentiful and Ballet Petrov was on a roll. However, it was challenging to maintain a troupe of thirty-five excellent dancers and be ready to tour when Mme. Sarrade, our agent, sold our show. I explored other performance options and presented smaller groups of four to eight couples. We shortened the costumes and created a variety program appropriate for nightclubs. It was easy to do and the pay was pretty good.

Estoril was a small tourist site, a village actually, located in the suburbs of Lisbon. Its seashore now boasts the largest casino in Europe. Back then, the casino featured attractions--much like dinner theater. We landed a two week gig for four couples. Consequently, it was a difficult job, as we had to perform in almost every number.

I was dreadfully out of shape. My work in television failed to provide a sufficient workout and I neglected to take formal classes. My legs were in no condition to execute all those Russian squats, but they were the high point of the program. I just had to do them. Predictably, by Day Two, my muscles were stiff and sore. I could barely walk down the staircase. I hobbled to the casino director’s office and explained that I was just too sore. I begged him to permit me to shorten the show. I wanted to omit my solos. The director insisted however, that we do the full show--as contracted.

Instead, he recommended a masseuse, who came to my hotel. I opened the door to an Amazon, who bent her head to enter. She had arms and legs to rival any sumo wrestler’s. My eyes widened and she sort of smirked and said, “I am a masseuse.”

I surrendered to destiny. Her hands were forged from iron. She could have easily broken me in half. Well, I somehow survived. She worked on me for more than two hours, grinding, bending, stretching, punching, and grabbing. Initially, I was excruciatingly sore but afterwards, I easily descended the stairs to the restaurant for dinner. I admired this giant masseuse, who worked miracles with her hands and the oils that she rubbed on me. Dancers are left to the mercy of the massage craft, as it is part of their survival and maintenance. We are accustomed to softer rubdowns. This woman was the exception to the rule--a miracle masseuse.

In town, women with black dresses and black scarves sold fish from woven baskets. Fruits displayed open-air were peddled on the streets. The two weeks of our engagement passed quickly and left pleasant memories. Here, singers sang fados to me. (These were Portuguese with guitars, who directed the words of their songs to me.) The experience was much more enjoyable for the local Portuguese, who understood the words, but it was a good feeling to hear the melody, to see the guitarist, and be the target of the song that elicited occasional laughter from the audience at the club.

Back from Portugal--and still no visa--life in Paris fell into the usual routine. My television productions included “Une Etoile m’a Dit,” “Chapeau de Paille d’Italie,” “Les Hauta de Hurlement” (Wuthering Heights), and Stravinsky’s Les Noces, choreographed by Guelis after Bronislava Nijinska’s version. I remember very little about this ballet, which failed to impress me.

In the summer of 1966, Daniel Astier and I obtained visas and drove from Paris to Hungary on vacation and to see my mother. (I could not travel to Yugoslavia because I had evaded its mandatory military service.) We had little money, but did not need much, as it was inexpensive--for a penny or two we could afford to treat guests. Although the revolution was over, the country was still under Soviet-style influence. Crossing the guarded border, the car was subjected to intense scrutiny, as officials checked for contraband. It was uncomfortable.

As usual, the phone rang and somebody from a film company asked for me. They needed a choreographer for a film with Russian and Georgian themes about the life of Rasputin. I had been recommended as a Russian, who was well-versed in ethnic dances. The film’s director was Robert Hossein and its composer was his father, Andre. The story, which takes place in pre-Revolutionary Russia, was written by Prince Usupoff from dictation to his nurse. His tale centered on a group of high-ranking officers, who decided to eliminate Rasputin, whom they believed was influencing the czarina.

A well-known German actor, Gert Frobe--familiar to American audiences as Goldfinger in the James Bond film--was cast as Rasputin. Geraldine Chaplin (daughter of Charlie) portrayed Munia, while Peter McHenry, a Shakespearian actor, played the role of Prince Usupoff. I was Frobe’s dancing double, while the very handsome Milenko Banovitch doubled for McHenry.

At our first meeting I realized that Robert, who was a famous French actor in his own right, knew exactly what he wanted. We instantly hit it off and as he was the son of an Eastern European immigrant, we seemed to have common ground. He was extremely nice, friendly, and imaginative. I was happy to work with him, as he accepted my ideas and my choreography. Robert always invited me to all the planning sessions. I was involved with many aspects of the production--filming, dancing, directing, and choreographing. Robert decided that I knew best about angling the camera to advantageously film the dances. He was correct, but it was my pleasure. I enjoyed supervising in a major studio and envisioned a directing career. I felt much honored.

Prior to filming, we met with the prince, to McHenry’s benefit, as he had the role. I just tagged along. The flat was ordinary, furnished à la Russe, though the value of the objects differed somewhat. Of course, there was a Faberge egg, common in many Russian apartments--some were authentic; others reproductions.

It was shocking to see Usupoff, the “killer.” He was just an ancient man confined to a wheelchair, which was pushed by a nurse. He was neither threatening nor scary. He was thin with bony fingers that resembled white ebony. His voice was quite weak. He talked slowly. I suspected that McHenry would have difficulty imitating his voice. I was the only one fluent in Russian--but there was little conversation. We spoke mostly with his nurse, a middle aged Russian lady, who was also his writer, secretary, and companion. She was quite educated. It was easy to communicate through her. His French was fluent and he did not really need a translator.

We also met with Robert’s father, Andre, who was an orchestra conductor and listened to his music. He was a Georgian and well acquainted with his native tunes and people. At his suggestion, I happily attended a play, running at a small theater in Bonne Nouvelle that he had scored and Robert had directed. I was amazed by the music’s force, its appropriateness for the play, and how it served as an integral part of the show.

Robert and I also visited Rasputin, a Paris nightclub just to put ourselves in the mood. At that time, many very good gypsy singers performed in Paris. The experience came as close to duplicating a Russian nightclub as was possible.

I staged some dances for the ballroom scene at the royal palace--either the mazurka or polonaise, and a few measures of the waltz--and set the Lezghinka and other Georgian dances for Banovitch, as Usupoff’s counterpart. Geraldine danced her part, but I hired a double to partner Milenko in the duet for Usupoff and Munia.

I knew Geraldine, whom I liked, from her tenure with Marquis de Cuevas’s troupe. She had danced since childhood, which enhanced her acting career. Geraldine was a good actress. She had just finished Dr. Zhivago, which I later saw and enjoyed in America. She did a wonderful job in that film, as did Omar Sharif, with his impressive interpretation of the Russian soul and spirit.

Geraldine resided near boulevard de Iéna with her friend, a wonderful lady, whom I liked immensely. When I close my eyes, I still see her smiling. They were inseparable and I visited them often. Since I admired Geraldine’s father (he was my favorite actor in my youth), we had long conversations about him. She really adored him. We also talked about her brother and her childhood.

Robert wanted Rasputin to dance too. As Frobe’s double and stunt man, I was dressed, padded, and bearded exactly to match him, which took an hour of preparations. From behind--and even from the side--I was unrecognizable. I was quite well paid too.

I Killed Rasputin was filmed at Studio Boulogne. The process with its endless hours of waiting and waiting was dull. My beard itched. I fell asleep. I read books to escape from the boredom or walked to another set. All that waiting makes the body stiff and yet I had to be ready to act and dance on a moment’s notice. This forces you to train yourself like a cat--to change your mood 180 degrees.

Despite the boredom, I sort of enjoyed the film. The costumes reminded me of old photos of my father, during his life in Russia. In Paris, a dense Russian refugee population clustered in rue Daru (Little Russia). My visits there generated a nostalgic mood for pre-revolutionary Russia. Naturally, my impressions were based on the stories that I heard. As a member of the second generation, I felt sad. Many old-timers believed that Imperial Russia would rise again. I doubted that. I suspected that when communism failed and a new era dawned on Russia, it would not become an empire, as that had died with the czarist regime.

The production people--including Robert--appreciated our efforts. During the filming, they praised and cheered the dancers, which made it exciting for us. I especially remember the applause for my Russian squats, which typified the virile Russian male. As Rasputin, I had a great time shooting a scene with eight women, who were under the mad monk’s spell. In ecstasy, they offered their bodies for his pleasure. That scene was all my pleasure--believe me and Frobe envied me. That rolling love circle, with those undressed, devotees was quite an exciting and extraordinary stylized dance.

Visitors on the set introduced themselves as the producers of Great Catherine, a British-made film about the Russian Empress. They thought that I was the right choreographer for their film. The gig appealed. I accepted the offer.

Twenty-four months and no visa--if hired for Great Catherine, I would cancel plans to teach in the U.S. However, there was always a stick in the wheel. The English union demanded a British choreographer for the job. David Lichine, who was well-known in England, explained that as an American, he was ineligible, as the British film union barred him from doing the choreography. If he was out of contention, then so was I. There had been talk that England would reverse its “British only” hiring policy. In Paris, we loudly denounced Britain’s exclusion of foreign dancers, especially as British dancers were allowed to accept jobs in France. I had hoped that a powerful film company could break the barrier. That failed to happen and my candidacy for the job, despite Mary’s British citizenship, was terminated. Destiny played his role--and I headed in a new direction, to another life.

While I was involved with “C’est la Vie,” starring Maurice Chevalier, Mary was touring the U.S. with Fiesta Italiana, an epic production--with chariots and horses--that could only be presented in arenas or on professional football fields. The tour stopped at Pittsburgh’s Civic Arena (now known as Mellon Arena). While in town, her objectives were to visit the Playhouse, meet Mark Lewis, and discuss the visa issue. She was graciously wined and dined in the Playhouse’s old club.

Mary and Lewis hired a lawyer, who quickly untangled the visa glitch. He discovered that the mistake had been to request immigration visas, instead of H-1 work permits (an error on Lewis’ part that weakened my confidence in him). After the three-month American tour, Mary returned to Europe. Instead of coming home, she headed to London to visit family members and to relax after the strenuous tour, while I waited in Paris for word on Great Catherine. Our relationship was at the breaking point. If the work permits were issued, she would accompany me to American; if not, she would remain in London. I traveled to London for a serious conversation with her.

Mary described the Playhouse and its studios, which were not as glamorous as I had imagined those in America, should be. There was only one advantage. The school had a theater. I would miss Paris’ artistic environment, but I realized that an opportunity to choreograph and to establish a ballet company was within my grasp. Retrospectively, I realize that I verged on returning to Europe--many times. However, quitting is against my Sagittarian nature. We decided that if my contract gelled in London, I would do the film. Otherwise, I would consider going to the U.S. The transatlantic move was a major decision in my life, as our futures depended on it.

As things were winding down in Paris, I was hired as a Russian character dancer, along with Grjebina’s company for an operetta, The Czarevitch, running in Mogador. I performed daily, plus twice on Saturdays, Sundays and Thursdays--a total of nine performances per week. Conceptually, no more than two dancers could be absent from the show on any given day. The ongoing monotonous daily routine with only a single day off was a drudge. Each facet--from putting on make-up to warming up and reading between the acts--became a ritual. The dances were exciting and interesting, but, the show was pretty demanding, especially on the six of us, who danced at the television station all day and performed in the evening. The public loved us. Our acrobatic tricks were crowd pleasers. It was impossible to mark the steps.

In my solo, I jumped into aerial splits and landed on my knees, which I had padded with foam rubber. The impact exerted enormous stress on my thigh muscles. A solo like this--no matter how often performed--was always challenging. Within six weeks, I was forced to stop dancing. Inflammation of the kneecap is a very tedious injury to heal. My knee problems continued after I arrived in the U.S., especially when demonstrating pliés in class. It took a year and a half before my knees became functional again. My appetite for money had cost me a lot. While on sick leave, I realized that it was time to stop showing off and do something that was physically less demanding.

I continued to pick up temporary jobs and pursue engagements for my troupe. As Ballet Petrov sold better in small groups of four to eight couples, I concurrently ran two companies, plus choreographed a few typical French revues on place Pigalle.

At Club Eve, I staged a contemporary variety revue of brief, water-themed sketches for four dancers, two comedians, and four mannequins. For example, I created a takeoff of “Singing in the Rain" (but there was no rain--only shiny plastic strips). It ran for many years after I left Paris. It was not art, but it was profitable and I enjoyed that style of entertainment. Half of my troupe, which performed Russian attractions, was booked at Club Boeuf sur les Tois in Brussels, while another of my shows ran at a little Russian club in Liege. Once setup, they just ran, while I collected royalties.

The long awaited call came from the U.S. Embassy--our visas were waiting. By mid-December our visas were attached to our passports and we were ready to travel. (However, because Mary had just completed an America tour, she was not immediately issued a work permit. For the first year of our tenure, she helped me. She later earned a separate salary after we both received Green Cards.)

Unsure of the future, I abandoned lots of stuff, including Ballet Petrov’s costumes. I bestowed my buggy to Karoly, either to sell or keep. It was the best car I ever owned until I bought a Mercedes. France marked a beautiful period of my life. I acquired sophistication and taste, while participating in the international arts scene. In France, I worked hard. Many unexpected things happened. Life was always exciting. France was my second home. I greatly admire and respect the country and its people, who welcomed me when I was just the little guy from a tiny country, unsophisticated and naïve. It was in France that I matured and all that happened there was a training ground for life in the United States.

We moved to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, U.S., early in 1967.

Chapter Nine: Teaching Pittsburgh to Dance

In February 1967, Mary and I arrived at the Pittsburgh airport. I had managed to survive my airplane phobia, but was exhausted. Our TWA flight departing from Paris had been delayed for four hours, plus we had a layover in New York. Since Pittsburgh’s terminal was small, we easily found Martin Pochapin, a nice fellow, who served as the Playhouse’s reception committee. He ushered us to his car and drove to The Howard Johnson Motor Inn in Oakland. Our room overlooked the Isaly’s deli across the street.

It was cold outside, as I recall. We opted for lunch in the Inn’s restaurant. I fell in love with deep fried clams. I spent my first day in Pittsburgh watching television and to my great surprise caught the ABC-TV American broadcast of “C’est la Vie,” starring Maurice Chevalier, the last program I had done in Paris.

We spent three days at the Inn. I immediately decided to buy a car, because public transportation was very slow, uncomfortable, and infrequent.

Two days after our arrival, Mark Lewis hosted a reception for us at the Playhouse. Many of the staff attended, including Helen Wayne Rauh and other local actors. We were barraged with questions by an assembly of nice old ladies. My head felt like a balloon. I wished that the conversations had been in French. I was completely inexperienced and did not enjoy this type of situation. Later, under the tutelage of Loti Falk, I learned how to behave in American society and to brownnose.

Mark Lewis arranged our move to a private apartment at 137 Grandview Avenue, a property owned by Lynn and Steve George. (At that time, Lynn was an actress at the Playhouse.) This beautiful apartment overlooked the city from atop a mountain across the river. It was modern, sparsely furnished, and comfortable. We had brought no furniture with us, but Steve’s friends donated recliner chairs, carpeting, a television, and other useful items. I was favorably impressed with Pittsburgh.

Our classes were mainly in the afternoons. I arrived at the Playhouse around 3:00 p.m. and worked until 9:00 p.m. I dined after nine and watched television until 3:00 a.m. or sometimes stared out the window at the city, or at the snowfall, which created a very eerie picture of downtown.

During leisure hours, we attended movies and socialized with our neighbors, especially the George family, and our immediate neighbors Bertha Perkins and Gus Wilde. Actually, we found Pittsburgh to be very friendly.

I became involved with the Pittsburgh Performing Arts Foundation, also known as “the open stage,” which Jack Brown directed. The concept embraced venues that often had no curtain or seating arrangements that incorporated the audience into the proceedings. My assignment was to choreograph the play USA, which was presented at a little cine-theater on Mount Washington’s Shiloh Street. This was exciting work with an interesting cast that included the Countess Christina Crawford (daughter of actress Joan Crawford and author of Mommie Dearest); Lincoln Maazel (father of conductor Lauren Maazel); John Holzman; Donna Anders; Paul Mochnick; and Lynn George. We hoped that “open stage” would become a professional experimental theater in Pittsburgh. To my knowledge, the project faded into oblivion and I lost touch with Brown.

One of Brown’s supporters was Pete Flaherty, who later became Pittsburgh’s mayor. Through my connection with Brown, I became involved in Flaherty’s election campaign, which was managed by Richard Caligiuri, another future city mayor. Subsequently, I became a friend and admirer of Caligiuri’s. Both he and Flaherty were instrumental in building Pittsburgh Ballet Theatre. I was beginning to settle in and develop supporters for dance in Pittsburgh.

Many of the actors associated with the Playhouse were also cast members of “Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood,” a locally produced children’s television program. One of my students, who was in the show, suggested that Rogers use me--because I had a strange accent. Rogers invited Mary and I onboard and I initially appeared as a monster. We participated in a few programs, but the filming created a schedule conflict with our classes. We were told that the shoot would end at 3:00 p.m., but at 4:00 p.m. we were still filming--and I got nervous. Mary and I whispered in French--which unknown to us, Rogers understood--about our dissatisfaction. We had happily abandoned our hectic Parisian lifestyle--and here we were doing it again. The show was just our pocket money; the school was our bread and butter. I think I offended Mr. Rogers. We were dropped from the show, but he did not hold a grudge. Years later, I took my son to meet him and he was very generous. (I later passed on the opportunity to appear in George Romero’s Night of the Living Dead, as I would have missed too many classes.)

Richard Karp, the Pittsburgh Opera’s founder and conductor invited me to choreograph the ballet scene in Donizetti’s Lucia di Lammermoor. The singers, who were from New York’s Metropolitan Opera, included Manuel Ausensi, Renata Scoto, Pedro Lavirgen, Philip Cho, Earl Corwin, Paula Cartwright, and John Klingensmith. It was a minor dance that primarily manipulated the singers.

The real breakthrough came two months later--December 7--with Carmen. I choreographed a section interpolated from Bizet’s L’Arlésienne. The opera starred Regina Resnik as Carmen, William Olvis as Don Jose, and Joshua Hgecht as Escamillo. I needed six professional dancers for Act II, who would have been paid and subsequently eligible to join AGMA. An open audition yielded no one--they came, they thought they could dance, but I had just arrived from Paris and my standards were inflexible. I was disappointed that I could not engage dancers who were not already taking my classes at the Playhouse. We used the students and to augment the cast, Mary and I performed as Flamenco dancers. Although I hated double duty--to simultaneously make choreography and perform--it was an opportunity for us to dance together and the first time that she had danced my choreography.

The Pittsburgh critics were astonished by the quality of the choreography. They proclaimed that I was the future of dance in Pittsburgh. And Karp was so impressed with Mary--(with whom he shared compatriotism)--that she was obligated to perform in subsequent opera productions.

I was encouraged by the positive press and was unaware of the problems associated with founding a dance company--ongoing fund-raising, management skills, and hiring support staff. I fearlessly pursued my dream.

Judging from a professional standpoint, no professional dance existed in Pittsburgh. Local schools ranged from basement businesses to large commercial studios, where tap dance seemed to be the prevalent technique. We referred to these schools as “toe-tap on the drum” and “twirling batons.” There were a few ballet teachers in the area: Madame Soriano, Charlotte Mady (who worked for jazz teacher Mario Melodia), Audrey Troynovsky, Andrea of Andrea’s School of Dance, and Madame Barth.

As the Opera’s casting for Aida and Lakmé required larger ensembles, I approached these schools hoping to supplement my corps, but could barely collect enough dancers with sufficient technique and placement to meet the need. (The group I amassed, along with my dancers became my first The Nutcracker cast.)

When Frano Jelincic, who had recruited me, departed for Pennsylvania Ballet, Duncan Noble replaced him. Noble stayed only a few years. He was replaced by Jayne Hillyer, a Cleveland native, who had studied with Edward Caton, Alexandra Danilova, Anatole Vilzak, and Maria Swoboda, whose harshness she assimilated and imitated. Although she had performed in New York, she relinquished her career when she moved to Pittsburgh with her husband. My delayed arrival along with Hillyer’s maternity leave had left the school without a teacher and enrollment was in decline. Since my arrival, the Playhouse Ballet School had turned a corner and was experiencing a successful semester.

Enrollment grew as word spread that I was teaching at the Playhouse. The summer session was even more successful. By September, Mary and I were teaching a range of classical ballet, pointe, and variations classes, while Lester Evans and his sister Marietta offered tap and jazz classes. To handle the overflow, Mary stepped in to teach jazz classes and I served as her stand-in drummer. Among pre-school children, adults, and evening classes, we had an enrollment of 650 students.

The future looked very bright. Encouraged by my continued success with the opera, I moved a step closer to forming a legitimate company.

At the time, my “company” was an ensemble of talented amateurs, plus folk dancers from Duquesne University and the Folk Festival, capable of singing as well as dancing. Eugene Richards, whom we called Geno, directed the Folk Festival’s Italian performance group and presented Italian dancing in the community. He took my classes and became a collaborator and longtime supporter, providing me with insights into Italian dance, which I used in some ballets. Also on board were mime artist Jewell Walker; tapper Lester Evans; Akiba Blazia, an African dancer; and character dancer Leonard Weitershausen, who became a regular in my Nutcracker. We had two fire dancers--Laura Green and Jan Rincones. Jayne Hillyer, a former Metropolitan Opera Ballet soloist and member of the Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo; John Occhipinti, a former member of the National Ballet of Canada; and Judy Troan, the daughter of a newspaper editor, led the classical roster, plus Mary and I, when needed. We were at the end of our stage careers, but Mary had to step in to dance with the students, as capable dancers were in short supply, especially for specific pieces. If Alicia Markova, a mature ballerina could perform, then so could Mary, who was relatively younger and could still dance very well.

Our first performance of the 1967-68 season--called Noir et Blanc--was a three-act mosaic of small numbers, such as Les Sylphides, bound in a thematic framework. The premise, farfetched as it was, focused on a fictional dance academy where students of various disciplines had enrolled, yet did not know what types of dance they would study.

The first section whimsically spoofed what non-dancers might imagine would be included in a ballet school curriculum. Indian Dance featured Mary Petrov, Lynn George, and Mary Cosgrove. Debbie Lynn Geffner (who later appeared on Broadway and in the film, All That Jazz) and Judy Troan performed I Don’t Know What to Do. The section also included Massage with Charlene May and Dan Graham.

In Part Two, we staged a serious ballet class--complete with barre exercises, pointe work, classical variations, and adagio--and a Luigi jazz technique class, illustrating how phrases are fashioned into a dance. The classroom demonstrations were augmented by several works: Sounds of the Jungle, that showcased combinations with a definite rhythm and mood, the dynamics of which were heightened by silhouette projections; Fire Dance, performed by Laura Green and Jan Rincones; Shadows, danced by an ensemble; and African Dance, which Blazia choreographed and performed. A non-dance interlude featured psychedelic slide projections. The act concluded with Geno's staging of the Tarantella.

Lastly, we presented dances that demonstrated contrasts of rhythm and style. I staged Igor Moiseyev’s Bulba, a potato harvesting dance from the Russian province of Byelorussia. We also offered “The Russian Sailor Dance” from The Red Poppy, which displayed a combination of brute strength and graceful muscular control. Lester Evans and students from his studio performed original tap choreography, while Jewell Walker contributed a nice mime number. And The Jerk capitalized on sixties “hip-ness.”

Young Jordeen Ivanov performed Michel Fokine’s famous ballet solo, The Dying Swan to Saint-Saëns' The Swan. She had been one of Jelincic’s students and had studied with other local teachers, including Charlotte Mady. She was about fourteen when I inherited her from Hillyer. She quickly developed a crush on me and would have jumped through fire, if I had asked her to. I allowed her to perform The Dying Swan because she possessed something that reminded me of Anna Pavlova, whose performance I had seen on film. This solo, with its difficult artistic demands, is generally danced by an accomplished ballerina and rarely attempted by a student. Jordeen was not ready to improvise, as the role demanded, but I provided her with a framework to build upon.

This program initiated professional ballet in Pittsburgh and introduced the founding members of the Pittsburgh Ballet Theatre who were Charon Battles, Susan Bock, Amy Chomas, Debbie Lynn Geffner, Jayne Hillyer, Jordeen Ivanov, JoAnn McCarthy, John Occhipinti, and Leonard Weitershausen.

The premiere was an apparent box office success, owing to ticket-buying parents. The word was out that dance was “in” at the Pittsburgh Playhouse School. Loti Falk, then a Playhouse board trustee, organized a street fair as a fund-raiser. She realized that with dance’s increased visibility and newfound popularity, a dance performance would make a wonderful contribution to the line-up. She invited me to perform in the show, which was presented on Hamlet Street in front of the building’s side entrance.

In one piece, I performed with Leonard Weitershausen, a Russian character dancer. As we were executing Russian squats, he was suddenly down and immobile. “What on earth is he doing?” I wondered.

He looked up at me and said, “Nicolas, I ripped my cartilage. I can’t get up.” Thinking quickly, I danced behind him, picked him up under his armpits, and carried him off stage. He was still kicking with his good leg to give the impression that this was staged. The public thought this was a part of the act and warmly applauded. Unfortunately, Leo could not return for his bow, and could not dance for awhile, a tragic yet funny experience.

Despite the mishap, the dance performance was a success. Loti Falk extended her thanks and offered to help me, in the future. The development of Pittsburgh Ballet Theatre pivoted on that promise, though at that time, she did not suspect that I would hold her to her word and request the promised payback. In return, everything she learned about dance, she learned from me.

Ironically, as the ballet division was thriving, the Playhouse, the only professional theater in Pittsburgh, was collapsing from lack of funds. Its board members could not raise sufficient money to cover each season’s mounting deficit. Despite fierce attempts to keep the Playhouse alive, it was doomed. By the beginning of 1968, the final curtain fell on artistic director Ronald Satlov’s administration. As I see it now, the facility’s seating capacity and consequent box office draw were insufficient to cover a professional theater company’s high budget.

Barely a year after my arrival, I learned that my contract would not be renewed. The Playhouse was bankrupt. Mark Lewis, my sponsor, really tried his best to keep us alive, but as for me, I was out of a job.

I was aware of the Playhouse’s ongoing financial woes, still, I was devastated. My time in America had been too short. I was uncomfortable about returning to Europe so soon and of admitting to failure. I would have been the laughing stock of the Parisian dance community. My contract had been for three years, but I had only fulfilled half.

I headed for New York. Carnegie Hall would be the most suitable place to start a ballet school. I hoped to work for Madame Inglutine, who directed a studio on the sixth floor. Other Russian teachers like Vladimir Dokoudovsky taught at the same school. He was the only one that I knew personally. I contemplated working under his wing, as he was a former Massine dancer, who like me, had also studied with Olga Preobrajenska. Besides the shared common background, we were friends.

I had been residing in New York for about a week when Mark Lewis phoned from Pittsburgh. He pleaded with me to return. Arthur Blum, Point Park College’s president, had offered me a teaching opportunity in the college. The college’s drama program had absorbed the Playhouse’s drama students. Lewis convinced Blum that it was also feasible to accept the dancers. Lewis invited me to teach summer classes and allocated studio space in the college’s first floor ballroom, free of charge. The students’ tuitions would cover my salary. I had only to pay the pianist out of pocket. I returned to Pittsburgh. Thanks to newspaper coverage the program drew 250 students. Mary and I handled this quite easily.

The tuition was identical to the Playhouse’s for a six-week term. I earned thirty-five hundred dollars. My expenses for the pianist totaled five hundred dollars. This was exactly three times the salary that I had earned at the Playhouse.

I was very happy. The college officials, including Arthur Blum, concluded that I could be an asset to Point Park College. Subsequently, they offered me a one-year contract for twelve thousand dollars as a dance instructor, which paid the same salary that I received from the Playhouse, plus fringe benefits.

A college professorship suited me just fine, though I never loved academics. At least, I now had an opportunity to experience the American lifestyle. I took a relaxing Ocean City, New Jersey vacation with the George family before the start of my regular classes in September 1968. Mary was also teaching ballet, while Lester and Marietta Evans taught tap and jazz, respectively. I was unprepared for how rapidly the work would pile up.

The Playhouse’s contents were transported to the college, which had purchased the facility. Mark Lewis was promoted from Director of the Pittsburgh Playhouse School to general manager of the Playhouse Theatre and Director of Theatre/Dance at the college. Naturally, Lewis was counting on my cooperation. He hoped to build a strong theater program and wanted a comparable dance department.

I speculated that The Nutcracker would be a viable attraction for the children’s theater series, which was directed by William Leech. The idea caught. Leech scheduled performances every weekend for two months at ninety-nine cents per ticket. At that time, a gallon of gas was twenty-nine cents, while a pack of cigarettes cost a quarter. The price was right. The two-month run was completely sold out, including the standing room space. Students were bussed in from various schools. The Nutcracker became one of the Playhouse’s most popular children’s shows. While I was impressed with how Bill Leech handled the public relations and ticket sales, dance was not his priority. I always wished for more emphasis on it, as my mind was set on building a ballet company.

Whenever I visited New York, I attended performances by the New York City Ballet. A chance meeting with Violette Verdy, who was an old friend from Paris and NYCB’s leading prima ballerina, proved to be auspicious. After we exchanged hugs, I told her about my job and goals. Violette wondered why I had not invited her to dance in my Nutcracker. I was thrilled by her interest, as she was a ballerina of international fame. I was also embarrassed. I vigorously explained that my ensemble was amateur.

“Sometimes destiny decides your actions,” she replied. “Darling, chéri, you don’t know America, don’t worry about that, I will explain it to you later on, just invite me.”

Her offer decided my future.

We agreed that when I returned to Pittsburgh, we would set the date of her appearance. I excitedly approached Mark Lewis with my idea, and we in turn presented it to Arthur Blum. Permission was granted.

In performance, Violette was partnered by NYCB’s Earl Sieveling. Alternating in the roles of the Sugar Plum Fairy and Cavalier were Anna Aragno with the Royal Winnipeg Ballet’s Bill Martin-Viscount and my local dancers, Jayne Hillyer with John Occhipinti. The event was a tremendous success. The public realized that the troupe must be worthwhile, as a NYCB ballerina was willing to dance with it.

This was the beginning of the Pittsburgh Ballet Theatre.

During my first year at the college, I was adjunct to the American Wind Symphony, under the direction of Robert Boudreau. During the 1968-69 school year, the orchestra was associated with the college. The Musicians’ Union forbade it to perform independently in the City of Pittsburgh. The ever-resourceful Boudreau circumvented the ruling--he purchased a barge. His orchestra played on the docked barge, which floated on the river. The audience listened from the banks. Arthur Blum decided that as the dancers were not then unionized, I could erect a stage on the river banks and my dancers could perform to the Wind Symphony’s music.

Boudreau had independently contracted several dance artists to appear with the Wind Symphony and I in turn extended invitations to them to work with us. Babatunde Olatunji and his troupe of singers, dancers, and drummers specialized in African culture. We enjoyed his Katherine Dunham-style dance classes, which fused African and modern dance. The power of the drums and the rhythmical magic of that beat forced the body to respond to the rhythm patterns. I was introduced to the form by jazz teacher Gene Robinson in Paris and was quite comfortable with it. Olatunji was impressed with my technical facility.

We also worked with an emerging modern troupe, directed by Louis Falco, whose reputation as a choreographer was on the upswing. During the week-long residency, the company performed with the Wind Symphony and provided master classes for our dancers. Falco was later presented by the Pittsburgh Dance Council, but this engagement predated its efforts to import modern dance.

I remember that shortly after our arrival in Pittsburgh, José Limón’s company performed at Allegheny Center, a shopping and office complex. I had seen his The Moor’s Pavane on film in Yugoslavia. (It was among the first American modern dance works that I had seen.) As I was now the major dance figure in Pittsburgh, people were eager to introduce us--his initial look seemed to say, “Who the hell is Mr. Petrov?” But we became acquainted, were photographed together and I got to meet the person whose work had influenced me. Subsequently, several of his dancers performed with PBT.

Blum was eager to launch a summer dance program. This initial effort, held from June 30 to August 10, evolved into our International Summer Master Classes. I sought out internationally known instructors to make the program more exciting, to attract students from outside of Pittsburgh, and to build Pittsburgh’s reputation in the dance world. The name at the top of my list was “Léonide Massine.”

When I heard that Massine would be in New York staging his Parade for the Joffrey Ballet, I immediately phoned his daughter Tatiana for his address. It would be a major coup to have him on the faculty as a visiting artist. My ulterior motive was to tap his expertise as an artistic advisor for my fledgling ballet company.

I had previously invited Frederic Franklin to stage Les Sylphides for a corps of forty-six, and now had to prove the feasibility of importing Massine. I convinced Blum that Massine’s presence was newsworthy and his engagement would elevate the faculty’s status. Massine taught from July 7 to August 3, 1969. We had not seen each other in four years and at our reunion, he was cordial, business-like, and unemotional; I was happy to see my role model, mentor, and teacher. It was the beginning of a fruitful collaboration that created a solid base for PBT’s future.

Franklin, an old friend, was then director of the Washington National Ballet. He was again on my roster, as was my former schoolmate and closest friend Stevan Grebel, then a Washington Ballet principal, with whom Franklin was infatuated. I invited Freddie, who never said “no,” to restage Les Sylphides for a Three Rivers Arts Festival performance. (He had initially set it for our Noir et Blanc debut.) He was a rare ballet master who remembered the ballets that he danced and could revive them in a very short time. He was an indispensable asset to an emerging company. Instead of his usual thirty-five hundred dollar fee, he asked for just $150, plus room and board. Essentially, he did it for free--for a good drink and a good laugh.

Les Sylphides, performed to taped music, was a very practical ballet for us. When we arrived in Pittsburgh, it was one of the first works we had in mind to restage. However, Mary was reticent about setting it on students with no previous exposure to it. Our experienced dancers knew the featured roles and had only to decide who would dance what. Freddie worked with the students and handled that very well, as he demonstrated cleanly--which was his forte. The ballet utilized a student corps of twelve and showcased the few capable soloists that I had--Jayne Hillyer and John Occhipinti, Elva Scapes, and Jean Gedeon, plus Mary, who danced in almost all the performances.

We also had a guest artist for the Three Rivers Arts Festival show--Alicia Pastorova, a prima ballerina from Bratislava, Czechoslovakia who performed the Mazurka. Pastorova, a small, personable woman and an outstanding artist, was the sister of our future board member Michael Flack. He had invited her to Pittsburgh and brought her to our rehearsal of Les Sylphides. When we asked her what she thought, she replied, “It was very good, but…” and offered corrections and suggestions.

Mary nudged me and said, “Hey, this woman knows what she’s talking about.”

The Arts Festival performance was coming up and I thought, “Well, we have to have guests.” And I asked her to step in and dance. For us, it was an opportunity to share the stage with a prominent artist and for her it was a chance to perform in the U.S. I was taking a big risk. She did not have a work permit. But Pittsburgh was too naïve in dance for this to cause a problem. And, she did a wonderful job.

Sylphides became a repertory staple offered on our park and outdoor programs. We danced it so frequently that it became routine for our eager young corps, some of whom dozed off in the scenes where they were posed on the ground. Their napping was only noticeable when they would rise “late” to shift poses. We joked, when corps member Karen Prunczik once missed a cue that she had exhausted herself so much in a demanding solo that the music rocked her to sleep.

The Arts Festival bill also included a modern work, created by guest collaborators Ethel Winter and Lucy Reynolds, both Martha Graham dancers. As I was very curious about the Martha Graham School, Mary and I went there to take classes. I was eager to meet Graham, but encountered her sister first. In conversation, I mentioned that I was based in Pittsburgh, was forming a ballet troupe, and wanted to engage guest principal dancers--Winter was atop my list. She warned me not to mention “Pittsburgh” to Martha, who despised the place. While this raised my curiosity, I never learned Martha’s reason. Winter, a former Graham principal and Sears-Roebuck affiliated artist, came highly recommended by Graham and I hoped that she would someday head the college’s modern dance division. Point Park College offered her an eight-week residency in 1969-70 that included teaching, lecturing on modern dance, and creating choreography.

Robert Boudreau, who imported impressive guests for his Symphony, including Dizzy Gillespie, and Dutch composer, Henk Badings, one of the best known outside his country, graciously permitted me to choreograph his Pittsburgh Concerto, for an Arts Festival performance. Thom Thomas, a Pittsburgh Playhouse associate, provided the libretto for this futuristic ballet, that depicted an age where computers control life and human emotion is illegal.

Initially, I aimed to create events that generated publicity and raised interest in dance. Through my affiliation with the Pittsburgh Opera (1967-1992) as its resident choreographer and my association with Richard Karp, I moved closer to my goals. Karp encouraged me and admired Mary’s dancing. I genuinely believed that he liked what I was doing. As my company evolved, I followed his principles--the opera had both good and poor singers, while the stars were imported from New York’s Metropolitan Opera. I created a local corps de ballet, augmented with celebrity guest artists, including Violette Verdy, Edward Villella, Peter Schaufuss, and Natalia Makarova--as Karp had done with the Pittsburgh Opera.

The push towards establishing a company was necessitated by financial considerations. As an adjunct to Robert Boudreau’s Wind Symphony, I was allotted five thousand dollars, a fair sum, yet it was insufficient to launch a company, pay professional dancers, and cover the costs of commissioned ballets. Boudreau frankly stated that he would not split the budget with me. The time had come for me to seek out support and create my own company. I was disappointed. I felt lost, but was determined to succeed.

Pittsburgh Ballet Theatre was incorporated in 1969, a legality that established it as a non-profit organization and provided accreditation for fund-raising. The arrangement between the company and the college provided donors to the college with a tax shelter. Although we had backing from some well meaning parents, they had few resources. My next step was to assemble a board and target donors for the company. Board driven art was unique to me and difficult to comprehend, as in Europe both opera and private companies were subsidized by the government. The mayor or the country’s minister of art was influential in allocating funding. In Eastern Europe, funding was handled by the political party and permission was part of their governing power.

The American way has a good side--generally, board members are art lovers and their involvement is self-propelled and charitably disposed. However, the artists must prove their worth and hope their efforts are appreciated. Ideally, a board should be composed of philanthropists, heads of foundations, and the socially prominent, who are interested in the arts, can create excitement about the art form that they support, and can incite others to follow them. What is most uncomfortable here is that the artists are dependent on the opinions of the board members. Unfortunately, every art lover does not have enough knowledge and expertise to always make valid decisions.

On PBT’s first board were Point Park College President Arthur Blum; Vice-President Stanley Buswell; Thomas Kerr, an attorney and President of the local ABA; theater director S. Joseph Nassif; and me. On paper, we were now a professional company. We imported quality stars and had a number of good soloists, but we were still primarily a talented student troupe. We needed time to build artistry.

Our every action generated free press. Almost weekly, I was involved in a newsworthy story. Unfortunately, this publicity generated tension among my new colleagues at the college, whose academic disciplines were less exciting to newspaper readership.

While organizing a company, I was also developing Point Park College’s dance department and negotiating with the best available teachers to boost enrollment. I persuaded Arthur Blum that Pittsburgh Ballet Theatre’s performances, then sponsored by the college, would attract new students. At the time, we had an enrollment of about thirty-five. Funding remained a problem, as I had no budget. (Although PBT shared dancers with the college and used its facilities, the two entities had separate budgets.)

I needed a vigorous campaign to recruit board members, especially those who would generously donate money for dance. I needed an arts angel--someone of prominence in Pittsburgh society, who had access to high circles. I turned to Loti Falk, a socially active woman, who owed me a favor from the Playhouse days. She was the perfect choice for President of the Board of Trustees and I hoped to tempt her with the offer. It was she, who explained to me how the board system functions and she was instrumental in developing and recruiting members for PBT’s board.

Loti was a charming woman, with whom I could easily converse (even in French) about any subject. We mutually respected each other. She received me very cordially. Our meeting ended with her promise to speak with her husband, Leon Falk, Jr. and give me an answer in the near future.

I later learned that she phoned Arthur Blum. He expounded on the merits of my plans and told her that I was bordering on genius--an exaggeration, I think, just to grab her interest. He was also wooing her for Point Park College’s board. She accepted my invitation to help develop PBT’s audience, find sponsors, and support the dancers.

Initially, she focused on raising awareness among the wealthier Pittsburghers, while I concentrated on acquiring dancers, networking for choreographic opportunities, and building a repertoire. Her efforts enabled me to import ballets like Petrushka, which sported Bakst designs, invite guests including Edward Villella, and produce modest ballets with astonishing costumes and décor. Together, we worked limitlessly and well into the early morning hours, until her husband urged her to retire for the night. As we were both born under the sign of Sagittarius, we had a saying, “Sagittarians never give up,” and we believed it.

Pittsburgh Ballet Theatre was an offshoot of Point Park College and both shared a Board of Trustees. Eventually, we created a smaller executive board comprised of Point Park College board members or their wives. Connie Rockwell was on the executive board, while her husband, Mr. Willard Rockwell Jr. served as the President of Point Park College’s board. With Leon Falk’s approval, Loti accepted the post as Chairperson of Pittsburgh Ballet Theatre’s Board of Trustees.

In general, Board selection is a democratic process, initiated by the willing. Screening eliminates those lacking the wealth, position, and power. Some members come and go, but the serious ones stay and often recruit their friends. Serving is their duty and their compensation is pride, achievement, and respect.

On the Board of Trustees for 1969-70 were Loti Falk (Chairman), Jo Ann Blum (Vice Chairman), Yolanda Marino (Secretary), Arthur Blum, Frank Bock, Paul Draper, Dr. Michael Flack, Joseph Geffner, Stephen George, Mark Gleeson, Dr. William Hunt, Connie Katz, the Honorable H. Sheldon Parker Jr., Mildred Posvar, Walter Prunczik, Connie Rockwell, and James Wetzig.

The performance season and academic year ran simultaneously. The two began to blur. PBT’s identity became submerged in the dance department. Most of the corps de ballet members were full and part-time college students, who had enrolled in the school just to dance with the company. For them, a Baccalaureate degree was a bonus, not a goal. Their stipend was five hundred dollars a month, plus as working members of the company, they “earned” their room, board, and tuition. Generally, the soloists were not students and received better pay. The dancers resided in the college’s dormitories and PBT’s ballet masters served double duty as College faulty members.

We modeled our organization on the Duquesne University Tamburitzans, a world-class ethnic dance ensemble, which selected scholarship recipients via an audition process, then prepared for the season with an intensive six-week summer rehearsal period. The dancers received full academic scholarship instead of salaries. The box office revenue from touring offset the dancers’ tuition fees, while touring provided a public relations vehicle for the school. Unfortunately, our performing schedule was less rigorous. Consequently, the exchange level did not tip the balances in favor of the dancers. Although the company was affiliated with the college, it did not subsidize performances, as that was the responsibility of the newly formed board.

At the outset, enrollment in Point Park College’s dance program skyrocketed from thirty-five to 250 students. I chose those initial thirty-five from a pool of several hundred based on their capability to dance for PBT, not just on suitability for academic admission.

Arthur Blum asked, “Why do you refuse so many students?”

They had no talent or future in dance.

He explained that they were graduated from high school and by American law, we should accept them. I had nothing against enrolling them in the college; they simply were not right for the dance program. He explained that if I wanted a department and a company, we needed the tuition. The college could not subsidize an artistic endeavor if the endeavor did not generate income.

At his suggestion, we kept the core of thirty-five; assigned another 150 to a second group of moderately talented students and created a third group who were talent-less or physically unsuitable. The tuition paid by groups two and three subsidized the primary thirty-five. If 250 auditioned, then I should take them all. I took this as an order from the college president. I divided the groups into advanced, intermediate, and beginners, based on technical level. Instead of refusing 150, as I had done previously, we took everyone.

Space was a problem. We converted several areas into new studio space and expanded the faculty. I invited some summer program guest instructors and sought out others. However, my faculty drew from different artistic backgrounds. Consequently, we could not work from just one teaching methodology. It had been my intention to model our program on the Kirov School’s training program, which is the crib of the Vaganova system. In fact, one of my faculty members, Mieczyslaw Morawski, who was originally from Poland, had studied at the Kirov and had filmed the Leningrad-based school’s eight-year graded training program. (He had arranged for someone to market the films. But someone bootlegged them and he was embroiled in a legal entanglement.) We setup an identical curriculum with the same requirements. However, harboring ideas and realizing them are two different things.

The challenge to all of us was correcting poor placement, which was evident in eighty percent of the students. Unfortunately, these were not young children, but dancers in their late teens, whose bodies were already developed. However, they were talented--it seemed that Americans possessed a tremendous facility for dance. I realized that to keep my job, I must compromise. My dream was to produce top caliber dancers, like those in Paris and London, but I did not know how to achieve this goal. Instead, I worked mostly to patch-up and correct the uncorrectable. My only successes were with the students who were supple, intelligent, and could re-program their techniques.

Mark Lewis and I continued to collaborate. Although I had wanted him to manage PBT, Loti, who disliked him for his alliance to Ted Hazlett and for his unconventional ideas to save the Playhouse, nixed it. Instead, she pressed her friend journalist Marie Torre, a television producer to recommend someone. And that happened to be Joseph Nassif, who in the end turned against her.

As chairman of the dance department, I had two secretaries and an office of my own. PBT’s offices were located on the ground floor of Lawrence Hall, where my office is today. As I led both the company and department, I had the luxury of creating the schedule, which required careful logistical planning to avoid conflicts. For the college, I taught classes and spent some time in my office, while I gave the warm-up, worked on choreography, and attended to the company’s administrative duties. Retrospectively, I realize this required double energy. I made the tremendous mistake of accepting a single salary for both jobs, instead of regarding each as separate employments.

I was flattered to be an assistant professor, Pittsburgh Ballet Theatre’s founder and director, and the Pittsburgh Opera’s choreographer. I felt needed, respected, and happy. At the time, achieving my goals out weighed financial considerations. My salary had increased by four thousand dollars with my appointment as chairman of the dance department. By the 1971-72 season, my salary shot to eighteen thousand dollars. This raise was higher than the typical five or six percent, but my job was double in hours and service. I taught a full-time load at the college and carried out the chairmanship’s administrative duties. I taught the company and created ballets for PBT, plus helped Loti Falk to administrate the organization (without much enthusiasm). While I was entitled, as chairman of the dance program, to a lighter teaching load, I failed to take that option.

I considered my wages decent. After Pittsburgh Ballet Theatre split from the college during a financial scandal, I realized that I was underpaid. It was a super human effort to cope with the entire schedule.

Chapter Ten: Building Momentum

Mark Lewis taught me the importance of assembling a well-known and exclusive faculty. He forbade me to accept guest teaching gigs within a fifty-mile radius of the school. This was the secret. We now had an overall enrollment of 650, up from the initial forty-five students enrolled in 1967. Over the years, I continued to follow Lewis’ formula as I assembled a permanent and guest faculty of the highest quality.

I could always count on Edward Caton, who was one of America’s favorite teachers, a great guy, and my friend. However, he had spent much time abroad and his pool of committed followers had dwindled. Yet, I figured that his presence would draw his remaining devotees to Pittsburgh. Unfortunately, by 1973 his personal life--complicated by his adopted son’s drug problem--disrupted his work schedule and took a toll on his emotional health. He frequently missed classes. Although he was involved with several ventures in New York, his tenure at the college was his last teaching gig.

Although Morawski had a penchant for character dance and was not purely academic classical, he preferred teaching technique to teaching character. He brought his girlfriend with him and we were obligated to put her in the company, even though she was not very good. (But it was only one person and PBT’s overall technical level was not yet fantastic.) His films of the eight year-Vaganova training program were originally on eight millimeter film and with the help of dancers Anna Marie and David Holmes, Canadians who had studied in the U.S.S.R., they had been converted to sixteen millimeter. I convinced Arthur Blum to purchase a copy--a collection of twenty-five spools--for twenty-five hundred dollars, which was expensive.

Also joining Mary and me on the faculty were Vitale Fokine, Frano Jelincic, Ethel Winter, and Ismet Mouhedin. Among our guests were Tatiana Grantzeva, Valentina Pereyaslavec, and Frederic Franklin, who would eventually become PBT’s co-artistic director. These stellar teachers increased Point Park College’s credibility and viability in the international ballet world. Since Pittsburgh was not a destination for summer dance studies, I continued to collect a world-class teaching staff for the annual “International Summer Masters Classes” program, which was growing in popularity. I drew from people whom I knew from my own career--and from artists who worked with the company regularly. My aim was to provide balanced training in Vaganova methodology, old Czarist style Russian training, and the American adaptation. I felt very comfortable with my faculty and guest master teachers, even if they were better known and more popular than me. I always gave my utmost respect to their knowledge and status.

I maintained a quasi-office in New York at the mid-town Motor Inn Hotel (currently a Days Inn). As I was there at least once a month and conducted business from the hotel, management offered me a mailbox and attempted to assign the same room each time I visited.

In the sixties Valentina Pereyaslavec was a popular teacher whose classes at American Ballet Theatre School attracted leading dancers. She was reputed to be temperamental, so I appeared in the corridor by her studio bearing a big bouquet of red roses. When I saw her approaching, I applied my Slavic charm. I presented myself, kissed her hand, and offered her the flowers. I explained in Russian that I was in need of dancers for Pittsburgh Ballet Theatre.

She darted a serious look and slightly smiled. I knew I was in her good favor. She said, “Please come to see the class.” She led me into the studio and offered a chair. Solemnly she introduced me to her students and announced that I was hiring dancers. There was no tension or anticipation on their faces. I figured that Pittsburgh was not the most enticing city.

The class was nicely composed, along the lines of the Vaganova system. It was “dancy” and the students seemed to enjoy the combinations. Pereyaslavec behaved a little bit like a drill sergeant, but pleasantly and light-heartedly. After class she introduced me to Candace Itow, who was seeking employment and willing to appear as a guest artist. Her strong technique had caught my attention during class. I was satisfied with the recommendation and thanked Pereyaslavec for her courtesy.

I must have impressed Madame very much, as when I later invited her to guest teach--something she rarely did--she accepted on the condition that her pianist Valentina Vishnijevska come along. I now realize that the pianist is a collaborator with the teacher and improves the quality of the class. (Certainly Madame would not fit into the CD generation!) When I fetched her at the airport, I treated her as if she was “Queen of the Dance,” which in a way, she was. New York’s stars flocked to her classes and her background in the European dance arena was impressive.

Candace Itow accepted my offer and was involved in almost every major project during PBT’s early years. She was responsible, reliable, and pleasant to work with.

We had a school and a company, but needed visibility that only national and international dance periodicals and dance publications could provide. We purchased healthy, one-third page ads in Dance Magazine and Dancing News (which Marian Horosko published). William Como, then Dance Magazine’s editor in chief was very helpful and friendly. He was instrumental in assigning feature articles about us and for attracting the attention of New York and Chicago-based critics such as Clive Barnes (New York Times/London Times), Ann Barzel (Chicago Tribune), Doris Hering (Dance Magazine), Walter Terry (New York Post), and Olga Maynard (Dance Magazine), who put Pittsburgh Ballet Theatre and Point Park College’s Dance Department on the map.

Barnes and Barzel played the biggest roles in PBT’s early history.

Barnes and I first met in Paris’ Theatre Champs-Elysée during intermission at a performance by the Marquis de Cuevas troupe. We crossed paths again during my tenure with Massine’s Balletto Europeo De Nervi and later met in New York at the State Theatre at Lincoln Center, where he projected the impression that he knew me well.

He had an international reputation and was a critic whose opinion could make or break a company. Many artists feared him, especially on Broadway. However, I recall him modestly stating, “My opinion is only one person’s.” Well, I needed that opinion.

I invited him to lecture for the drama school and to talk to the dancers about dance in the U.S. He accepted and regularly reviewed PBT from 1971 through 1977. I felt very comfortable when he came to review. I admired his attitude towards PBT and towards me. His reviews were very encouraging and certainly boosted my ego. They provided me with the incentive to preserver and tackle bigger and better works. We were new and not ready to perform in New York, but he provided priceless exposure through the New York Times and later the London Times.

Barzel, a respected and knowledgeable critic, wrote for the Chicago Tribune, Dance Magazine, and Dance News. A retired dancer who had studied with Bolm, Fokine, Volinine, and Doris Humphrey, she possessed insight and profound knowledge of the art. She had experienced the development of twentieth century dance in America, while maintaining an active interest in the European dance scene.

We initially met in Italy, during Balletto Europeo De Nervi’s performances. I invited Ann to review our performances and to lecture, as she was a living encyclopedia. She became a devoted follower and ally, especially when PBT visited the Chicago Opera. I always felt that something was missing when she missed one of our openings. She provided a dash of encouragement and boosting. She was never deprecating, even when unenthused by a specific work. She wrote about what was really happening onstage regardless of the audience’s reaction.

I first attracted local attention with my performance and choreography for the Pittsburgh Opera, which the critics praised. Most of the local newspaper critics covered other beats--sports or music. Their criticism was based on what they heard from others while talking about dance, and from their personal tastes. I could not expect knowledgeable dance criticism at that time. Critics should not only rate works as good or bad, but also should provide good advice or suggestions. Constructive criticism benefits a company and its dancers. The newspaper critics were indulgent and lavished encouragement and compliments. Obviously, the guest artists and choreographers contributed significantly to the success of our performances.

Locally, public opinion was shaped by Ruth Heimbuecher (Pittsburgh Press), who nurtured the fledgling dance community as did her successor Pamela Reasner--both were encouraging and complimentary; by Marylynn Uricchio (Pittsburgh Post-Gazette), who covered the dance beat for just a short time; and by Michelle Pilecki the unbiased voice of the Market Square. Jane Vranish (Pittsburgh Post-Gazette) was the controversial critic whose negative criticism hampered the development of a Pittsburgh dance audience. The Post-Gazette’s slant was to assert its knowledge of dance. Unfortunately that judgment was weak and limited in the dance arts and based on negative opinion. With the demise of both the Pittsburgh Press and Market Square, unfortunately Jane Vranish remained the “Queen of Dance Opinion” in Pittsburgh. She personally did not like me and continued to undermine my efforts, even after my departure from PBT. While I could never understand why, perhaps it was because she had been one of my students. However, she was not material for Pittsburgh Ballet Theatre--can someone hold a life-long grudge because of the lack of attention in ballet class?

I read in Dance Magazine, that Ruth Page was selling her costumes. I was interested and I called her. Page, who was an extremely charming woman, invited me to examine the inventory.

I flew to Chicago on a cold winter day. From a window of her Lakeshore Drive apartment, which overlooked the lake, I noticed that the water was frozen. I still vividly remember every detail of her residence and studio (housed within her apartment). The walls were filled with framed artworks. These depicted scenarios from her ballets and were painted by several artists, including Bernard Daydé and Andre Delfau. It struck a chord with me, as did Ruth herself. Although we had initially met in Nervi, this was the beginning of a great friendship and a strong association between the Chicago and Pittsburgh dance communities.

It was an unforgettable three days in which I perused programs, posters, pictures, and films. I was struck by her choices of ballets, painters, and music. Among the films were Carmen, Carmina Burana, The Merry Widow, and Frankie and Johnny. These sixteen-mm films were superior to Massine’s black and white films, which were old and unaccompanied by sound. Page’s films were produced by a television company and synchronized both picture and sound. Some were even in color. I was impressed.

Page’s work was not purely classical. Yet, the similarity between her choreographic style and Massine’s was amazing. While she had been influenced by Harald Kreutzberg, with whom she had danced and by Bentley Stone, with whom she had shared a company, obviously she had been very impressed by Massine’s Ballet Russe tenure. Her unique contemporary style reflected the evolution of the American dance conscience. Her creations leaned towards popular dance, but were clear and full of logic. She had a penchant for story ballets and short ballets based on operas and operettas. In Europe, her ballets, which had been produced by Les Ballet Americains in the fifties, were regarded as representative of the “American style.”

I realized what an American treasure this Indianapolis native was to the dance world. She was unappreciated for her half-century of achievements and for her career that began when she was discovered by dancer Anna Pavlova in 1918. Page carried the stamp of “Pavlova” and “Ballet Russe” with her throughout her career, a merit badge reinforced by her study and work with Adolph Bolm. She was acquainted or associated with almost every notable dancer in America, which carved a unique place for her in American dance history.

Page’s ballets were perfect for PBT’s repertoire. I was ready to rent, borrow, or buy her ballets, costumes, and company. Page’s most recent troupe had just folded. Dancers Patricia Klekovic, Orrin Kayan, Kenneth Johnson, and others were consequently unemployed. Unfortunately, I had no idea how or where I could find enough money.

Page captivated me with her unique and bubbly personality. Her interest in everything was contagious and she was an inspiration. We had breakfast, lunch, and dinner on her enclosed patio, served by her Mexican cook and maid. We exhausted many memories and discussed people whom we both knew. The Massine factor generated mutual interest and a bond between us, which strengthened after she saw my choreography. Our common interests, behavioral similarities, and related choreographic styles were so evident that Kenneth Johnson later remarked, “You remind me of Ruth Page,” a factor that facilitated our subsequent working relationship.

Page had a unique lifestyle--she attended all artistic events and was comfortable when surrounded with young dancers. Later, when she visited Pittsburgh for the first time, we had a gathering at the Point Park College Conference Center in Slippery Rock, Pennsylvania, where there was a beautiful swimming pool. Following dinner, Arthur Blum lit the pool, which looked very inviting. We did not have swimsuits. I guess shyness held us back, but not Ruth. She began to undress and in the blink of an eye, was in the pool. We realized that swimming suits were not an obligation and that we could very easily hop in the pool and have a wonderful time.

I decided to program Carmen first, but because it required an orchestra and a conductor, I scheduled it for later in the season. I expected that staging it would be an expensive venture, but Ruth nearly donated her ballets, including costumes, orchestration, and décor to PBT. That “give away” also included her dancers--Patricia Klekovic, Orrin Kayan, and Johnson, who was an experienced teacher and ballet master.

I returned to Pittsburgh via Amtrak, as I still had not recovered from my flight phobia. The train was three hours late. I spent this endless New Year’s Eve journey daydreaming and planning future collaborations with Ruth Page and her resources.

I was anxious to speak with Loti Falk and Arthur Blum about my sensational deal with Page. They were delighted. We began arranging Pittsburgh Ballet Theatre’s premiere season at the Pittsburgh Playhouse and invited as many potential sponsors as we could to the debut performance.

Chapter Eleven: Curtain Up

On November 12, 1969, we opened officially as “Pittsburgh Ballet Theatre,” in affiliation with Point Park College and the Pittsburgh Playhouse. The bill offered Fokine’s Les Sylphides with a principal cast of--Jayne Hillyer, Jean Gedeon, Candace Itow, Elva Scapes, John Occhipinti, Mary Petrov, and JoAnn McCarthy. In the corps were: Susan Bock, Ann Corrado, Carole Arnold, Charon Battles, Debby Benvin, Amy Chomas, Peggy Domer, Rosemary Gleeson, Patty Greenwood, Debby Hewitt, Pamela Klare, Carol Leubbert, Carolyn McIntosh, Shea Mihm, Joyce Moticska, Kathy Pierini, Karen Prunczik, Christine Ratay, Mary Rose Saxman, Susan Stone, Shelia Waldrep, Wendy Weiss, Diane White, Donna White, Mary Grace Wuenschell, and Susan Zelenak.

Ethel Winter, whose residency at the college was still in progress, contributed Spiritual Passage to music by Bach, En Dolor, which she performed and her Suite of Three. Also on the program were Marius Petipa’s “Grand Adagio” from Le Corsaire, performed by Pennsylvania Ballet’s Barbara Sandonato and Alexei Yudenich; an adaptation of Lev Ivanov’s “Grand Pas de Deux” from The Nutcracker, danced by Hillyer and Occhipinti; and my Motion in Emotion-Electronic, a large ensemble work. The program concluded with Jean-Paul Comelin’s Idyllic which used a score by Hertel. It was performed by the stellar Sandonato and Yudenich, whose dancing had the greatest impact on the audience.

Charles Donoughe, of the Valley Daily News, wrote on November 14, 1969:

If the premiere performance is indicative of the level of quality we might expect from the company, then, Pittsburgh and the surrounding areas can be proud to claim and to support the dancers. For Wednesday night’s program was both exciting and professional.

While Judy McNearney of the Chronicle, wrote on November 20, 1969:

The ballet de corps along with the company’s principal dancers…performed the opening ‘Les Sylphides’ exceptionally well…

The consensus of the Pittsburgh Press’ Carl Geruschat, published on December 19, 1969 was:

The premiere of the newly-formed Pittsburgh Ballet Theater (sic) provided one of the most exciting evenings at the Playhouse in a long time.

Yudenich and Sandonato were Pennsylvania Ballet’s award-winning husband and wife team. He, a native of Yugoslavia, had been imported to Philadelphia by Frano Jelincic, but they did not get along well. I invited them to perform whenever I could schedule them on a program. It was advantageous to have them on the bill. Certainly, they were always the sparkling stars of my productions and the public just loved them. The drawback was that they represented Pennsylvania Ballet, not PBT. However, it was not an issue as the Pittsburgh public was not yet knowledgeable about company affiliations--to them, it was either good or bad--and these dancers were very good.

Our collaboration developed into a profound friendship and they became close friends with Mary and me. He and I shared camaraderie. Sandonato, with her Italian temperament, was always charming, friendly, and cooperative. We spent many evenings in the couple’s Philadelphia home, talking about dance and planning with Barbara Weisberger, PB’s director. As Yudenich was a hot-blooded Yugoslav, we had very heated discussions--always about dance. The duo was constantly in demand, especially after Sandonato won a prize in Varna. Maybe the stress eventually caught up with Alexei. He developed back problems, caused by spinal deterioration and later bone cancer, which took his life.

Barbara Weisberger often helped me and I had to be amiable. However, I remember one thing very clearly--she asked me not to touch any of Balanchine’s ballets because she had built PB’s repertoire on them. By this time, we already had acquired Pas de Dix, an adaptation of Petipa’s Raymonda. I agreed to the request because I relied on her help. My initial idea was to launch our repertory with old warhorses such as The Nutcracker, Swan Lake, Coppélia, Giselle, and so on. I felt that Pittsburgh audiences were better served with traditional story ballets and those by Michel Fokine and Léonide Massine. I also knew that we were too inexperienced for major productions. Later, I hoped to showcase more contemporary works. Weisberger found my plans acceptable. We plotted out future programming. I held to my promise and only later, did I realize that I had put handcuffs on my artistic freedom.

The college operated a Laboratory School, which needed a high school level dance track because by age eighteen, it is already too late to produce a highly qualified ballet dancer--for my faculty and I it was an ongoing struggle to instill correct placement in older teens. Arthur Blum and Loti Falk were intrigued by my suggestion. I convinced them that all great companies had adjunct academic schools--the Paris Opéra School, Royal Ballet School, Kirov School, and Moscow Ballet Academy--that admit ten-year-old middle school students and graduate eighteen-year-old seniors, who have reached the professional performing level. We launched the short-lived Point Park Academy in September of 1970 as one of only two licensed high school programs in Pennsylvania.

We offered all forms of dance to an initial group of nineteen girls and two boys in grades nine through twelve. The goal was to produce students who would be qualified for college admission or ready to audition for professional companies. I was excited about having an arts curriculum and an academic curriculum under one roof, as this was most unusual in the United States.

However, some ideas are ahead of their time and require patience and money to develop and flourish. Two years later, Point Park College plunged into a financial bind and almost folded. To cut costs, the Academy was discontinued.

Many high-powered academic professors and deans were skeptical about--and resistant to--the concept of embedding the arts into an academic environment. President Arthur Blum, however, actually felt that Point Park College would have difficulty competing with other colleges and universities in the academic arena. He saw the arts as a bid for uniqueness and forged the affiliation with the Wind Symphony, purchased the Pittsburgh Playhouse, and facilitated the establishment of Pittsburgh Ballet Theatre. His detractors felt that his dreams were unrealistic and unachievable. When the financial crisis exploded in mid-1973, they blamed Blum for mismanagement of funds. “There is no fire without smoke.” The college’s internal problems were not discussed with me. I was simply an employee with great dreams of the future for dance in Pittsburgh.

For our April 1970 series, we scheduled Ruth Page’s Carmen; the adagio from Jules Perrot’s Esmeralda; Alexander Gorsky’s “Pas de Deux” from Don Quixote; and my “Pas de Deux” from Gayané. The program featured Swan Lake, Act III, which I adapted from Petipa. As the company was always enhanced by imported stars, we invited NYCB’s Violette Verdy and Edward Villella, as her partner to star in the Swan Lake excerpt with Candace Itow and fifty-something Istvan Rabovsky--who had once been the Rudolph Nureyev or Mikhail Baryshnikov of his day--as their alternates. Among the other guest artists were child prodigy Joyce Cuoco, an extraordinary technician; her partner Canadian superstar Bill Martin-Viscount, who had previously worked with me at the Pittsburgh Opera and at Three Rivers Arts Festival; and my old friend Stevan Grebel with his wife Melani Mihalic. Chicagoans Kenneth Johnson, Patricia Klekovic, and Orrin Kayan, plus corps de ballet members James Karlow and Jerry Kent, performed as guests and subsequently joined Pittsburgh Ballet Theatre’s permanent roster.

Villella was in peak form and famous throughout the U.S. for his television appearances on the “Bell Telephone Hour.” He had an extraordinary cat-like jump, a strong presence, and boundless energy, though Nureyev, who was just catching the attention of American audiences, had a cleaner academic technique. Villella was a very sympathetic person and was well liked by my dancers. He partnered Violette Verdy with great elegance and respect, a sophistication he must have acquired from George Balanchine. I remember a rehearsal for Scenes de Ballet that we held at NYCB--because of his schedule he could not come to Pittsburgh. Villella was extremely tired. Violette and I found him asleep underneath the piano. He apologized. When he stepped into the studio, he was in high gear, ready to rehearse.

I attribute much of my success in Pittsburgh to my relationship with Violette Verdy, who performed in many of my ballets, including The Nutcracker and later my full-length Swan Lake. She was always ready to assist with locating dancers or to perform as needed when she was available. Her reverent and respectful demeanor with others, including me, always generated pleasant relationships.

While Verdy and Villella came as a package deal from NYCB, I had to find a partner for soloist Candace Itow, who had worked with me at the Pittsburgh Opera. It was she, who actually cajoled the aging Istvan Rabovsky to dance the “Black Swan Pas de Deux” with her for this program. Although he was still in great shape, with solid technique, he was dancing in the mannered, early Soviet style. That style exaggerated movements and especially final poses. Yes, it is important for dancers to make movements visible to the audience, but the Soviets had a unique way of underscoring them. This was possibly Rabovsky’s farewell performance--as I am unaware that he made any subsequent appearances. He danced very well and was especially appealing to those who admired his style. Oddly, he reminded me a little bit of René Bon.

Joyce Cuoco was an extraordinary technician. We were inspired by her virtuosity and strength en pointe, exemplified by her ability to seemly turn and balance forever. For example, I walked into a rehearsal studio where she and Kenneth Johnson were conversing. Cuoco was standing in arabesque and I wondered when she would change feet. She did eventually switch and then continued to hold the pose on the opposite leg. In rehearsal for the “Pas de Deux” from William Tell with Bill Martin-Viscount, she executed so many pirouettes that we wondered when she would stop.

Like the Verdy/Villella package, Cuoco and Martin-Viscount were a pre-arranged partnership. Martin-Viscount, a true premiere dancer, had excellent taste, knowledge, and partnering skills. I first saw him perform with the Royal Winnipeg Ballet and decided that I had to bring him to Pittsburgh--which I did frequently. Initially, I had just engaged him, but after seeing Cuoco’s remarkable technique and the reactions of my dancers and the public to it, I realized the advantage of including her on our programs. For the April concert, they performed the “Pas de Deux” from Esmeralda, which suited Cuoco’s technique. We needed good audience response, as this program was mainly intended as a fund-raiser and to introduce ballet to new supporters.

It was always important to include friends on a program. I invited Stevan Grebel and his Florida-born wife Melani Mihalic to perform. They had met at Studio Wacker in Paris, while Stevan was dancing with Ludmila Tcherina. I admired Melani’s professionalism, but she was not my favorite type of dancer. They danced very well together. For our program, they performed the “Pas de Deux” from Don Q.” It displayed their technical bravura. He especially, was brilliant in projecting its Spanish flavor.

I choreographed, the “Pas de Deux” from Gayané for Hillyer and Occhipinti. At PBT’s inception, John, a Pittsburgh native with remarkable technique, was our only resident male professional dancer. He had trained locally with Mario Melodia, Duncan Noble, and Charlotte Mady and had gone on to the Washington School of Ballet in D.C. His tenure in Canada sharpened his interest in the then-popular Soviet style as did his study with Anatole Vilzak and Oleg Tupine. Gayané, which uses music by Aram Khatchaturian, was unknown in the West. It was a novelty for John, who put himself into full steam to do his best.

Hillyer, a professional dancer since age seventeen, liked most of the works that I did. She was enthusiastic about the Gayané duet. Together she and John were harmonious and did a good job. When I revived it later, I realized just how good a job they had done. I am still thankful for their zeal and willingness to be dance pioneers in Pittsburgh. When we see the end product, we tend to forget the great importance of those who built the foundation--without them, all the rest would have been impossible.

I chose Swan Lake, Act III for its bevy of character dances that showcased the strengths of our folk dancers. The evening’s centerpiece was, of course, the “Black Swan Pas de Deux.” The contrast between the fiery Edward Villella and the traditional Istvan Rabovsky yielded two entirely different interpretations. The same was true of Violette, with her mature understanding of the role and Candace, who was a promising soloist. Candace did a very good job. Violette, with her strong personality, sparkling execution, and excellent knowledge of tradition was remarkable and impressive.

Ruth Page and Pittsburgh actress Audrey Roth alternated in the Queen Mother role. Audrey, who often worked for actor Don Brockett, had “the look.” She was perfect for the role, while Ruth, who physically appeared less suited for it, captured its essence and had excellent mime skills.

My version included a Russian princess’ dance, which is rarely found in other productions. I wanted PBT’s repertoire to possess a very traditional representation of Swan Lake. (When I later produced the whole ballet, I incorporated a flamboyant gypsy into Act I’s “cup dance” which created a parallel with the “Black Swan.”) For Act III, I decided to include a female variation, choreographed to an exquisite violin solo. Usually, this is a character dance. I asked Mary if she wanted to do it--at first, she was reluctant, as she thought it would be danced in character shoes. I had instead decided to set it en pointe, but I told her it would be very simple. (Well, it turned out otherwise.) We went into rehearsal and improvised (I had not even counted out the music, which I usually do prior to the first rehearsal). She drew from her own emotions and from her folk dance experiences in Grjebina’s troupe. We built it like a mosaic, developing a section at a time. When we went into full company rehearsal, the other dancers remarked on its beauty, which bolstered Mary’s ego. Although she worried that she was not in top condition to perform it, she was just superb. The Playhouse audience responded enthusiastically and I knew then that the public liked this dance. Its success was repeated at the subsequent performance at the Syria Mosque. Mary danced it so impressively that Violette asked me to teach it to her. (Later JoAnn McCarthy learned it as an alternate; Jordeen wanted to learn it because JoAnn was dancing it: and when Natalia Makarova saw it, she wanted to learn it too.) The piece remains in my repertoire and over the last thirty years, I have often revived it. But, whenever I watch the video, I realize that nobody can do it like Mary did--there was something in the way she moved that made it believable, although JoAnn McCarthy also danced it well.

Wrote Judy McNearney, in the April 16, 1970 issue of the Chronicle:

The epitome of elegance in a dancer was seen in Marion Petrov’s Russian dance in “Swan Lake.” Mrs. Petrov is a classic beauty on stage and her husband’s choreography was obviously a labor of love.

Hernan Perez-Porter and I alternated as the evil Baron von Rothbart. I enjoyed the bombastic feel of this role and performed it with a lot of gusto.

The Spanish dance featured Hillyer; the Neapolitan, Charon Battles with Richard Fox; the Hungarian, McCarthy with James Karlow; and the Mazurka offered various alternate pairings--Hillyer or Ann Corrado with Perez-Porter, Jean Gedeon or Susan Bock with Edward Stewart, and Rosemary Gleeson and John Giffin. Our jesters were Leo Weitershausen, Donald Bradshaw, or Angel Bentancourt, while Benno alternated between Johnson and John Occhipinti. As the fiancées, I cast corps members Bock, Battles, Gleeson, Pamela Klare, Karen Prunczik, and Christine Ratay. McCarthy and Johnson, or Occhipinti were featured in the “Pas de Six.”

Carmen was a perfect vehicle for Kenneth Johnson and Patricia Klekovic, as Don Jose and Carmen respectively. Although Kenneth was not an academic, classical technician, he was an intelligent, well-rounded dance artist. Strong and adept with movie star good looks, he possessed dexterity and exceptional lifting ability that produced astonishing feats. His partnering skills were excellent. He joined me in the second part of his performing career and brought maturity and well-honed acting skills to his roles. He and Patricia enjoyed a superb partnership, as she had lovely lines and was a great adagio dancer, though Kenneth pushed her to carry through.

Orrin Kayan excelled as Escamillo. Jayne Hillyer portrayed Micaela. I was inclined to compare her role to the opera’s vocal role and felt she was excellent. Mary (cast as Mercedes) and Candace Itow (Frasquita) had lesser roles, but their performances made the most of the material. Both Ruth Page and I were very satisfied with their work.

At the time, we had a small orchestra of seventeen or eighteen musicians that comfortably fit into the Playhouse space. The Pittsburgh Youth Symphony Orchestra’s conductor, Michael Semanitzky was our guest conductor. He was exceptionally skilled in ballet accompaniment, as he had also worked with the Butler University Orchestra. I had met him through Marie Maazel, whose son, the famed conductor Lauren Maazel was the founder and director of the PYSO.

The performances were tremendously successful, judging from the feedback of supporters who were incited to donate. Although the corps de ballet was inexperienced, they had enormous drive, and their zeal was electric. Many had raw talent, and their enthusiasm and love of dance made them outstanding performers. The critics and I thought that they were electrifying and exciting. This performance established Point Park College and Pittsburgh Ballet Theatre as a promising jointure of an academic program with a dance company.

Pittsburgh Ballet Theatre needed to perform and to be seen. I jumped at every opportunity to get my troupe onstage--park performances sponsored by the City of Pittsburgh; arts festivals in Crafton, Shadyside, and downtown; lecture demonstrations in schools and other opportunities that introduced dance to the area. I knew that the more we danced, the better experienced the company would be and the more familiar the public would be with us. I had to do it.

I took advantage of public service announcements and media opportunities, especially aimed to draw television coverage. It was a tedious process, akin to nurturing a baby with baby food. As smaller events had limited staying power in the public’s mind, I felt compelled to do bigger, solidly newsworthy events to attract critical attention.

I wanted to rebuild and relocate The Nutcracker, which had only been presented at the Playhouse. The auditorium was too small and we could not sell enough seats there to breakeven. The ballet needed a big theater and an orchestra. At the time, Heinz Hall was only on the drawing board. We considered a move to the Syria Mosque.

I contacted Mrs. Maazel and Dr. Semanitzky to ask if the PYSO could play for The Nutcracker. To my great satisfaction, the price was right and both of them were interested in the association with the emerging ballet company. The Pittsburgh Youth Symphony accompanied PBT until the Pittsburgh Symphony was mandated to take over. Attorney Ted Hazlett, who headed the Mellon Foundation, commanded and manipulated artistic development in Pittsburgh. The Foundation contributed to PBT. Hazlett attached the stipulation to a fifty thousand dollar grant. Consequently, we were forced to employ the Pittsburgh Symphony, though I felt that the PYSO was better suited to us, as they were more on our level. Semanitzky became our permanent conductor.

My job was to gussy-up the old Nutcracker with new costumes, a new designer, and some new choreography. The choreography was no problem. I needed a designer. On a recommendation, I sought out University of Pittsburgh professor Henry Heymann. He was available and excited. We planned to construct light, easily moved sets so that the ballet could easily tour.

We scheduled Violette Verdy and Edward Villella for four performances. Our company was now richer, as we had acquired one permanent dancer from Russia--Alexander Filipov, who had been recommended by Rabovsky. I extended and created roles in the production specifically for Filipov--White Soldier, in Act I, which suited him and the lead in “Waltz of the Flowers,” where he was just superb. Bill Martin-Viscount, Patricia Klekovic, Kenneth Johnson, and our local stars rounded out the roster.

Several new dancers joined the ensemble, including Joseph Jutec Kacamon. We had fourteen strong, professional dancers and some sixty talented students and children from the community classes division of the school. This was our new beginning and we could not have been happier or more satisfied. The Syria Mosque shows sold-out. We were riding on a winning streak.

Several months before The Nutcracker production at the Syria Mosque, Rabovsky phoned with news that he had discovered a wunderkind in class at American Ballet Theatre School. Alexander Filipov, from the Moiseyev Ballet, who defected from the Soviet Union, was then in New York, taking classes and performing. Rabovsky said the dancer was young, full of energy, and had phenomenal technique. He recommended Filipov as a guest artist.

We met at New York’s Russian Tearoom. He looked boyish and serious. I made an offer, which he accepted. His arrival garnered national news coverage, which was more politically slanted than I would have desired, but certainly it was tremendous exposure for us. As he did not yet speak English, I served as his interpreter. For the local television stations, he performed a variation from Don Quixote in our largest studio. The dancers, faculty, and college administration cheered. His technique was exceptional. He had the clean Vaganova School style, instilled by Alexander Ivanovich Pushkin, one of the best male technique teachers in the world.

He remained on our roster as a guest artist in residence ever after he left ABT to join the San Francisco Ballet. He became my close friend and danced with me until he retired. He also taught at the college. Filipov--whom we all called “Sasha”--was one of those dancers whom I respected, admired, and valued as a friend.

The enormous success of The Nutcracker prompted me to assemble another full-length story ballet--Swan Lake, which we presented at the Syria Mosque. Proud to have an orchestra, a conductor, a designer, and good dancers, I felt gutsy enough to tackle the four-act ballet, which may have been the first full version produced in Pittsburgh.

I reengaged Verdy and Villella for the leads, with Klekovic and Johnson as the alternates. Martin-Viscount was cast as Benno and I had my roster of local soloists to dance the featured roles. But I needed help with the staging and asked Frederic Franklin to set Act II. Today, with readily available videos, the value of skills like Franklin’s has diminished, as now even a mediocre ballet master can mount a work if he has the patience to reconstruct it from a tape. At the time, Freddie was invaluable--usually.

I planned to stage Act I drawing on my memories from Nina Kirsanova’s Belgrade version, which descended from a pre-revolutionary Moscow production. Following in Marius Petipa’s footsteps, I would provide Acts I and III and Franklin could do Lev Ivanov’s job of contributing Acts II and IV.

Unfortunately, Freddie did not remember Act IV--except for the “Dance of Lament,” which during the Serge Diaghilev era had been interpolated into Act II. Violette and I tried to paste Act IV together from Cyril Beaumont’s descriptions and from memories (which in my case were very few, as by Act IV, I was usually in the dressing room, removing my makeup). We opted for the Soviet interpretation that ends with a promising future, instead of the tragic death of Odette and Siegfried.

Naturally, I knew that the performance, with its roster of amateurs was mediocre, though the allure of our stars--Verdy and Villella, made the show possible. We did the best that we could. Once you are in the public eye, you have to take the criticism, good or bad. We had only enough money for a single performance. The Syria Mosque, which had thirty two hundred seats, sold four thousand tickets, as there was no cap on standing room only admissions. Patrons sat on the steps--which actually were very good seats. (The Mosque had side seats which had poor sightlines.) I stood in the mezzanine--I would have fidgeted in a seat anyway. The public went crazy--clapping for even battement tendu. After the show, I was warmly congratulated.

The announcement of our Swan Lake production in Dance Magazine attracted the attention of Dame Alicia Markova, who was then on the University of Cincinnati’s faculty. Although many people attended the show--including Dance Magazine’s Bill Como, a New York critic, whose name I have forgotten, and people from ABT and the Joffrey--for me, it was a big honor that she had come to see the performance. When we learned that she was in the house, we invited her to the post-performance party, an invitation which she accepted. When I met her at the party, I lapsed into Russian, not knowing that she did not speak the language. “Well, we can speak in English, if you don’t mind,” she replied. We sat down and talked. I found her to be very British. I gathered the courage to ask, “What did you think of the performance?” She replied, “It was different, yes, it was very different,” and changed the topic. It was a non-specific answer, more tactful than instructive. The remark stayed with me. I use it too.

I had invited Stevan, but he was unable to attend and sent Dimitri Parlic in his place, as Parlic was working with him in Birmingham, Alabama. Parlic was never one to mince words and because I had been his dancer--and he gave me much less respect than he gave to Stevan--he could be blunt with me. I think he was surprised that I was capable of producing a performance like that, so he took the fatherly approach. He said, “You know Nicolas, you have to build the performance logically. You cannot make the ensemble numbers so strong that the public grows tired of clapping before the main pas de deux. You have to build progressively towards that focal point.” Later on, I observed this in other production, but at that time, I did not know that.

The catered party was in the basement of the Syria Mosque. It was not chic, but it was nice. As I recall, Joe Negri and his orchestra provided entertainment and many important local actors were there. Stage director Don Brockett--whom I had met through Audrey Roth--suggested an “auction” to raise money for PBT with the dancers going to the highest bidder. As I recall, we hesitated to ask Villella and Verdy to participate, but everyone got involved and our Sasha went for an especially good price. Pittsburgh always measures things in money, so the dancers who “earned” more also won more applause and cheers.

Besides main stage events, we continued to produce children’s programming at the Playhouse. These were a successful part of building audience awareness. As The Nutcracker had been tremendously successful, I choreographed three new ballets--Prokofiev’s Peter and the Wolf (our producer, S. Joseph Nassif provided the narration); Moussorgsky’s The Night on Bald Mountain; and--although it was a little mature for children--Walpurgis Nacht, a spectacular ballet which used music from Gounod’s opera Faust. My original intention had been to choreograph Walpurgis Nacht for the Pittsburgh Opera, but I learned that the company did not present it. Richard Karp explained that Faust was too long and with the inclusion of the ballet, the production would go into overtime. He could not afford to pay the orchestra. But I was so determined to choreograph it that I decided to present it as an independent ballet. Costume designer Frank Childs scripted the libretto, which was an ancient story that included characters like Helen of Troy and Cleopatra. The backdrop resembled hot coals in a barbeque pit. He designed the costumes, which were executed in Karinska’s New York shop. They were the most gorgeous costumes that I ever had for Pittsburgh Ballet. The main dancers were Patricia, Kenneth, Hernan, Edward Stewart, Jean Gedeon, and JoAnn McCarthy.

I wanted décor for my production of Peter and it really turned out beautifully. Elizabeth Kahler’s costumes were very vivid and the whole presentation had a fairytale ambiance. I was very proud of these three works; though they were essentially done for children they were presentable to adults.

Violette Verdy, who had come to see the ballets was very complimentary and said, “You have something of Balanchine,” which pleased me very much, as my work was still very much influenced by the Massine style.

Ruth Page staged Alice (in Wonderland) for the Children’s Series at the Playhouse. Joyce Cuoco was cast in the starring role with other leading parts assigned to Patricia Klekovic, Kenneth Johnson, and Richard Fox. Mary played the Queen of Hearts, which was one of her last roles with PBT, while company members assumed the many whimsical characters. Neal Kayan (Orrin’s brother) arranged the musical collage along with Isaac Van Grove and conducted our small orchestra. Neal played one of the two pianos, while company pianist Phyllis Connor played the other. Henry Scuillo and William Price were the percussionists. Barbara Ellenberger and Harrison Shields provided the vocals. The ballet had designs by Andre Delfau and costumes made in New York by Karinska. The performance, which was sponsored by PBT in affiliation with Point Park College, proved to be another jewel.

I filmed the ballet for Page and along with my film of Peter and the Wolf; we donated it to the Dance Collection of the New York Public Library at Lincoln Center. I never finished filming The Night on Bald Mountain or Walpurgis Nacht, as I was short on film. Peter and Walpurgis survived in the repertoire, but Mountain, disappeared, owing to its complex sets. I wish that these kinds of shows were still produced today, as they are a great introduction to dance for children.

Several years after Peter premiered its youthful interpreter Richard Fox, who was one of PBT promising character dancers, died tragically in a freak accident. As he and his family were moving to a new apartment, he jumped aboard and fell from a moving truck, sustained a concussion, and consequently a cerebral hemorrhage. It was a sad and cruel accident--movement was his craft and a mistaken movement took his life.

While Romeo and Juliet was on the drawing board, Sasha suggested recruiting another defector--Gennadi Vostrikov. Like Sasha, Vostrikov, also a former member of the Moiseyev Company, had defected in Mexico. Sasha had been brought to the U.S. by Lucia Tristao; Vostrikov had remained in Mexico.

Arthur Blum was excited about the prospect and engaged a lawyer to bring Vostrikov to the U.S.--which I think was accomplished with a student visa. Within a week, he was granted permission and we received him with open arms. He was pleased to be here as well. I remember that he had a little speech impediment--he stuttered whenever he became emotional. He proved to be a great asset to our company. I cast him as Mercutio--he looked “right” for the role. He was unforgettable. I remember that some members of the audience wept after his death scene.

Dimitri Parlic’s Romeo and Juliet had profoundly impressed me. I needed to develop as a dancer and choreographer before I dared to tackle such a big ballet. I had performed in various versions of Romeo and Juliet and besides Parlic’s interpretation, had seen Leonid Lavrovsky’s original 1940 production, also in Belgrade, starring Galina Ulanova as Juliet. She was already of a certain age--about forty--but she masterfully portrayed the fourteen-year-old girl. (Yet deep down, I wished she was much younger.)

During my visit to Verona, as a dancer with Theatre d’Art du Ballet, I fantasized about the production that I would one day produce. I took a guided tour of the city and photographed every detail. Later, in America, I saw Franco Zeffirelli’s film which starred young actors. I was convinced to cast young dancers in my ballet.

With Filipov and Vostrikov on PBT’s roster, the idea solidified, as I had a Romeo and Mercutio, respectively. However, I lacked a Juliet. As usual, I consulted with Violette Verdy, who suggested NYCB’s Gelsey Kirkland. Kirkland was then the company’s hot property. I met with George Balanchine, to ask for his permission. Without hesitation, he said, “Yes.” Gelsey knew little about Pittsburgh and less of me. She lacked enthusiasm, but agreed to think it over. Later, she refused to take the job.

I went back to square one and back to Violette. This time, she recommended young Edra Toth, a Hungarian girl, then on the roster at Boston Ballet. She advised me to speak with E. Virginia Williams, as Edra would be just perfect. Off to Boston I went. Virginia received me very cordially and was delighted that I was interested in hiring Edra. Edra too was ecstatic about the opportunity and accepted the assignment.

As I still needed a Tybalt, I recruited Orrin Kayan, who had played the role in Ruth Page’s version that was set to Tchaikovsky’s score. He had strong acting skills and the ability to play an aggressive character. He lived up to my expectations. Completing my principal cast was Jewell Walker as Friar Laurence--Walker, who taught mime at Carnegie Mellon University had previously performed in my Noir et Blanc.

We brought in Christopher Martin, a fencing master from New York to stage the fight scenes. Our fencing sequences were outstanding. I think that if our production had competed against any other production, we would have won the duel.

Designer Henry Heymann and I collaborated on the set design, working from my photographs taken in Verona and Padua, Italy. I insisted that the décor be a stylization of the buildings that contemporary Italians regard as the Capulet’s and Montague’s abodes, Friar Laurence’s monastery, Juliet’s balcony, the Capulet tomb, and the piazza where the fatal duels were fought. I realize that Shakespeare never visited Italy. The Italians adopted his story and assigned choice real-estate to promote the myth. Whether the story is coincidence or truth, the contemporary Italians are making a bundle, charging tourists to visit these sites. I must admit that I was one of those victims.

I felt that my production corresponded with those pictures and with the Italians’ conception. I disagreed with the set design in Lavrovsky’s production, with its monumental architecture that reminded me of the Julius Cesar era in Rome. Since I was using the same score, as he had, the concept of the story had to be similar. Scenes in the ballet were composed to be spectacular and based on motion.

It took a month of preparation to plot the choreography; edit the musical scenes; prepare the costume designs and décor; and to determine the function of the scenes. The in-studio work required about six weeks, plus a week onstage of tech, orchestra, and dress rehearsals.

Prior to rehearsals, I developed ideas, cut the music, and jotted down some preliminary phrases or optional movements to test on the dancers, though most of the actual choreography, which draws from my style based on the influences of Massine, Béjart, Charrat, and Lifar, was created in the studio, with them. While it may appear to those outside of dance that choreography just flows like an open faucet--that is not really true. It takes much preparation and mental concentration to create output over the course of several hours in rehearsal. I was trained and conditioned by my television experiences in Paris where time was limited. I always comfortably choreographed an average of one minute of dance in a one-hour period, a formula that always worked for me.

We sold all five performances to Standing Room Only capacity. This was a great box office achievement. I realize that even American Ballet Theatre, when it played on tour in Pittsburgh, barely drew an audience of fifteen hundred. My cast was outstanding--they were youthful, convincing actors, who mesmerized the public and pulled the audience into the dramatic action. Maestro Semanitzky did an exceptionally fine job.

About seventy-five percent of the critics were complimentary, agreeing with my interpretation of the subject. The remaining twenty-five percent criticized the ballet for not adhering faithfully to Shakespeare’s play, as they had envisioned his words differently. Here, I must interject that Prokofiev’s musical composition is fashioned after Lavrovsky’s libretto, which only touches on themes of Romeo and Juliet. As ballet has no words, it could not rely on the beauty and substance of Shakespeare’s language. When Shakespeare’s play Romeo and Juliet was initially presented, it focused on the text and substance of Shakespearean-style dialogue. Lavrovsky’s scenario utilized Prokofiev’s brilliant composition as its vocabulary. Yes, I agreed with the fanatics--the words were missing. It was not Shakespeare. Instead, it was Shakespeare’s dramatic concept expressed via Prokofiev’s score.

Ours was a memorable performance for two reasons--on October 8, 1971, we opened in Heinz Hall for the Performing Arts as an inaugural event for the new theater. This production was the American premiere of Romeo and Juliet, though the San Francisco Ballet, which had mounted Michael Smuin’s version, disputed it. The fact is that my production was the first full-length American production of Romeo and Juliet.

Years later, critic Clive Barnes, after seeing numerous American productions, said that mine “remains among the best seen in the United States.”

We filmed the premiere and held a screening at the Falk farm near Bedford, Pennsylvania, where we annually held a party. I was held in such high esteem by the Falks that I was a guest in their home, while the others stayed in cottages on the property. Rumor had it that during one of these gatherings, one of the dancers who had been partying too exuberantly, made a crude joke about Loti--which came back to bite him later, as without justification, she instructed me to replace him.

In subsequent productions the leading roles were performed by JoAnn McCarthy and Jordeen Ivanov as Juliet and Ismet Mouhedin as Tybalt, while Friar Laurence was portrayed by Edward Caton, Frederic Franklin, Kenneth Johnson, and me.

Following Romeo and Juliet, we restage The Nutcracker, which now moved to Heinz Hall and repeated its earlier success. We added a few performances and realized that it would be a moneymaker and an audience builder.

I asked Sasha, who was then on ABT’s roster, to negotiate a meeting with ballerina Natalia Makarova. Makarova, her boyfriend Vladimir Rodzianko, Sasha and I met at New York’s Hotel Wellington for drinks and small talk before I extended an invitation to her to perform with PBT as a guest artist. Natalia was interested in the Pittsburgh gig, if Rodzianko could conduct the Pittsburgh Symphony. As I could not immediately agree to that, I promised to get the answer when I returned to Pittsburgh.

Semanitzky had no objections. I was happy to extend the invitation to Natalia. Loti Falk and Arthur Blum concurred that it would be good press.

Natalia chose Ted Kivitt as her partner and he too accepted. We had only to work out the details. We scheduled the performance for December 3, 1971. I was worried about incorporating Natalia and Ted into our existing production and that they would criticize it. However, she claimed to be comfortable with it--and it did carry the traditions of the Petipa/Ivanov version. There were some differences in the mime scenes and the smaller parts. Her interpretations of the black and white swan dances fit perfectly. The transitional scenes were very much standard staging. Natalia helped me with my patch quilt Act IV, by demonstrating how the swans reverted to maidens again--how they walked, carried their arms, and how they behaved.

I engaged a claque that was instructed to throw red roses onstage after Makarova danced and to yell “Bravo.” (This was common in mid-nineteenth century Paris and the practice was later adopted by Diaghilev, who recruited deep voiced youths. If he could manipulate a success, so could I.) As the curtain rose, we were very tense and excited. The overture was fine, but by the “Pas de Trois” Rodzianko was rushing the orchestra so much that the dancers had difficulty following the tempo. Perhaps he did not remember the music. As time passed, the slow parts were fast; the fast parts were slow. Obviously, he was not in control of the orchestra. The tempos were so off that the performers had difficulty dancing. Tempo was also wrong for Makarova’s sections, but she did not complain. Her solos were a great success and we showered her with flowers--though the momentum was off and the claque did their best. After the performance, she asked us how Rodzianko had conducted. Sasha looked at me and then said in Russian Нечуво [pronounced nichuwa] which means “nothing/okay.” The ensemble was enraged and was eager for Semanitzky’s return.

When Klekovic and Johnson danced the succeeding performance on December 5, there were no red roses tossed onstage, but they earned a standing ovation, which I could not understand. Yes, they did a wonderful job, but did the public think that they were Makarova and Kivitt? Or was it because the ballet was played at the right tempo and the dancers danced better than ever? I am left with an everlasting memory of that performance. And Johnson has teased me “Ah, your Russians--we had better success.”

Chapter Twenty: You Know What You Know…

After many years of work devoted to the college, which produced good dancers and choreographers, I puzzle over whether or not I reached my goals. Yes, there were successful moments, but I never assembled a class of promising, talented students who were focused on ballet alone. I worked with thousands of students, but never produced the ideal dancer. Jordeen Ivanov, JoAnn McCarthy, and their generation were the nearest to that ideal. The university’s dance program is revitalized and enrolls 250 full-time students annually, who come from studios where standards are higher than in 1967. Yet, I must inform some students that unless their poor placement is corrected, their work will lack classical quality. My attempt to establish professional middle and high schools on the Kirov model was initially a paradise, but it collapsed with the college’s escalating financial crisis. In 1973, when the college and PBT separated, I suggested establishing a new PBT school. However, we were required to teach underprivileged children, as a city project. These children were completely uninterested and undisciplined. Most came for poor families and were brought up on the streets. The PBT School was established after my tenure ended.

Perhaps I should have opened a private studio to nurture and develop students from their early years through their teens. I never had that luxury and probably never will. I had a great wealth of experience to share. Teaching was also a self-awareness process as it reaffirmed, crystallized, and clarified my knowledge. I have been teaching for thirty-eight years. It has become second nature. I love teaching those who are interested. I hate teaching those who do not want to learn, who are uninterested, or are resistant. However, it is rewarding when former students--like Rob Ashford--who may have been momentarily resistant, change their minds, and develop into successful artists.

I unfortunately, do not think that I fully achieved my artistic goals.

In Pittsburgh, I started from nothing. Without help from Mark Lewis, Arthur Blum, and Loti Falk, I would not have progressed as fast or as effectively. However, I had to educate them first and that dominated the initial years of my tenure.

I wanted to gradually develop the audience and the company--by following the historical progression of ballet repertoire--and to eventually raise the standards of both. I knew how to lead the company towards its ultimate goal, but when I lost Loti Falk’s confidence, the company’s healthy growth diminished. She failed to understand that I was not doing what I wanted to do. I was instead adapting to the interests, needs, and understanding of the local audience, while slowly building the company’s quality.

Ironically, Patrick Frantz, who was PBT’s third artistic director, favored the Béjart-style that I had envisioned for PBT. Loti did not even realize that this was where we were going.

Instead, she blamed me for lack of artistic growth and artistic mismanagement.

I think the company achieved an international level and was enviable to competing companies. When I severed my relationship with it, I felt that my baby was not yet mature and had not completed the educational process to be a leading company.

Hiring Patricia Wilde was a positive move for PBT, but her vision was completely different from mine. Her experiences with Rebekah Harkness’ the Harkness Ballet had groomed her to accept Loti’s orders and to never say “yes,” but to never say “no.” She heavily depended on George Balanchine’s repertoire, which was dissimilar from the way that I had groomed Pittsburgh audiences. The corps improved and she had some very good artists on the roster. The company progressed slowly, but reached neither the level of Pennsylvania Ballet nor the Cleveland Ballet, its nearest neighbors.

In 2003, PBT celebrated its thirty-fifth anniversary with Swan Lake performances. I was invited to participate in an onstage ribbon cutting ceremony. Typically the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette’s Jane Vranish credited Loti Falk as the company’s founder. Without Loti, PBT would not have flourished, but without me Loti would have never become involved in ballet. Despite that, it was a good feeling that we started something that succeeded and survives. However, if I had remained with PBT, it would have achieved its current level of artistry much sooner.

Terrence Orr returned to programming popular story ballets, which long ago I discovered rang the cash drawer, while mixed bills played to empty seats. Yes, the company is in a bit better shape and under the influence of American Ballet Theatre. There are a couple of solid soloists and the corps is fairly good. They are heavy on administrative support staff, while dancers are shy in numbers. Consequently, PBT draws students from its school to supplement the cast in large works. Yet very few of those students are offered full contracts upon graduation. The policy of augmenting the corps with students has caused tension between the union dancers and management. From my perspective, the company is where I left it.

Chapter Thirteen: PBT On Its Own

The year 1973 was turbulent at Point Park College. The school verged on financial disaster. Rumors spread rapidly. Everyone hoped for a savior. Arthur Blum was counting on Leon Falk’s assistance, but he failed to step forward.

I was out of town for a few days when the bomb fell--I had gone to visit Stevan Grebel, in Birmingham, Alabama. Stevan had settled there and had become the dance department chairman of the University of Alabama at Birmingham. He was presenting a performance at the newly built Birmingham Civic Theatre. Mary phoned in the middle of the night. She told me that Point Park College had closed its doors. We had to immediately remove the contents of our office and retrieve our costumes. If the doors were padlocked, we would be unable to enter.

I rushed home. However, while I was in transit, Loti Falk called Vic Heller, the college’s maintenance department director and arranged to have our belongings carried across the street to the Pittsburgh Ballet Theatre Building. Although we had already begun holding classes in the building, renovations to the facility were still in progress. The crash had happened to fast. My “new” office was on the first floor.

In the meantime, Falk had negotiated an agreement with Chancellor Posvar at the University of Pittsburgh. He promised that if Point Park College folded, Pitt would pick-up the dance department--including all the faculty and students who wished to transfer.

It felt like the sinking of the Titanic. Many students departed. The faculty had the option of leaving--Caton went back to New York; Ismet--with my help--established the dance program at Mercyhurst College in Erie; Morawski--an unsettled soul, like Frano, found another job. Those who remained, along with the staff, went on the street to solicit money to save the college.

Very appropriate to the American way, somebody had to be blamed for this disaster. It happened to be Arthur Blum, who was slandered. I was one of his few friends who did not talk against him. I do not know if people do these things because of jealousy or because they think they could do it better. Blaming somebody is always very easy, but it really does not change the facts.

Retrospectively, I see how Point Park College treated Blum unjustly. He really had the college’s best intentions at heart. He was after all, part of the Finkelhor family, which founded the college. His goal was to develop its arts programs via the acquisition of the Pittsburgh Playhouse and through his affiliations with PBT and the American Wind Symphony. His goals were reasonable. The Starmakers Gala is living proof that his goals were achieved.

I am saddened that people in education can be so self-centered and idea-less in planning for the future. I know that not everyone can be a visionary, but being limited does not create an inspiring environment for an educational establishment. I am also saddened that donors to the college are greeted with fanfares and utmost respect while people like Arthur Blum and Mark Lewis are forgotten and no one ever mentions their names with reverence and respect.

My mentor Léonide Massine told me a story about respecting others. Respecting others generates self-respect. Serge Diaghilev insisted on speaking well of everyone--even of his enemies, because it could breakdown resistance and lead to friendship.

Dean John Hopkins was appointed as the college’s acting president. He approached his job intelligently, tried to earn the respect of those who remained on the faculty, and attempted to keep the budget balanced--which was the most important job of all, as his goal was for the college to survive.

I had met Hopkins during the Blum administration. A calm and distinguished gentleman, he was pleasant and levelheaded. What I liked best about him was his outlook--he never rushed a judgment and allowed all the sides to be presented. He treated everyone fairly. Whenever I introduced an idea, he always listened carefully, neither immediately negating its validity nor approving it. He never made promises that he could not keep. I really liked him as a person because I knew where I stood with him.

Yes, he saved the college and kept our salaries afloat. Instead of collecting unemployment when the college closed, we were paid the same sum as unemployment compensation. Three months later, the college was on firmer ground.

With PBT located across the street from the college, I had offices in both buildings. My workload at the college remained unchanged as I carried out my duties at PBT. Loti Falk said that since the two organizations were now divided, PBT would pay half of my salary, while the college continued to pay the other half. If either organization was to fail, I would be assured of the remaining half of my salary from the survivor. My college contract for the 1973-74 year was lowered to $10,500.

She also insisted on announcing the separation in Dance Magazine. Enrollment plunged. Applications fell from 250 the previous year to 128. Making matters worse, we had also lost the ability to recruit dancers on tour for the college and the company. Those auditioning for the college were given faint hope of joining PBT.

President Hopkins consolidated the dance, drama, film, and music divisions into the Department of Fine, Applied, and Performing Arts. Mark Lewis was appointed as Chairman. As the dance department’s director, I retained autonomy. I was more comfortable as “director” than as “chairman.”

Fund-raising was challenging. As America relies heavily on advisors, Loti Falk suggested that we invite authorities to evaluate our progress and offer suggestions for fund-raising. We invited American dance pioneer William Christensen founder of Ballet West and the San Francisco Ballets to visit.

Christensen offered many useful suggestions and recommended dancers Charles and Phillip Fuller, identical twin brothers who had graduated from the University of Michigan. They had danced with Ballet West and had also participated in the Festival Champs-Elysées with Joseph Lazzini’s Théâtre Français de la Danse. They joined PBT in 1974 along with Thierry Dorado, a product of the Paris Opéra School, who had also worked with John Cranko and Roland Petit. Dorado had been working with Bill who felt that the young Frenchman would fit in well at PBT because of my European background.

I visited Christensen in Salt Lake City, where he very graciously showed me Ballet West, the school, and operations, which were all very well organized. I was impressed. I was also fascinated with the greenish-blue salt-saturated lake. I could lie down in the water and float like a cork.

After a summer guest teaching gig in Salt Lake City, I headed west to visit San Francisco. On my return to Pittsburgh, I took a northerly route that swung through Colorado; stopped to visit Milenko Banovitch, who directed a dance department at a Denver college; and visited a ski resort. On another excursion--after Point Park College’s financial scandal--I visited Arthur Blum, who had landed at the San Francisco Ballet, where he was the manager. That time, Ismet Mouhedin, who lived in Erie, Pennsylvania, was along for the drive. Living in the Snow Belt--or as he put it, “like an Eskimo”--was not to his liking. While we were on the road, he was looking for a warmer climate. After visiting Blum, we dropped in on my friend Stefan Wenta in Los Angeles, where he was a choreographer for films and operated a prosperous studio. We took in the nightclub scene, where beautiful model types made “business” connections with producers. It was an artificial scenario with artificial people, who were artificially familiar. Then, we took a southerly route homeward through Arizona’s Grand Canyon--nothing but pebbles, pebbles, snakes, and pebbles--where we visited missions and bought tons of turquoise jewelry. As we passed through Dallas, Ismet insisted that we visit George Skibine, then the Director of the Dallas Civic Ballet and his wife ballerina Marjorie Tallchief. And that was a very wise decision.

Touring was essential for building the reputation of the company, for giving the dancers more stage experience, and for the budget. Following the Szilard experience, PBT approached Columbia Artists Management, but was rejected. PBT needed a young impresario, who would book it on the college and community theater circuit. Initially, we accepted local engagements and later expanded to other areas of the U.S. including Indiana, Illinois, Michigan, Texas, and Florida.

Essentially, I ensured that the performances went well and that the dancers did a good job, but I seldom had a say in the bookings--except for one Texas tour which resulted from visiting Skibine. Ismet knew him well from the Marquis de Cuevas ballet, where Skibine had been a leading dancer. I knew Skibine from Mme. Preobrajenska’s classes in Paris, but actually was better acquainted with his father, who often visited Studio Wacker. Neither of us had seen George in awhile. George and Marjorie received us with open arms. They were intrigued by my activities in Pittsburgh. George was avidly interested in importing my Romeo and Juliet. When I returned to Pittsburgh, I told Loti Falk of Skibine’s interest. As her husband had many contacts in Texas, an extensive tour would be feasible. And the wheels for the Texas tour were set in motion.

Some friends of Mr. Falk’s also negotiated a tour of Puerto Rico, but as I was still averse to flying, I let PBT go without me--obviously I could not drive there. It was an important engagement and my place should have been with them, but they had to devise a “cock and balls” story about a sickness to explain my absence.

Careful planning always went into the season opener. For the 1973-74 season, I programmed my production of Cinderella. I wanted my ballet to steer away from Soviet interpretations, especially Rostislav Zakharov’s version, which was the first to use Prokofiev’s score. My production was intended for children, but with contemporary theatricality--fast-moving scenes, a rich variety of costumes, and classical dancing--it offered sufficient diversions to maintain anyone’s interest.

I started by synchronizing the music with the storyline. I made cuts in the music, reducing the score from two and half hours to one hour and thirty-five minutes. I deleted most of the repeats, but kept the scenes and dances essential to the libretto.

Peter Schaufuss, with his tremendous technique was my inspiration. He was a born prince--perfect for searching the world for his love. We projected a spinning globe on a screen to suggest the Prince’s worldwide search, while Peter swung across the stage from one wing to the other on a thick rope. The effect was a hit with Pittsburgh Press critic Ruth Heimbuecher, who wrote on October 13, 1973:

A whirling globe in steamy clouds in the background told the story better than more elaborate (and more expensive) changes of scenery could have.

Even offstage, the role suited Peter’s personality. In his variation, he “flew” in this throne. It was also time to create a ballet for Dagmar, who was frequently partnered by Schaufuss. She too, seemed to personify Cinderella and was quite gifted and technically capable. Together, they danced brilliantly. For my comic trio--the step-sisters and their mother--I chose Kenneth Johnson and Orrin Kayan with Patricia Klekovic. Vostrikov was an excellent jester, while Dana Nugent led the Three Oranges. In this production, it was evident that the ensemble was finally acquiring a uniform look and dancing better together.

Henry Heymann, who did the set design, décor, and costumes, used photos of the Marquis de Cuevas company’s production as a guideline. As usual, our costumes were sumptuous and beautiful--made from silk and brocade purchased at an Altoona textile factory. However, on opening night, still unfinished, they were pinned onto the dancers.

I was particularly proud of my stage invention which used big, shiny, cutouts of the numerals one through twelve. These represented the hours chimed by the clock and were held by children dressed as dwarfs (à la Snow White) with fake beards, mustaches, and red noses. I filmed the whole dance so that in the story, when the clock stuck midnight twinkling numbers were projected all over the stage. The effect made the tremendous music even more fantastic and impressive.

Cinderella was our fourth big ballet and the envy of everyone who was producing small scale works with simple costuming. I was not following the Balanchine mold. He believed that the choreography should be the focal point and that elaborate costumes and décor were detractors. Pittsburgh was (and is) a market that preferred theater based works over the abstract. Even today, audiences tire of one-act ballets and smaller works but still enjoy spectaculars. I chose not to foist my personal preferences on the audience. Instead, I believed in providing the audience with opportunities to develop its own tastes. By starting with the classics, I felt that the audience would grow with the progressive expansion of the repertoire.

I opted for a mixed bill in November 1973 featuring Ruth Page’s--Carmina Catulli and Bolero, plus two of my works. The premise of Carmina Catulli was to combine her choreography with Carl Orff’s music and Andre Delfau’s design. As usual, Ruth spared no expense for costuming and did not take PBT’s meager budget into account. We could not afford what she wanted. Since she had planned this work for a longtime, she footed the bill and we produced beautiful costumes.

Augmenting Catulli’s cast were singers from the Cameron Choir of Carnegie-Mellon University, with soloists Donald Wilkins, Amy Griffis, and John Meyer. It was an interesting work and made a great showpiece for Patricia Klekovic. Kenneth Johnson assumed the role of Catullus on opening night, as Villella had a back injury. The ensemble, which did a good job of visualizing Ruth’s ideas, was progressively improving--precision was more accurate and the work was more convincing.

Page’s version of Bolero was a parody of the serious and sensual ballet produced and performed by Ida Rubinstein in 1928. In PBT’s production, Dana Nugent danced the lead role of the dazzling, seductive sex symbol to Orrin Kayan’s pimp. Their interaction was humorous, entertaining, and well received by the public.

In my Scenes de Ballet, Sasha Filipov subbed for Villella as Dagmar Kessler’s partner. My other contribution to the program was the slapstick Soirees Musicale, to the music of Benjamin Britten. Based on a Rossini theme it poked fun at ballet--exaggerating its affectations and posturing. In Canzonetta Kessler, Dinko Bogdanic, and Verdran Drutter danced a Coppélia-style pas de trois that emphasized their virtuosity. The Bolero adagio, danced with Spanish flair as a parody of its counterpart from Don Quixote, paired Jordeen Ivanov--who really knew how to make the public laugh--with Nicholas Polajenko or with Johnson. Jordeen was progressing very well. She was an accomplished dancer, one who could learn a role by watching. She had technique, musicality, and the potential to become PBT’s prima ballerina.

I was pleased that Polajenko had agreed to perform. He was on the college faculty and was well-liked by the students. A strikingly handsome man, he was always extremely elegant and an intelligent dancer. We met during his days as a principal dancer with the Marquis de Cuevas ballet and this reunion typified how dancers’ careers continually intersect over the years. JoAnn McCarthy, a natural ingénue, played the Tyrolean Girl to perfection and her partner Gennadi Vostrikov was a good foil. The ballet culminated in a big showy finish--featuring interplay among the cast--that was simple, accessible, and very successful.

Following our annual The Nutcracker ritual--at Heinz Hall and on tour--PBT’s “artistic committee” (Loti Falk, Michael Semanitzky, Frano Jelincic, Pat Simmons, and I) agreed to revamp, rebuild, and re-choreograph Coppélia for the spring. For once, I received unanimous agreement from the committee.

I had developed a production for the Playhouse Junior in the style of British interpretations after Arthur Saint-Léon. It had condensed the three-act ballet into a single act with three scenes. Scene One corresponded with Act I and was based on the interplay between Franz and Swanilda as she discovered his interest in Coppélia. Here, I also introduced Dr. Coppelius. (Leonard Weitershausen played the role.) My second scene was set in the Doctor’s attic, where the village girls played with his puppets. In the third scene, I staged a wedding for Swanilda and Franz.

I thought that Dagmar would be excellent as Swanilda (and she proved herself to be a born for the role). I knew that Sasha Filipov would be wonderful as Franz. For me, it was an opportunity to play the role of Coppelius, which I had always wanted to do. I vividly remembered Dimitri Parlic’s performance as the eccentric toy maker. I wanted to adapt it to my character, yet respect the traditional choreography. It is extremely difficult to simultaneously develop a role and choreograph a ballet. I decided it might be better if Jelincic staged it. He was a ballet master, who never did anything unfamiliar--I never saw any of “his” choreography. He and Dagmar could draw from their knowledge of the London Festival Ballet’s production and from Frano’s familiarity with the Zagreb version. We needed new décor and costumes. I turned to Frank Childs, who had done an excellent job with Soirees Musicales. He was the perfect designer for this production. The results were colorful and attractive.

PBT had become well-known for its full-length ballets and big productions. Pennsylvania Ballet, which was rich in the Balanchine repertoire, now regarded us as an outdated Ballet Russe with a standard Eastern European opera company repertoire. To the surprise of the so-called ballet experts, the Pittsburgh audience reacted to full-length ballets, which continued to sell better than mixed bills.

We continued to rely on guest artists, but our regulars were the pride of PBT and my students Jordeen Ivanov and JoAnn McCarthy were becoming more captivating. The ensemble was now strong, but less refined in an academic sense, though I was more discriminating about choosing and keeping dancers. The public liked us--and that was important. The local critics were of mixed opinions, but those outside of Pittsburgh were responding favorably. However, we still lacked an aggressive agent to present us. PBT was coming of age.

I created most of the choreography and with my jobs at PBT and the college, plus so many other activities demanding my attention, I was spreading myself too thin. It was evident that I needed a co-director to support the artistic end of things. The Washington National Ballet folded; Frederic Franklin was available to join PBT as co-director for the 1974-75 season, which seemed to be a positive move. He was already well-established in the U.S. and his name was a plus on our advertising material. I was too confident in myself and depended too much on Franklin to remain my ally and good friend. Much later, I suspected that he may have been influenced by my detractors at PBT. Freddie liked to hit the bottom of the bottle, which kept him in a special mood--he felt his best in those moments. He would become talkative. I understood his thoughts most clearly at those times when he was drowning some sorrow or bittersweet memory.

I needed a romantic ballet. I remembered that Freddie had Giselle in his repertoire and I suggested that he stage it. Franklin flew to Pittsburgh for rehearsals. He staged Giselle efficiently. Personally, I preferred Lavrovsky’s version, but those minor differences in details were recognizable only to the New York and Paris publics, as audiences here were less steeped in the classical traditions.

Dagmar Kessler and Thierry Dorado were impressive in the starring roles. I do recall that Jordeen had trouble with her role as Myrta. We previewed it in Crafton. It went well, as did the official run at Heinz Hall. It raised everyone’s respect for Franklin, who became a beloved newcomer.

Plans to revive Massine’s DeCameron fell through, but I hoped to stage it in the future. Instead, we brought him in to stage his Gaîte Parisienne. He always worked from his films, went slowly, and according to his taste. Freddie had previously danced the ballet and did not agree with Massine’s staging. I faced a dilemma of how to moderate this dispute and not get embroiled it.

Freddie, as co-director, insisted that he knew the ballet perfectly. We decided to go with Léonide’s staging, but after his departure, Freddie could correct some of the scenes that he remembered well. Actually, Léonide was also annoyed by Freddie and said that he was “mechanical” and “lacked artistry.” I kept silent and just accepted his statements. After all, he was the choreographer and had the right to adapt and change his work as he wished.

Léonide and I had a disagreement too, as I wished to videotape our performance. He forbade it. I was hurt that he lacked confidence and trust in me and that he suspected that I would not contact him or his family for subsequent re-staging.

I am not defending Freddie or attacking Léonide, but this incident created a rift in my relationship with Léonide. This was the last time that he worked for me. We remained friends. At the time, he was living in Germany with his new German wife and I was still not keen on flying. I only saw him once more in New York and that was the last time I saw him alive.

Massine was a great guy, a memorable person, and a stellar dancer. He had principles. His outlook on life clashed with his children’s--Léonide Jr. and Tatiana. As I remember, they always had some disagreement with him, but he always wished the best for them. I never met his other two children, who were born in Germany. Their mother contacted me, as they were planning to visit America and me at the college. However, they never arrived and I lost touch with them. I maintained long-distance friendships with both Tatiana, who was married and lived in New York and with her mother. I saw less of Léonide Jr., as he resided in Italy.

Paired on the program with Gaîte was John Taras’ Dohnanyi Suite, which was a symphonic ballet to Ernst Van Dohnanyi's music. It was a great showpiece for Dagmar and Sasha, Jordeen and Dinko, and JoAnn and Thierry. I liked the ballet very much. It was rather spectacular, well-dressed, and well-choreographed.

Taras was then associated with NYCB, but we had met in Europe when he was the ballet master for the Marquis de Cuevas company--and I had even auditioned for him. No, he did not select me, but it was an American company which gave priority to American dancers. John told me to keep in touch with him in the future. He was an excellent ballet master and choreographer. In 1960, he became Balanchine’s right-hand man and restaged Balanchine’s works all over the world.

Rounding out the program was Pas de Quatre, which Freddie set. This too was an interesting situation. I had to request permission from Anton Dolin to stage it and remember receiving a very sweet letter from him expressing how glad he was to grant the rights for a revival. He had no objections to allowing Freddie to restage it. I think this letter influenced my later decision to hire Dolin’s boyfriend John Gilpin.

Freddie did an effective job with the restaging. The four ballerinas were Jeanne Loomis, Jordeen Ivanov, JoAnn McCarthy, and Andrea Vodehnal.

The program was a very nice mixed bill, though predictably less attended than our full-length story ballet programs.

In December 1974, guest artist Edward Villella joined us on a lengthy Florida tour that included Daytona Beach, Sarasota, and Jacksonville--among many stops.

In St. Petersburg, we stayed in a retirement home. I had just quit smoking. My room resonated with the plumbing noises and whenever anyone on another floor used the bathroom, it sounded like Niagara Falls in my room. At 3:00 a.m. I needed a cigarette badly. I began smoking again.

We were supposed to spend a few rest days in St. Petersburg, but Jordeen, Dinko, Sasha, and Thierry headed for Orlando to visit Epcot Center. We stayed in a hotel near Disney World and spent the whole day at the amusement park. It reminded me of Tiger Balm Garden--minus the Chinese motifs--which I had visited on tour many years before. It was certainly an entertaining, amusing, and relaxing day after the lousy old-age home in St. Petersburg.

The tour took us to Palm Beach, a chic place with golf courses, clubs, and beautiful mansions. Here, I first glimpsed the really wealthy American lifestyle. I hoped that someday, I would retire to Palm Beach, but I now doubt it.

Following the Florida leg of the tour, we headed for Kentucky and performed at the famous Opryland Theatre. I quite enjoyed the Kentucky grills--it seemed that life was light and people enjoyed themselves.

This tour was followed by The Nutcracker at home and on tour.

George Skibine was a man of his word. He presented PBT in Dallas as part of the Dallas Civic Ballet’s season. Additionally, we went to Amarillo, Rio Grande, Alamo, Baytown, and Galveston. The Gulf Oil Company invited us to perform in Houston. Along with Romeo and Juliet, we brought Swan Lake, and a mixed bill--Scenes de Ballet, Soiree Musicale, and the ever popular Gopak. We had great success in Texas and I had an opportunity to visit Mexico, which reminded me of the Basque area in Spain or the South of France.

With the U.S. bicentennial on the horizon, I was exploring my options for “American” programming. At the top of my list, was Agnes de Mille’s Rodeo. I had an interesting meeting with her in New York. She was unfamiliar with PBT and none of her former dancers were available to restage it. She was non-committal, but I could see that our hopes of mounting that ballet were flimsy.

Bill Como, Dance Magazine’s editor in chief suggested that I contact Rod McKuen, whose works abounded with Western motifs. Immediate negations fell through, as McKuen was in Europe. (We would later collaborate on projects for the American Dance Ensemble.)

Freddie and Kenneth suggested Ruth Page’s Frankie and Johnny. As always, Ruth was delighted and sent the whole kit and caboodle for a price far less than we would have paid for Rodeo.

I was also in negotiation with local composer Leonardo Balada. His Steel Symphony had just been successfully performed by the Pittsburgh Symphony. We decided to do a ballet version of it with a décor by Pittsburgh artist Irene Pasinski, who created an overwhelming mobile of various sized steel rings which were mounted on an axle and rotated in different directions.

In preparation, I toured a U.S. Steel Mill in Weirton, West Virginia, which Mr. Falk partially owned. The officials provided me with a hardhat and walked me through the mill. I remember the heat-blasting furnaces; the red hot steel and how it was framed, spread, and pressed into sheets. Then it was rolled up, like an enormous roll of tape.

The officials also presented me with a film about steel production, which I watched repeatedly before I began working. In my choreography I had dancers rolling on the floor like sheet metal or toiling like the sweating workers who labored over the furnaces. While it is important for the composer and choreographer to have shared images, in this case Balada was more concerned with the unusual sounds of the steel mill--the squeaking, screeching, and vibrating sounds of the jack saw. He incorporated jack saws into the orchestra and in performance musicians shook them to produce the sound. I was challenged to develop movements to accompany those sounds. I decided instead to project images of what I had seen and make rhythmical connections to the music.

Balada must have been influenced by Stravinsky. I felt comfortable with his score, as I had extensive experience with Stravinsky’s music. The ballet, which featured Jordeen, JoAnn, Sasha, and Thierry, honored Pittsburgh’s dying steel industry. For this world premiere ballet, with its tie to Pittsburgh’s past, I was awarded an engraved steel watch, as recognition from the industry. However, I was not entirely satisfied with the ballet, as it did not turn out as I had expected. Pasinski’s sculpture was overwhelming. The ballet was ahead of its time and yet it was successful in the sense of the unusual.

Dance Magazine’s Norma McLain Stoop, writing in the April 1976 issue, called it an “arresting ballet” and said:

Steel Symphony”…effectively filled the stage with the white-hot sights and sounds of a steel mill--the dancers themselves being in succession, steel and steelworkers, with so clean a choreography that the changes were readily understood.

Ruth arrived to stage Frankie and Johnny (1938), which she had choreographed with Bentley Stone, and brought along her films. Flaming disputes and discussions erupted about how the movements were done. Freddie had danced the ballet and--as always--pretended that he knew the “right” way. Ruth accepted his input and used the films only as a guideline. Still, I wonder if Freddie influenced the production (which starred Jordeen and Sasha, who alternated with JoAnn and Thierry)--at all, as the ballet was very exciting and successful. And despite the debates, Ruth, said to Freddie, “Oh I would like to have someone like you!” And Freddie replied, “Well you can have me.” She invited him to Chicago and he signed a contract.

Dance critic Walter Terry admired Stuart Sebastian’s work and suggested that we engage the emerging dance maker as a guest choreographer. Sebastian’s Winterset was set on JoAnn McCarthy and Freddie, who portrayed the Old Man. Also in the cast was Pittsburgh native Douglas Bentz.

Polajenko mentioned that he had met a good-looking dancer in Europe, who was from Pittsburgh and was interested in joining PBT. He put me in touch with Bentz’s mother, who kept a stable on the outskirts of Pittsburgh. We went there to horseback ride. I found her to be a charming lady and I promised to hire Doug when we had an opening in the company. Polajenko notified Bentz that he was hired.

At the time, Bentz was performing with New York City Ballet’s second company in Geneva Switzerland, which was directed by Patricia Neary. Neary, a very tall woman, had been a fabulous principal dancer but because of her height had encountered problems finding suitable partners. My tall friend Stevan Grebel had been her partner and I imagined that Doug, who was also tall and a good partner, filled a similar role.

I admired Bentz’s “danciness” and his enthusiasm. While he was an asset to the company, he lacked pure academic classical training. I felt that he would excel in the contemporary/modern repertoire, where he would look comfortable and good.

There were problems. A rivalry developed between Bentz and Sasha, as Doug wanted to partner with our leading female dancers and especially with Jordeen. Neither Freddie nor I felt that he was a premiere danseur. We kept him in the corps. He was unhappy and later approached me about teaching jazz dance in the college.

Actually, I had already seen Doug before he joined PBT. He had danced in the Butler Ballet’s production of Taras Bulba, choreographed by George Verdak, which had been presented in Johnstown, Pennsylvania with Semanitzky conducting the Johnstown Symphony. At the time, I met Verdak, who danced the title role.

Verdak, a former member of the Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo, was an extraordinary guy with an unusual hobby. He collected costumes, décor, and memorabilia from ancient ballets. He was a living encyclopedia and a sentinel of the Ballet Russe. Even Ruth Page donated some of her ballets to him. I will always remember him as a very nice person.

He gave me a copy of Burgmüller’s score for La Péri and helped me to reconstruct an eighteenth century dance manual. I always wanted to choreograph La Péri, a two-act Romantic ballet but lacked the money to have the score arranged for a whole symphony orchestra. I put the project on a backburner. Today, when I browse in my music library, it is a revelation to see the copy of the original manuscript.

I was always fascinated by the books which Massine held in his hands and used as references. The unknown is always mysterious. While in Nervi, Leon Woizikovsky explained that Diaghilev had purchased one of these in Monte Carlo--it was a volume of ancient sea currents used by captains to navigate ships--and had given it to Massine, who had carried it ever since. The concept was that the ocean waves, ranging from little ripples to huge waves, were like air waves, as physical movement creates waves in the air. Music does the same. Synchronizing both waves produced perfect choreography. Thus, the volume could be used as a guideline for choreography. This book reminded Massine about the natural waves of dance.

When I became Massine’s choreography student, I asked him how he used these books and where to buy them. That day, he was holding a black book, with black pages. He explained that early eighteenth century ballet was unsophisticated, consisting of little, medium, and sliding jumps and poses. That first alphabet of movement had been composed by Raoul-Auger Feuillet and Louis Pécourt. He carried a copy of that alphabet with him. I was satisfied with his explanation. This introduction to Feuillet would later inspire me to develop Technique Totale. On another occasion, I asked what he actually read from that book. He answered Нечуво (“nothing”). I was puzzled, but learned his secret when I brought him to Pittsburgh.

In the early seventies, Massine was writing a book on choreography and I assisted him. We discussed the Stepanov notation system and what the human body can do, which includes potential movements that normally are not used. I asked about Feuillet’s alphabet. “What confuses me,” I said, “is what the hell you want with the Feuillet book when you are using Stepanov notation, which you learned in school?”

He used the drawings of the alphabet as floor patterns in his choreography and assigned the figures of the alphabet to specific dancers. The book was a guideline for notes and movement--lightly used, to trace out movements of the dancers. Massine told me that he used Feuillet’s book as a point of concentration and followed the alphabet as a denomination of the dancer. He also used some of the alphabet to determine the movements he choreographed for a specific dancer.

I wanted a copy of Feuillet’s volume, which he had purchased in Paris. Verdak helped me to locate and reconstruct a second edition of Feuillet’s Chorégraphie ou L’Art d’écrire La Dance par Caractères (1701), which outlined his intriguing system of dance notation. The book was later translated into English. Massine’s volume was also a reconstruction of this book--assembled from photos of the original pages. As mine was reconstructed from negatives, the pages are black with white lettering.

I am still searching for a copy of the volume that Diaghilev gave to Massine. It too was an old edition. I want a copy of it and hope that one day I will come across it.

Loti Falk’s cruel streak surfaced with her decision to terminate Michael Semanitzky’s contract. I disagreed with her reason, which centered on the conductor’s broken marriage. I respected him as a good ballet conductor, would have recommended him to other ballet companies, and continued to employ him. While he was not irreplaceable, I liked him. I was generally very devoted to people who worked with me. I wondered about what might happen, if I too, lost her favor.

Loti insisted that Freddie present her to Ottavio De Rosa, who had been the conductor for the defunct Washington National Ballet. Maestro was a nice middle-aged gentleman of typical Italian temperament. I liked him immediately and we became close friends. He was well-seasoned in ballet--he knew Coppélia, Swan Lake, Giselle, and many other works including the Balanchine repertoire. I could easily discuss tempi with him. He could remember and maintain the requested tempi. This is an important quality for a ballet conductor. He blended with the company perfectly and became popular with everyone. His knowledge was a great asset to our company. He became an ex-officio on our artistic committee.

He suggested that we stage La Sylphide, which he had previously conducted for the Washington Ballet. Freddie and I agreed, so it entered the repertoire. We thought it would strengthen our story ballet repertoire. We rented the costumes and décor.

I had seen Eric Bruhn dance it in Paris, but La Sylphide was a work that I did not know, as it was a Danish ballet staple. I was seldom in the background, but this time, I sat behind the directorial table and let others take charge. As Freddie was co-director, it was an excellent opportunity for him to share the production burden with me.

Too often I stepped in to choreograph when the company needed a ballet. We lacked the budget to support impeccable productions. However, when the results were less successful, I was vulnerable to criticism and was put on trial. I never knew if Loti understood the difference between what could be accomplished under the circumstances compared to what may have been done with a sufficient budget.

Patricia Wilde, who became PBT’s fourth artistic director, wisely did not choreograph. Instead, she imported well-known ballets and acquired the Balanchine repertoire. Successful existing works are less easily criticized than those produced by a local choreographer. Terry Orr’s programming was similar to mine. He realized that short ballets and Balanchine repertoire could not keep PBT financially on its feet. It irks me to recall Mrs. Falk’s statement to me that “Pittsburgh Ballet Theatre would like to pursue a different path than the way you are guiding it.”

We toured regularly in late November and early December and again in March and April. In Detroit, and South Bend, we presented The Nutcracker. We took Swan Lake to Grand Rapids, Austin, Miami Beach (with the Miami Beach Symphony), Rhode Island, and to Opryland, where we also offered Coppélia.

We finally had an agent--Robert Gewald Management Inc. Gewald was an associate of Columbia Artists Management. The tour turned over good box office receipts. The physical distance between the gigs was challenging. Sometimes the company flew--I drove.

I remember a marathon drive--with Sasha as co-pilot--from Rhode Island to Miami. He felt sorry for me, as I was planning to drive alone. He suggested that we alternate driving and sleeping, stopping only when necessary for food. With both of us behind the wheel, I would save a day’s travel time.

We were both heavy smokers. Cigarettes were cheap in North and South Carolina, so our other pit stop was for twenty cartons at $3.50 each; about half the price we paid in Pennsylvania. I remember that we stopped for a fantastic Texas-style steak dinner and a little wine--but not too much because we were driving.

It was also a good opportunity to talk. He described his early life in Russia. His father died when he was young and his mother sent him off to the Kirov School in Leningrad for financial reasons. He was talented enough to pass the audition and there met Mikhail Baryshnikov, who was his classmate and roommate. Their teacher was Alexander Pushkin, who taught quietly. Pushkin had a low voice and barely corrected his students. I asked how Pushkin could have been such a good teacher if he gave so few corrections. According to Sasha, the key was in the construction of the class, in the combinations and exercises, which served as a mold that each student poured himself into. I was almost jealous of his luck to have studied with Pushkin.

Sasha spoke of his early marriage and of his daughter. But his blonde wife was not strong enough to rein in this mustang and he left her behind when he defected. He never returned to Russia. I suggested that we should go to Russia together someday, as he could be my guide. But his answer was (and is) “Forget Russia, I am happy here.”

We arrived in Miami at 6:00 a.m.--three hours earlier than the company--which traveled by plane. We were exhausted--it was like we had performed all day without stopping. Afterwards, we slept soundly for a whole day.

Our friendship had developed over the years from our similar temperaments and our shared outlooks on life--and we liked the same things (I’m not talking about vodka). We often made mutual choices to do things together that were apart from the crowd--not that we were deliberately trying to separate ourselves from our colleagues. We both underwent a maturing process and experienced many changes in our lives. He remained my friend.

When we awoke, we headed for the swimming pool with tanning lotions in hand. We basked, well-coated until the dancers arrived. Just off the plane, they opted to cool off in the pool--some snuck in, testing the water temperature with pointed toes, others plunged in aggressively and tried to sprinkle us as they splashed, and Bruce Abjornson--dove in, nose first. He hit bottom and reappeared holding his bloody nose. We rushed him to the hospital, as he mumbled something we could not understand. His skinned and broken nose was put in a cast. I wondered if he would be able to perform and if not, who could replace him.

A couple hours later, he returned sporting a bandage/cast that looked like a mask. Heroically, he announced that he would dance. I was doubtful. Even with make-up, the bandage would look and feel awful, plus it might impair spotting or cause him to become disoriented onstage. I decided to replace him wherever I could in the performance to spare him the pain.

Another unfortunate incident happened that could have had serious consequences. I was bunking with Sasha, who was tired after a performance. We opted for dinner and a nightcap before turning in for the night. Suddenly we awoke to a smoke filled room. The alarm was sounding and I yelled “Sasha! Fire!”

He awoke, “What? What!” He scrambled out of bed and we ran to safety.

The hotel security and the fire marshal discovered that one of our cigarettes had ignited the carpet, which had done a slow burn, producing the smoke. That was a tremendous drawback on our souls--Sasha and I could not look the others straight in their eyes afterwards. Of course, they teased that we were trying to burn down the hotel.

Jordeen had fallen dramatically in love with Sasha--not just onstage in Romeo and Juliet, which was her favorite ballet and the most important one of her career. (As I recall, she was crushed when her “hometown” critics in Detroit were unimpressed with it.) I must admit, her feelings for Sasha added believability to her interpretation of Juliet and provided her with an emotional outlet. I knew that Sasha’s girlfriend, Nancy Dickson, was in San Francisco and would later join PBT. I neither wanted to say, “Jordeen, don’t do it!” nor “Go for it!” So I just stood by and let it happen.

During the height of Jordeen’s infatuation, my secretary Barbara suggested that we give Jordeen an unusual birthday gift. We bought pink ribbon and wound it around Sasha--who exclaimed, “What the hell did I do wrong?”--finishing it off with a big bow. Then Barbara called Jordeen and arranged a meeting. It was my job to deliver the package, and Jordeen just melted.

Jordeen was distraught when she learned of Sasha’s relationship with Nancy. In retaliation, she struck up a friendship with the handsome Greg Glodowski. When she heard that Sasha was coming here with Nancy to work full time, she announced her departure, which occurred after the Steel Symphony program. I knew why she was leaving, but what could I say? She went to Chicago and got involved with another of my dancers--Greg Begley, whom she married and quickly divorced. Even if I had said, “Don’t rush, Jordeen, you might change your mind.” She would not have listened.

She called Ruth Page, who already knew and liked her. Without an audition, she joined the Chicago Ballet. While Ruth questioned if I would be angry, Jordeen assured her that I would not be upset. Her excuse was that at PBT, she had too much competition with Dagmar and JoAnn and that she would feel more comfortable elsewhere. Which was logical--she was always logical, but there were always the illogical feelings.

Chapter Fourteen: Curtains

I had been contemplating inviting John Gilpin to Pittsburgh, ever since my communication with Anton Dolin. Dolin enjoyed networking, as did my friend Violette. He wanted to place Gilpin, who was not a self-promoter. Surprisingly, Gilpin was available and interested; and the crew here--Loti, Frano, and Dagmar approved of his guest teaching engagement. I knew Gilpin from his days as a London Festival Ballet superstar, as I had seen him perform with the company and remembered him as a very clean, precise, and intelligent dancer with excellent technique. During his performance of Witch Boy, I was absolutely taken by his dancing, technique, and artistry. He was one of the best dancers in Western Europe at the time, rivaling Peter van Dijk in France. Gilpin was the predecessor of Fernando Bujones, who was popular in the U.S. Unfortunately, he sustained a career ending injury--while performing a variation, he lost his balance, fell out of a front cabriole, and injured his back.

I was not really up to speed on his life until he arrived in Pittsburgh. Only then, did I hear the rumors that he was an alcoholic. I liked working with him and appreciated his knowledge of the pure classics. Freddie had already departed for Chicago and Loti suggested that I enlist a new co-director. She asked me what I thought of Patrick Frantz, whom I knew little about. Gilpin was the more likely choice, as he could nurture PBT’s classical development. He spent six weeks in Pittsburgh, and then returned to London to mull over the offer, which he later accepted.

In the meantime, I received job offers in both Chicago and San Diego.

Just after the San Diego Ballet was established, the president of its board offered me the directorship. I reasoned that with a co-director, I could juggle two directorships. Freddie protested the distance and told me that I was crazy. My proposal to the board was to share the San Diego season with a co-director and each of us would spend a few months in residence. I did not want to sever my ties to Pittsburgh to accept a new position of questionable stability. It was too risky to let go of my PBT directorship and my job at Point Park College. Two or three months later, the Board announced that it wanted one, permanent director, who was willing to live in San Diego.

Amid these negotiations, I was contacted by Geraldine Freund, the benefactress of Ruth’s Chicago Ballet. I caught her interest when PBT appeared at the Chicago Opera in my Symphony in C (with music by Stravinsky), which received rave reviews. Freund wanted to be the “Loti Falk of Chicago,” but was much less capable.

Over an exquisite lunch at a private club, she invited me to co-direct with Freddie, who had already been working with the company for about a year. I was both surprised and puzzled. I suspected that perhaps she and Freddie had disagreements. (Consequently, because I met with her, he may have gotten the idea that I was after his job.) I went along for the ride to see where this conversation was going.

She took me to rehearsal. I was shocked when she introduced me to the dancers (including Jordeen) as the new co-director. We had never discussed a contract, salary, or any other details.

That evening, the company performed outdoors in a theater-in-the-round. Geraldine had a great smile on her mask-like face, a smile limited by a face-lift, which had tensed her muscles and obstructed the larger movements of her mouth. She said, “Nicolas, what do you think about my invention? Theater-in-the-round?”

I was at a loss for words. First of all, it was not her invention. The Romans performed in arenas. During my career, I had danced on tour in a great many European arenas with the audience placed three-quarters around us. And we hated it.

For years, avant-garde and contemporary choreographers have experimented with dance in the round. It is a total distortion of academic classicism and unsuitable for ballet as it distorts both épaulement and the classical directions, plus eradicates the concept and focus of “front” and “back.” During the flow of the performance, the movements cannot be repeated to the vantage point of each spectator and cannot be seen from all sides.

I understood from the Chicago dancers that they were uncomfortable with this non-academic concept. I was unimpressed with her innovation and said so. Geraldine Freund was absolutely shocked. I did not want to be impolite, as she had treated me well. Today, I probably would have laughed, but then, I could not to lie to her face.

“How could they hate it? It’s a wonderful new idea!” she insisted.

She turned cold and disinterested. I was already “fired.” After the meeting, my secretary sent a letter to Geraldine, informing her of the San Diego offer and requesting specifics of the Chicago contract. She never replied.

I was looking for new choreography to program. Béjart was nixed because of poor reviews in New York. Negotiations with Roland Petit collapsed, as our schedule at PBT and his schedule to stage Jeune Homme et la Mort for Mikhail Baryshnikov in New York, were incompatible. Instead, I chose John Butler.

I knew John from Europe. He was easy to contact and agreed to stage his version of Othello for us. His interpretation assumed that the audience was familiar with Shakespeare’s story. It concentrated on Iago’s lies and the resulting death. The piece was choreographed to George Crumb’s Ancient Voices of Children and had sets by NYCB’s Rouben Ter-Arutunian. I felt it would be good for PBT’s development and I really liked it. The principals were Sasha as Othello, JoAnn as Desdemona, Thierry as Iago, and Nancy Dickson as Emilia.

My casting created a tremendous rivalry between Dagmar and the other female leads. Frano explosively yelled that the prima ballerina “has nothing to dance.” Freddie volunteered to stage his ballet Tribute--a symphonic variation by César Franck--to fix the problem. Tribute, which dated from the fifties, was in honor of the Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo, as a special “tribute” to this renowned company. Here, the tribute was to Kessler, who was partnered by Thierry Dorado. Frano was appeased and in gratitude, paid tribute to Freddie, cementing their association.

I staged “Armen’s Variation,” a small Khatchaturian piece from Gayané, for Sasha Filipov, Gregory Glodowski, and Douglas Bentz, but, my Maria Sabina was the evening’s major event.

I wanted to work with Balada again, as I liked his music. He proposed the libretto for Sabina based on Camilo Jose Cela’s poem about Maria, a Mexican woman of Indian heritage, who was her village’s healer/witch doctor. She simply meant to help and to make lives more comfortable. Her secret potion utilized the hallucinogenic psilocybin mushroom, which she applied to different ailments.

Many celebrities and hippies heard of the mushroom and sought out Sabina for her spiritual guidance. But her people turned against her, and she was permanently exiled for divulging the ancient Indian secret. This caused a sensation in the fifties and sixties, which inspired Cela’s poem. In it Sabina is hanged and her corpse eaten by birds. I used the poem as a monologue that related her thoughts from beyond the grave. The ballet was unusual--both musically and choreographically. Some of the scenes were ambiguous and the psychedelic elements may not have been clear to those who did not read the program notes. The work was less well-received than some of my other pieces.

For the lead, I needed a mature ballerina, who still possessed the energy to move. I chose Kaleria Fedicheva, a former Kirov Ballet star who had been Rudolph Nureyev’s partner. After retirement, she was permitted to leave the Soviet Union. She married, had a child, and was living in the U.S. As I was known to employ Soviet dancers, she contacted me, requesting a teaching gig. (Unfortunately, the students disliked her as a person and as a teacher. From sixty students on Day One, attendance dwindled to six by Day Three.) Her photo reminded me of a newspaper clipping of Maria Sabina. I thought she might be perfect for the role.

I cast Susan Stone, one of the earliest members of PBT, as the alternate. Kaleria did a nice job, but in the long run, Susan did a better one, though artistically they were unequal and shared only the costume. I was very proud of Susan. But at the outset of the project, I had no idea that she would exceed my expectations. The choreography derived from the modern/neoclassical style, which was less comfortable for Kaleria’s classicism. Susan was more adaptable to the vocabulary that I used. It is very difficult to stop mid-way in the creative process and fire someone with impeccable credentials because a student is doing a much better job. Such misjudgments can happen and this was the perfect opportunity for Frano to sink his teeth into me and rip me apart.

Frano resented that I had imported a foreigner, when one of our own could do a better job. As a product of the Vaganova system, I valued the capabilities of Soviet artists. I was not devaluating Dagmar. She lacked the plastique and acting skills for this role. Consequently, I was accused of harboring Soviets and transforming Pittsburgh Ballet Theatre into “Ballet Russe de Pittsburgh.”

During rehearsals for Sabina, Frano, who could not stand Kaleria, became hysterical and called me all kinds of names. He accused me of disrespecting Dagmar, but was actually using her as a shield to attack me.

The company was divided by complicated alliances forged of professional jealousy and forced by personal relationships. Sasha, Nancy, Roberto, and Thierry were at odds with Frano, and were among my supporters (which also included Susan Stone, Barbara Guterl, and Jordeen, who had already left). He attacked them too--but, I was the head of the dragon, which he intended to spear first. I was tremendously frustrated.

The tension over this ballet and with Frano generated friction with Loti Falk. He and I had a shouting match over the phone. I lost my temper. We swore at each other in Yugoslav. I told him to shut up or I would chop him up.

Less than thirty minutes later, I was summoned to Bruce Bowden’s office, as Loti was “up in arms” that I had threatened her ballet master’s life. I was pretty pissed about the situation, but it was difficult to explain to the Pittsburgh locals the way Yugoslavs settle disputes. I had no intention of physically harming Frano; it was just a rhetorical attack. However, Loti was not easily appeased, as she was already perturbed about another incident--and that one had nothing to do with Frano.

We were on the road in Texas. After one particularly exhausting performance, we crawled aboard the bus for an early morning departure. And then, I noticed the pillows. I was surprised and asked the dancers where they had acquired them. Some smirked. Some laughed out loud. No one answered. An urgent call from Loti was waiting for me at the next stop. She demanded to know why I had allowed the dancers to steal the pillows from the Ramada Inn. The hotel management and the Falk family were friends and this caused a great scandal. The finger of blame was pointed squarely at me, as the artistic director I should have prevented the theft. The pillows were restituted and returned. But dirt was heaped on me.

Loti was caving in to negative criticism which raised doubts about the quality and future of PBT. That--coupled with Frano’s undermining and incriminations--had shaken her confidence in me. She panicked because we were not achieving what other people thought we should. She blamed me for the lack of artistic growth.

I wanted a union company--and Loti was fiercely opposed to it. I wanted strong dancers of our own to alleviate the need to import stars. I wanted our repertoire to offer recent and avant-garde works.

Loti understood the value of a work signed “Picasso” compared to one signed “Petrov.” Her favorite phrase was “Where are we going? (I translated that into Latin--Quvadis.) Her knowledge of ballet was no more advanced than that of the average Pittsburgher. Yet, she regarded herself as an expert. She watched a ballet and either liked it or did not. She failed to grasp that a series of necessary steps paved the road to development. At one point, Loti consulted with NYCB’s Lincoln Kirstein. He withheld any serious comment.

It was December 13, my birthday. The company was on tour and stopped in Ann Arbor, a nice university town, to perform The Nutcracker. Sasha gave me a bottle of Stolichnaya. We toasted to my health, nazdarouvlje for a prosperous and successful life. Maybe we had two drinks. We decided to go swimming, as there was time before the evening performance. We were laughing and joking, as was appropriate for a birthday celebration. My technical director, Edward West, called me aside. He had overheard a telephone conversation between Frano and Loti. The gist was that PBT’s artistic director was drunk and swimming in the university’s pool. Loti’s ex-husband was an alcoholic. Consequently, she developed an aversion to those who drank. This was Frano’s perfect opportunity to incriminate me and to break the bond between Loti and me.

My final ballet for PBT was choreographed to composer Jose Serebrier’s Fantasia, a four-movement concerto. I envisioned it as a love triangle between a young girl and two young men, one of whom is off to war. When the soldier returns, the girl is tormented by her love for both and inability to make a decision. JoAnn McCarthy performed the lead with Peter Degnan and Roger Triplett. They did a good job. It shared the bill with Spectre de la Rose and Petrushka. My ballet was very successful and I was invited for the last time to the Falk’s Chatham Center apartment. Leon Falk was still in good physical shape and in a good mood. Even Betsy Bremer, one of Loti’s close friends, expressed her admiration. “This is the best ballet you’ve done to date,” she said. I graciously accepted her remark, but wondered how she had missed the openings of Romeo and Juliet and Rite of Spring. One never knows what appeals or pleases.

For this program, my last with PBT, Petrushka was staged by Nicolas Beriozoff, whom I had known since my days in Paris, where he recruited freelance dancers for his ballets and re-stagings. When we met, I impressed him by complimenting his beloved daughter, whom I had seen perform in Belgrade as a guest artist. To make him feel good, I told him that I even preferred her to Margot Fonteyn. And that he really liked. Technically, she had the edge, but lacked the same mesmerizing personality.

He had a tiny apartment with a mini-kitchen, but preferred to hang out at one of the local studios, as he liked young girls and liked to watch them. And sometimes, he caught one. During those Paris years, he and I crossed paths from time to time and he would ask me to participate in his gigs. I would say that his work was much more classical than mine, as I was leaning towards contemporary dance with my work in television and films. He was knowledgeable, but I perceived him as outdated.

Through Marina Svetlova, I learned that he was teaching in Bloomington, Indiana and following PBT’s Texas tour, I drove there to see him. I caught a production of Romeo and Juliet, which I remarked was “different.” And it was--different from mine. He asked to stage something from the Fokine repertoire for PBT. We agreed on Polovtsian Dances, which he set in three days. It looked pretty good, but it was never performed. He also asked to retool Sylphide, which he felt Freddie had not done correctly. But I felt that we had over performed that ballet and I wanted something else. He knew that we had the sets for Petrushka and claimed to have performed many of the roles. I hired him to revive it. The Joffrey’s Christian Holder danced as the Moor.

Nicolas tried to sell me his Don Q production. The London Festival Ballet costumes that he had were ugly. And I said, “forget it.” One of my successors, Patricia Wilde, during a lapse of judgment, bought the production. He also tried to sell me his Paris apartment, but I dallied too long and he died before I made a decision.

The tension with Loti was unbearable. She was inexplicably under Frano’s influence and had violently turned against me. She criticized my every step, which regardless of my decision, was wrong. I did not know how to deal with the problem.

I was tempted by offers to go elsewhere. But my ties to Pittsburgh were strong, as I had heavily invested in real estate, my son Alexander was young, Mary had a job at the college, and so did I. The college was rebounding from its financial crisis. I doubted that I could find two jobs in another market.

The first part of 1977 was very turbulent. I made several errors that changed my future. First, during a conversation with Loti, I demanded the termination of Frano’s contract. She promised not to renew it, but would keep Dagmar on the roster.

Loti claimed that she was constantly defending and protecting me, but my stubbornness and sympathy for Soviet artists was against PBT’s American spirit. She wanted American dancers to represent PBT.

I would have agreed with her, but dancers akin to Villella were only available to us as guests and would never accept long-term contracts with PBT. Here was proof of her ignorance. I chose the best dancers that we could afford.

I doubted my self-worth. Apparently, defending me against the world was a great favor. I understood that Frano and his cohorts--dancers like Jeanne Loomis, Susan Degnan and her husband, who scrutinized me and reported to him--were against me, but she intimated that it was more than that. I excitedly stated, “Loti, don’t defend me. If I am not worth anything, you cannot mother me all my life. I have to survive on my own.”

She replied, “Okay, I will stop defending you.” Our bond was severed.

My “gang” (Sasha, Roberto, Nancy, and Thierry) and I met with Board VP Bruce Bowden and issued an ultimatum--either Frano stayed with the company or we did--but we could no longer co-exist.

Three days later, in new Board Chairman Robert Buckley’s office, with Bruce Bowden and Bill Schenck present, I was fired. They offered two options--I could continue receiving my monthly salary or they could buy out my contract. PBT would perform my ballets until the end of my contract without extra pay, and afterwards, I would receive royalties.

Shockingly, PBT was willing to lose five people to keep one. Clearly, the bond between Frano and Loti was unbreakable. Ironically, I was relieved to exit this mess. The pressure was too taxing and would later take a toll on my health, resulting in heart bypass surgery.

I opted to take my money and leave. I walked into company rehearsal and thanked everybody for their collaboration. I announced that I was no longer part of the organization. The air was thick enough to slice.

After I left the studio, Loti said that she was “very sorry that the board had made that decision.” I also saw the smirk on Kay Cushing’s face.

Cushing, who was hostile and bitchy, was the company’s general manager and a carbon copy of Loti. She echoed Loti’s every word to maintain favor and keep the job.

I looked Loti Falk straight in the eyes and said, “Well, we only receive what we deserve and everyone’s fate will gain upon them. Nobody can get away from their destiny,” with those parting words, I exited the building.

The company released a statement from the Board President announcing that I had reduced my activities with PBT and was planning to relocate in the near future. This was to avoid a scandal in the press. Gilpin, the incoming co-artistic director, was now in charge, but he was incapable of meeting the stress and demands of the job.

When I ruminate over how PBT’s administration dealt with me, I ask myself if their money made them so powerful and disrespectful or if they only wanted my knowledge and expertise to enable them to enter the entertainment industry. I wonder if they were without souls, humanity, and dignity. Retrospectively, I am disappointed with Loti, whom I respected and admired. I never understood her motives or attempts to destroy me and my career. Even a criminal has the right to appeal court decisions. I was guilty without proof.

Yes, I was guilty of creating a dance environment in Pittsburgh, guilty of nurturing a first-class ballet company, and guilty of educating both common and prominent people about dance. I was also guilty of encouraging parents, students, and the public to attend dance performances. Yes, I was guilty of developing educational opportunities from elementary school through college levels. Yes, I was guilty of loving dance and for building a solid base for it in the city.

Others reaped the benefits of my hard work in PBT’s birthing and building process. I would have been proud to share my knowledge, but it was painful to have others scavenge my handiwork and creations, while trying to incriminate me for lack of knowledge--the very knowledge that I gave to them.

Chapter Fifteen: Squarely at Square One

The Point Park College students greeted me with great respect. Faculty member Petrus van Muyden, who idolized me, instructed the students to boycott PBT performances. Joe Doaks, then a senior, who worked for Pittsburgh Ballet Theatre as an administrator, was also among my staunchest supporters. He organized a reception to celebrate my “homecoming,” as with no duties at PBT, I could focus exclusively on college activities.

In the spring of 1977, I staged Stravinsky’s Firebird for the Point Park College Dance Company. Initially I had planned to develop the choreography on the students and later set it on PBT. Stravinsky’s music captivated me. The Russian folk tale of Ivan and the Firebird was a great vehicle for the students and was accessible to audiences. I cast Justin Glodowski as Ivan and his brother, Gregory, as the spirit of the mountain, who transformed beautiful Russian princesses into monsters. As in Swan Lake, the bewitched young girls reverted to princesses only after midnight. While hunting, Ivan traps the magical glowing bird, who grants him three wishes in exchange for her freedom. He keeps one brilliant red feather to light his way through the dark forest.

We had neither sophisticated costumes to facilitate the transformations of the princesses into monsters nor theatrical tricks for special effects. As the director of PBT, I was accustomed to spending thousands of dollars on superb costumes for my full-length story ballets. The contrast between PBT’s lush Cinderella and PPC’s impoverished Firebird was unbelievable.

I was dissatisfied with the ballet--but was pleased with the dancing. Freddie Franklin saw it and regarded it as the best Firebird in recent memory.

A born builder, I tried to quickly forget PBT and launch a new company at the college, which needed a performing outlet for the students. I aimed for a touring troupe augmented with a few professional dancers. I wanted it to reach audiences beyond the Rehearsal and Performance course’s informal presentations. Douglas Bentz, a college jazz instructor, steered me towards a multi-form format that--unlike PBT’s opera ballet style--embraced ballet, jazz, and modern dance.

President Hopkins admitted that it was a good idea, but did not immediately approve it. He avoided financial commitments, especially those related to dance, as it was blamed for breaking the college’s back in 1973--and maybe there was some truth to it. I insisted that in exchange for access to rehearsal space, the Playhouse, costume shop, and mailing facilities; the company would cost the college nothing.

Dean Charles Quillan headed our Board. Doug, who was enthusiastic, physically impressive, and a fairly good partner, stepped in as my new “John Occhipinti.” I also invited my former dancers including Jordeen Ivanov and JoAnn McCarthy to join us whenever possible. Peter Degnan later returned and remained with us for many years. The other faculty worked gratis, to develop the “American Dance Ensemble.” I insisted on “American” in the title because “A” leads the alphabet. I suspected that the “A’s” got the icing on the funding cake and we desperately needed that edge. We realized that earned income from the Playhouse could never support us. Touring was essential to our survival. Eventually we earned seventy to eighty thousand dollars a year, which covered our costuming, touring expenses, guest choreographers, and guest artists, including several who defected from PBT. At the outset, however, we lacked money, professional dancers, and costumes--just as when I had arrived in Pittsburgh. However, during PBT’s early years, I found an arts angel in Loti Falk, but ADE failed to attract a committed benefactor. The only thing we had was a love for dance.

The Nutcracker was an obvious choice for the repertoire. Doug and I discussed the options. PBT could not perform everywhere and was likely to bypass colleges, high schools, and small budgeted venues. If there had been a budget for props, costumes, and scenery changes, I would have created a futuristic version--similar to the Star Wars movie--with robots. I had also mulled over a Pittsburgh setting. Instead, we decided to build a portable and practical traditional production that could tour easily with professional soloists and a student corps.

This would be my third Nutcracker production. We needed a designer with a fresh approach. Rouben Ter-Arutunian, who had designed the costumes for PBT’s Dohnanyi Suite, introduced and popularized costuming that utilized spandex, then a new product on the market. I could not afford to hire him, but asked him if we could use spandex costumes without infringing on his trademark. Pat Mincin, who designed Fantasia for me at PBT, was delighted with The Nutcracker assignment. We acquired a few sewing machines that could stitch spandex and Rouben provided instructions on how to work with the fabric. Our minimalist costumes for the battle and snow scenes, plus for Act II certainly looked different--the mice, in particular, looked cartoonish, like Jerry from Tom and Jerry--and could easily be packed into two big boxes.

We had swords for the fight scene, a clock, an enormous piece of cheese, a stretcher for the “wounded”, an expandable tree (which included a huge box on wheels that served as the tree’s pedestal in the party scene), and a rolling bed. Boyd Ostroff designed the drops--the Mayor’s house, a beautiful snow scene, and “Land of Sweets.” The borders and legs were added to subsequent productions.

We assembled a relatively small cast of college students--thirty-five to thirty-eight dancers (who fit perfectly on a bus). As we had no children, the student who was cast as Clara, also danced the Sugar Plum Fairy.

Doug made a nice Nutcracker Prince/Cavalier and was happy to dance leading roles that were not available to him at PBT. Jordeen put in a guest appearance, alternating with student Carolyn Paddock as Clara/Sugar Plum Fairy. Folk dance teacher David Vinski and I alternated as Drosselmeyer.

Initially The Nutcracker was very successful, filling the Playhouse to ninety-five percent capacity. Our fans preferred our version to PBT’s. Of course, others criticized our barebones productions. The ballet became an annual ritual that concluded each fall semester. Via triple casting, it provided opportunities for most of the students to dance. We ran the show for two weeks at the Playhouse and toured. I enjoyed those tours, as they reminded me of Theatre d’Art du Ballet’s tours of Italy. We performed in various high schools, such as Kane Area High School, at universities, including Indiana University of Pennsylvania, where ADE member Claudia Morris’ mother served on the committee that invited us, and in community auditoriums, some better equipped than others, as some lacked good hanging abilities. This was an excellent lesson for our dancers. They discovered that every theater has its own spirit and every performance, its own personality. The same held for the public, as some audiences were more enthusiastic than others.

Over the years, the principal roles were performed by Peter Degnan, Joseph Bowerman, and Aleksandr Agadzhanov and by Kristen Schleich, Julie Cunningham, and JoAnn Michaels. I remember that as an effort to bolster the home box office, I incorporated a large cast of children, requiring each to sell ten tickets. With a total of sixty children in the production, that guaranteed one completely sold out house at the Playhouse. That created a controversy, as some parents wanted their children in the show, but eschewed selling tickets. I rationalized that if other schools (commercial studios in particular, which also required the children to purchase expensive costumes) could do this, so could I and it might develop a larger audience.

Even after ADE’s demise, the college’s Nutcracker tradition continued. One stand-out performance was presented in Greensburg at the Palace Theatre in conjunction with the Pittsburgh Youth Ballet and the Westmoreland Symphony. The sponsor had requested a big Nutcracker with children. Since there were none in the company, I recruited Jean Gedeon’s students. Stage manager Paul Dimeo was responsible for loading the cannon, which required simple, one amp fuses to produce sound and smoke. Paul had forgotten to buy them. He returned from the store with fourteen amp fuses and installed one along with the flash powder. At the climax of the battle scene, the switch was pushed, unleashing an explosion like we had never heard--“kaboom” accompanied by billowing clouds of smoke and small, flying splinters that showered on the orchestra members. It was an absolute catastrophe.

I was tuned to Pittsburgh’s love for full-length ballets and needed something “big” to open the 1977 season. Mark Lewis agreed that another child-friendly ballet would be appropriate. I was attracted to the charming story of Benjamin Britten’s three-act Prince of the Pagodas, a ballet that I had not seen, though John Cranko had originally choreographed it in 1957 for the Royal Ballet. I negotiated with the publishing company for exclusive, ten-year, U.S. rights.

First, I chopped and shaved to pare the three-hour musical opus into an eighty minute ballet that concisely told the tale of an evil princess who dupes her father and exiles her beautiful sister. An enchanted Prince, disguised as a salamander, saves the kingdom. I cut all the repeats and axed every potentially dull scene, as I was certain that with a student cast, any boring scenes would assure a flop--and that, I could not afford. With the animosity generated by PBT, I chose my projects carefully and opted for works which were not in PBT’s plans. Premieres were essential. In line with the contemporary score, Pat designed spandex costuming. The green frog costumes turned out exceptionally well.

I invited my old friend Leo Weitershausen to portray the Emperor--who under the influence of his wicked stepdaughter became powerless--as I knew he would do a great job. Jordeen, who was then dancing in Chicago, put in an opening night guest appearance as Belle Rose, with Doug as the Salamander Prince. Former student Jill Keating, a dynamite actress, who shone as the nursemaid in Romeo and Juliet, excelled as the wicked Belle Epine. Faculty and guests assumed the soloist roles, which were distinctly delineated from the student corps.

I saw Sir Kenneth MacMillan’s version of Prince of the Pagodas much later. Mine was not influenced by his or any other ballet. MacMillan’s--which was faithful to the score--was big on budget and weak on character development. Frankly, I preferred Leo’s scrunched-up interpretation of the Emperor to Anthony Dowell’s, though he acted well. My version included a fight scene for the two sisters that created a nice contrast and underscored Belle Rose’s generosity and loving nature. My dwarfs, unlike the Disney variety, were mean as the ballet required. For the underwater scene, I borrowed a device from a production of The King and I, which I had previously staged. We gently waved blue, translucent silk strips that simulated ocean waves--the result was impressive. The starfish, crabs, and sea creatures moved among the undulating fabric and appeared to be swimming. I also choreographed a spectacular pas de deux for Jordeen and Doug, which featured a double tour en l’air for her. I was quite satisfied with the work and judging by the applause, the audience was too. It was a great undertaking, especially on a shoestring budget and with the Playhouse’s limited resources. It was a pleasant ballet and should be revived for children. I fail to understand why so few choreographers mount it, as it is spectacular, accessible, and musically appealing.

Wrote Ann Barzel, in the February 1978 issue of Dance News:

Petrov always thinks big and brings to reality his large scale ideas…Petrov aware of the shortcomings of The Prince of the Pagodas…cut Britten’s score to the most danceable parts and adapted the murky, semi-macabre story to a light-hearted fairy-tale.

Doug, Judith Leifer, and guest choreographer Sandra Peticolas contributed works to the April 1978 program, but its centerpiece was our tribute to the late David Lichine. His widow, Tatiana Riabouchinska sent Sarma Lapenieks to stage Graduation Ball, his most popular work. I opted for costumes designs after Alexander Benois’ originals.

Grad Ball became a popular repertory staple for more than twenty years. Kenneth Johnson, who restaged the ballet, launched a second career in his ongoing role as the Headmistress. I frequently played the General, which I enjoyed. It was funny and the public responded enthusiastically, especially when something went wrong. Once our costumes got hooked and at Kenneth’s suggestion we chassé-chasséed into to the wings, ripped ourselves apart, and bounded back onstage. Another time, I missed a lift--I moved to the side, he looked at me, and just jumped, so I caught him. The audience roared and we decided to incorporate that into subsequent performances. And, in one scene, while I was waiting for all the dancers to exit, I fell asleep, missing my musical cue. He came running over to me, kicked me, and gestured, “Come on that’s you!”

According to Dance Magazine’s Ann Barzel, writing in August 1978:

Petrov’s General was a robust sociable flirt rather than a dirty old man…as a character dancer of note, he gave the mazurka more style than it usually gets.

Although I had exclusive rights to Graduation Ball for ten years in Pittsburgh, Pittsburgh Ballet Theatre staged it without asking my permission. I was annoyed.

In December 1978, I received a phone call from a New York-based lawyer. The Kozlovs, a married ballet duo, who were up and coming Bolshoi artists, were appearing in the U.S. He asked if I could sponsor one or two in concert performances that featured a group of seventeen, including musicians, vocalists, and dancers from the Bolshoi and Stanislavsky theaters. I needed a day or so to mull it over. I contacted Dance Magazine’s Bill Como and critic Clive Barnes, who both assured me that this was a legitimate offer. The group, handled by a non-commercial enterprise, was in New York to present a benefit performance for Paul Robeson.

I approached Mark Lewis, who in turn went to Dr. Hopkins. The price was right--about twenty-five hundred dollars for the entire group. It was worth the publicity for the college, even if we lost the money. We signed the contract for two performances at the Playhouse at ten dollars a ticket. Unfortunately, a political event that riled the Jewish population against Russia affected our box office sales. Demonstrators protested outside of the Playhouse, impeded patrons from purchasing tickets, and attracted negative media coverage. The press quizzed the dancers with politically angled questions, which they refused to answer because they feared reprimands when they returned home. I stepped in as moderator, though some of the dancers spoke very good English. The translation process afforded them extra moments to think before speaking.

The concerts failed to sell out, possibly because the format was unfamiliar to American audiences, while in Europe it was very popular. The program was very good, but opening night received a bad review from the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette’s Jane Vranish, who accused us of false advertising. Ironically, less than a year later, the Kozlovs’ defection made headlines across the U.S. I clipped those reports and sent them to Vranish suggesting that she retract her statements.

The Kozlovs were less old-style Bolshoi and more Western European in their look, technique, and attack. They easily fit into the NYCB, which they joined after their defections. During their visit here, we put them up at the Howard Johnson’s near the Playhouse and transported them via the college’s van. Kozlov commented to me that in other cites, their ground transportation had been in luxury automobiles. I explained that we were just an educational institution and lacked the money. We did what we could. I was in turn offended by his remark.

Ongoing correspondence with Rod McKuen yielded my one-act ballet, Americana Suite (which Rod preferred to call RFD--Rural Free Delivery); Suite in Counterpoint, an abstract, baroque ballet; and Short and Suite, which we presented on a mixed bill. Rod sent tapes and records. These I used to fashion a libretto. I hoped that he would not be upset with my heavy editing, but he was generous and always willing to help.

For RFD, I envisioned a nineteenth century American community at the time of the railroad boom, just as the horse and buggy were taking a backseat to the steam engine. The opening tableau featured grandparents in rocking chairs, observing a street scene from their porch. I was unsure about the existence of balloons in that era, but McKuen’s Balloon Concerto was too enticing to ignore. The kids played with balloons. The boys chased each other, displaying acrobatic capabilities. And, the village youth gathered on the plaza. A square dance with its mingling and flirting provided appropriate opportunities for several adagios. A conman/rainmaker character, whose hoax is revealed, and a Bo Jangles character, who tap dances through town added to the mix. Overall, the ballet created a lyrical and sentimental picture of the times.

Rod, a charming man, was pleased with the results and subsequently cut a record of the ballet score, which was assembled from a pastiche of his works. At the outset of rehearsals, he was “absolutely delighted,” and proclaimed, “I don’t care if anybody else likes it--I love it.”

Ann Barzel, writing for Dance Magazine’s July 1979 issue said:

It was noteworthy that Rod McKuen’s America and Nicolas Petrov’s dance scene meshed.

Following RFD’s success, we began planning a full Rod McKuen evening for the following season.

As ADE developed, picked up former PBT dancers, and forged affiliations with artists like Rod McKuen, Loti Falk grew more irate. However, the companies were never rivals, as ADE could not attract funding, though I vigorously asserted that Pittsburgh needed a different flavor of dance. I wondered why she was so irritated and vented it in the newspaper. She negotiated a series of articles beginning with “Mother Falk Filled with Love for City Ballet” published by the Pittsburgh Press (April 29, 1979). It described her involvement with the company, rehashed my dismissal, and mentioned the brief tenure of my successor--John Gilpin, whose departure was swift. Actually, John had fallen off the wagon and was hospitalized. He was incapable of coping with the job and his assistant Pat Stander, who was an excellent ballet mistress, was not qualified to direct in his place.

According to Ruth Heimbuecher’s report, Falk stated that JoAnn McCarthy had reached prima ballerina status, but was forced to depart in November 1978 because of the “type of treatment” she had received from Patrick Frantz. Loti claimed that Alexander Filipov was fired in June 1977 for “misbehavior.” From my perspective, this is untrue--he left the company.

The article portrayed her as the company’s loving mother, and she was--but she was also a tyrant to those who lost her favor. On the other hand, Loti said, “I’ve given a lot. I couldn’t do it without the dancers and artistic directors, but I have acted as the great general who keeps the army going.” To me, she was a rather draconian Genghis Kahn.

The media blitz lasted for several days as the newspaper cranked out articles rife with dishonest descriptions and distorted truths that ignored the negative angles.

I felt sorry for the company. Loti really did not understand what she was doing. When Gilpin bolted, she grabbed the reins as artistic director and probably would have held on if the dance community had not been laughing about it. It surprised many that she was so unrealistic about her capabilities. Her head was so big!

Ironically, she compared me to Mussolini, who was a great leader and a tyrant. She stated that power had gone to his head, just as it had gone to mine. She was describing herself. However, she said, “He (Petrov) has a great talent for organizing. He is a very knowledgeable person. I learned most of what I learned in the beginning from Petrov because I was never involved with a ballet company before.”

Over the years, she fought relentlessly with company general managers, who dropped like flies, as did the company publicists. The newspapers always welcomed new general managers with complimentary write-ups, but later, each turned out to be a disaster. I was too busy with ADE to care about PBT’s rapid administrative turnover, but obviously Loti never allowed a manager to do his job. She desired to run everybody’s life and wanted everybody to do what she deemed to be right.

Frano Jelincic instigated my dismissal. He had failed to reconcile with the fact that he had handed his job to me when he joined Pennsylvania Ballet and I had become his boss upon his return to Pittsburgh. In May 1979, Frano’s contract was not renewed. A Pittsburgh Press article published on May 4, 1979, announced that Frano was exiting because of Patrick Frantz’s behavior, but Dagmar remained on the roster. Essentially, Frano’s jealously of Patrick’s wife, who was his chief muse, had generated a situation similar to the Dagmar versus Kaleria Fedicheva episode of my tenure.

I liked Patrick Frantz, who molded the company in the Maurice Béjart style. He was influenced by Milko Sparemblek, who was his idol. His penchant for contemporary ballets did not correspond with Dagmar Kessler’s taste. The fighting between Frano and Patrick became unbearable. Everyone must follow his destiny--it was Frano’s destiny to leave the company. (Patrick’s too--as PBT was badly received in New York, when it performed there. Clive Barnes’ review, which I feel was in defense of my dismissal, was brutal--that sealed Patrick’s fate.) And, it was Loti’s also. At the request of the Benedum Foundation, she resigned in early 1987.

Loti applied every ounce of her energy to incriminate me, destroy me, and crush the reputation I had built in Pittsburgh. And I still puzzle over it and wonder if she was taking medications or if other causes altered her mood and shadowed her understanding and comprehension. I hoped to someday confront her with the question, but the opportunity never presented itself.

When destiny took Loti’s beloved toy away from her, the war between us was over--at least from my perspective. We could live in peace again. However, she never entirely let bygones be bygones--even when she became cordial and friendly. She visited me in the hospital when I had heart bypass surgery. (She was on the board of trustees at Shadyside Hospital.)

Chapter Sixteen: Feuillet, Stepanov, and Stanislavsky

My long association with Massine as a dancer and apprentice, inspired me to develop a new dance technique based on Raoul-Auger Feuillet’s positions of the feet--five regular, turned-out ballet positions and five “false” (as he called them) turned in positions. Normally, dancers stand with feet joined by the heel, but separated by the toes, which would loosely be described as a forty-five-degree separation. Ballet positions are turned out so that the foot is contorted, creating a straight line between the toes and the heels, for example--first position.

With Feuillet’s “false” positions the toes were joined, while the heels were separated--which was actually opposite of the turned out position. There was always a variance between the angle of the turned in and the turned out positions--depending on the degree of turn out or turn in.

I sought to determine that angle of the turn out and the turn in. While the difference between forty-five and fifty-degree angles was very small geometrically, it can be precisely determined via computer programs, such as Life Forms. I christened the turned out positions and movements as “positive” angles and those turned in as “negative” angles. Modern and jazz dance vocabularies frequently employ “false” positions, without acknowledging Feuillet.

The body is only one instrument. However, we can “play” various types of dance--ballet, jazz, modern, and folk on it. The type of technique to use when demonstrating or expressing a dance is determined by a conscious decision. A gray area remains between a turned in and a turned out leg and between the final forms of any of the previously mentioned techniques.

In effect, the processes of turn out and turn in, of rigid and curved, and of contract and release can alternately be applied to one instrument (body), while movement technique need not be specifically designated.

I advocate new developments, but am against labeling something as “new” when it merely recycles the old. Typically, “innovators” who are uninformed about dance history, claim “new” developments as their own.

The incorporation of gymnastic technique into dance has generated an admirable new movement style--like the experimental, athletic technique of Pilobolus Dance Theatre, which followed the gymnastic-based dance of Ted Shawn and his male dancers, the callisthenic style of Maurice Béjart and his Ballet of the Twentieth Century, and Jean Babilée, who often employed gymnastics in his dancing and choreography. There are always many who imitate, but these artists were the most successful.

Since the seventies, internationally acclaimed choreographer Jiri Kylián, whom I admire, has successfully amalgamated classical ballet with modern technique. His accomplishment is extraordinary. He succeeded in extending movements into space so that they appear to cover more territory than a hand or leg can actually reach. For example, a hand movement initiated from a croisé in front of the body, passed in front, and extended diagonally downward covers approximately six or seven feet in length. If the dancer extends the movement and penchées in the direction of the movement, that movement can be extended nine or ten feet, depending on the length of the musical phrase. The movement could extend, even if it caused the body to fall or crawl to the ground and roll in the same direction--almost like rippling ocean waves.

This is the same principle that I taught with Technique Totale.

Classical ballet requires comfortable, symmetrical movements coordinated with head, arms, and legs. However, movements can be asymmetric and contradictory. For example, symmetrically both arms may rotate de dedans or en dehors. Asymmetrically one arm would move en dedans and the other de dehors, which is more uncomfortable or more difficult to learn--almost like a pianist, who plays the melody with the right hand and the bass with the left.

In the mid-seventies, I began incorporating this technique in classes and sporadically drew on its concepts for choreography, but the dancers were not trained in the technique. Consequently, I kept the movements simple. After all, we never can forget that dance is dance--not physical or mental torture. As an advocate of Stanislavsky’s system, I could not allow dance to lose its essential feeling through an organically contradictory and stifling situation. In 1977, I began offering Technique Totale as a specific class to volunteers, with substantial previous dance training. I have achieved remarkable results.

Massine had also advised that if I desired to become a choreographer, I must learn a sophisticated movement alphabet. Feuillet’s method, which was used to notate court dances--like the Courant, Minuet, and Gavotte--and seventeenth century ballets, was insufficient. Massine favored Stepanov’s notation system, which dated from the mid-nineteenth century and resembled music notation. Its merits were recognized by Joseph Hanson at the Paris Opéra. Subsequently, many full-length ballets were notated with it.

At the time, Massine did not mention his interest in revising and expanding on Stepanov’s alphabet. He believed that recording a movement created an accomplished activity that could be repeated.

Massine’s choreography was filmed, as video was yet to be invented. As synchronizing film was a difficult procedure, Massine felt that it was useful in recording existing ballets, but useless for jotting down ideas. Instead, he ascribed to a written alphabet that necessitated musical correctness and logical thinking.

I was very much influenced by Massine and strongly believed that a professional dancer should master a notation system. During a London visit in 1958, I purchased V.I. Stepanov’s The Alphabet of Movements of the Human Body (1892), a limited edition of 175 copies, published by Cambridge’s Golden Head Press. Mine was number 129 and is probably quite valuable. I copied Feuillet’s treatise at the Paris Opéra Library, which owned three copies in poor condition.

I studied both Feuillet’s and Stepanov’s alphabets. The former was simpler and easier to remember. I acquired sufficient skill to notate most classical steps--pirouette, chassé, sissonne, and contretemps--and record movement. It was a game, not an indispensable tool.

Stepanov’s book required substantial study. The notation process was laborious. I never used it to record a ballet. As structured, there are two lines for the head, three for the hand, and four for the feet. Movement symbols correlate to music symbols, with a bunch of clefs defining abductions or adductions and they indicate the height of the legs. I felt like a person who had learned a language but could neither speak nor understand it.

When Massine visited Point Park College in the mid-seventies as a guest lecturer, he was writing his book on choreography. I suggested that he teach our students his notation system. He was delighted, as that would facilitate his research. He relied on work study students, secretaries, and me to help with his book. I have a copy of the original manuscript. Some of the pages are identical to those in the published volume.

Learning the Feuillet and Stepanov alphabets aided my systematic thinking and gave me a comfort level when looking over a notated ballet, but I could not pretend to revive a work that way. Today those alphabets are obsolete, as video cameras provide perfect pictures and sound. The facility to film from different angles reveals every movement, expression, and detail. Still, I see the importance of notation, though courses are disappearing from many schools’ curriculums.

Laban notation, one of about two hundred attempts to create an easy, comprehensive, and unified alphabet continues to thrive. I admire Ann Hutchinson Guest for her work, Dance Notation the Process of Recording Movement on Paper, which is a valuable educational tool. Notation should be taught in conjunction with technique to students between ages twelve and eighteen to produce literate dancers. Computer animation software, such as Life Forms can help notate movements and facilitate the choreographic process. Will this become the international standard?

Today, computer literacy is necessary. In the past, a dancer needed an alphabet to be a literate dancer. Is it practical or only pride? The debate continues, but the bottom line is that the alphabet is a necessary composition tool.

In socialist countries, students received their arts and academic training in separate buildings within the same city, as most cities could not afford to build large facilities that offered both. Following the Second World War, these countries modeled their schools on the Kirov pattern. As both public and arts schools were coordinated, the students studied academics in the morning and dance in the afternoon, regardless of whether they resided in dorms or at home with their parents.

The theater school that I attended had a music, ballet (Vaganova methodology), and an acting division that taught Konstantin Stanislavsky’s system. Dancers were required to learn music, make-up, and acting.

The Stanislavsky system was vast, too psychological, and too philosophic for me. The textbooks were thick--read, read, read. And I thought, “I don’t want to be an actor, why the hell do I need this?” As dance put great demands and competitive pressure on me, I totally focused on my art and was disinterested in learning the Stanislavsky system, though I was surrounded by Stanislavsky actors, including the fierce Yuri Rakitin.

However, something did rub off and left an unconscious remnant which I used when I acted and reacted in ballets. I was reputed to be an excellent dancer/actor and was more comfortable with mime and movement than dialogue. Later, I drew on my experiences and applied them as a choreographer and artistic director. I successfully built three dance companies and an educational program that is now part of a university, which embraces most dance techniques, acting, musical theater, and film.

As a student, I took my schooling for granted, assuming that every actor was Stanislavsky trained. When Gerard Philippe of la Comédie-Française performed in Belgrade (and later when I lived in France), I realized that there were other acting methodologies.

In Paris I became re-acquainted with stage director Jovan Putnik, who offered private acting lessons while working on his dissertation. He explained the essentials of the Stanislavsky system and taught me how to concentrate, which included hypnosis exercises. I confided in him. In response, he applied the Stanislavsky methodology to my problems--If you do not make a big deal out of certain things, then a big problem is really just a small problem and can be handled easily. The process brought me back to my academic roots.

At Point Park College, I realized that Stanislavsky’s logic applied to my teaching and I adapted certain things to my classes. However, I was unable to vividly illustrate verbally and realized that the material needed to be in print. I developed a course called Analytic Approach to Dance, to fulfill the college’s request that I teach academic classes. I drew essential material from Stanislavsky’s dense chapters and progressively interpreted and tailored it to dancers.

A student mentioned Valentina Litvinoff’s 1969 treatise Litvinoff on Stanislavsky. Litvinoff, a well-known teacher, was influenced by a Stanislavsky course that she took in New York and by actor Vladimir Prokofiev’s writings. Her book applied the Stanislavsky system to dance. I was encouraged by her research, by her book, and by televisions programs that I had seen about the “actor’s studio,” which produced a number of popular American actors (including Marlon Brando and Eli Wallach). Her work convinced me that the system was valid for dancers as it taught them what they needed or did not need; how to learn faster; and how to relax.

A theoretical background is essential for dance and dancers. This is especially true for college age students, with insufficient or inadequate previous training. These students need every trick of the trade to survive and succeed in the college environment and in the field. The brain must first understand and accept any action that the body executes. I believed--that even if the dancers resisted or were uninterested in learning the Stanislavsky principles, as translated and applied to dance--someday they would draw on the material, as I had done. It would be their friend and helper.

Chapter Seventeen: Heyday

Doug concentrated on jazz choreography, while I worked on ballet. Together we brought the students to the highest technical level that was possible, though we had divisions of ability--A, B, C, and D groups. When we programmed full-length story ballets, we used two or three casts to provide performance opportunities for all. For the mixed bills, we auditioned the students per piece.

Peter Degnan joined ADE during its third season. I was glad that he was interested in working with me again. The reappearance of so many of my former PBT dancers proved that I was not a “tyrant.” I paired Peter with one of our outstanding students--Kristen Schleich, an excellent Clara in our Nutcracker. Doug continued to dance with Carolyn Paddock. Peter and Doug, who alternated in classical roles, were dissimilar, but each excelled and had his own specific qualities.

This season, I invited several guests to share the bill with Doug and me--my former Paris colleague, Valerie Camille, who was a Jack Cole-trained jazz dancer and an exponent of Matt Mattox’s technique and my friend Milenko Banovitch.

Valerie, who then lived in New York, set a Spanish influenced piece for us and was supposed to dance in it too, but her performance was cancelled by an injury. Milenko choreographed Cabriole, a ballet tribute to Elizabeth Arden. He wanted to create a very feminine ballet--like her fragrances.

Additionally, I imported Vassili Sulich’s Mantodeo, a bug adagio based on the mating process of the female praying mantis, which strangles her mates. Vassili, whom I had known in Europe before he founded Nevada Dance Theatre, was impressed with ADE’s strength and agreed to swap works with me. In exchange, I sent him my Soiree Musicale, but our arrangement was cut short by his new manager, who felt that to preserve the uniqueness of NDT, he should not give away his best ballets. We were not going to Vegas and they were not coming to Pittsburgh, so concern was rather misplaced.

I invited the Baltimore Ballet’s Mark Mejia and his partner Linda Kintz to perform Mantodeo and the pas de deux from Sylvia. They had previously danced Mantodeo, which made the rehearsal process easy. Sulich’s adagio remained in our repertoire and was performed by other partnerships.

While this performance was very versatile and exciting, it was too long and some members of the audience departed before it concluded.

My contribution to the previous program had been minimal so, for the February 1980 program, An Evening with Stravinsky and Bernstein, I revived my Symphony in C, contributed a smaller work, Scherzo a la Russe, and dared to choreograph Apollon Musagète, the same score Balanchine used for his Apollo. I had to carefully insure that my ballet did not resemble his. Doug was in his prime, looked the part of a young god, and was physically impressive. For the goddesses, I placed dancers on the shoulders of other dancers and costumed each pair in very long skirts, from which emerged the newborn. Following their exit, Apollo matured and danced with the muses. I considered retooling this ballet, but did not keep it in the repertory.

I never liked reviving my ballets and always had someone assist--usually Kenneth. This time, Roberto Munoz and Peter Degnan helped me to restage Symphony, a demanding ballet that required top caliber soloists. Roman Hlutkowsky and Jaraslaw Petruscak--dancers from Poltava, a Ukrainian dance ensemble--were brilliant in Scherzo. (Through my friendship with them, I met Lev Kertsburg, who was instrumental in strengthening the college’s folk dance program.)

Doug and guest choreographer Jonette Lancos Wentzel upheld the Bernstein portion of the program with Doug’s West Side Story suite, featuring Jets, Sharks, and a duet with Maureen Iseman, while Wentzel’s modern ballet, dedicated to the memory of her late sister, was an excellent vehicle for the students.

This time, there were no early departures.

During the planning stages for Rod McKuen in the Dance, Part II, Rod, who was a versatile poet, singer, and composer, decided to hold a benefit performance--Rod McKuen Live--for ADE at the Carnegie Music Hall on Sunday, April 13, 1980, which corresponded with our April program at the Playhouse. It was an extremely generous gesture that gave us good press and filled the hall with his fans.

Ukrainian Lev Kertsburg, a former member of Pavel Virski’s National Folk Ensemble of Ukraine, who had joined our faculty, premiered a new work on our second Rod McKuen program, along with Doug, and me. Kertsburg’s folk themed The Birch Tree was a breathtaking dance for eight costumed couples to a score composed in Russia that used balalaikas. It was the jewel of the performance.

My new ballet, The Volga Song, to music Rod composed while guesting in the Soviet Union, included an adagio for a woman and two men. Throughout this section, the trio maintained physical contact with each other--the men carried the woman, who barely touched ground. The choreography’s intertwining, rolling, and rotating recalled the gentle flow of a current. Carolyn Paddock, Randy Molina, and Roberto danced it beautifully. The second movement featured four women en pointe, who bourréed throughout the section--again signifying the river. Elsewhere, I created rocking-boat imagery by placing those four women on the men’s shoulders, as I recall their partners were Roberto, Randy, Steven Kijek and Rick Fehlandt. There was also a short, difficult adagio for Carolyn and Roberto. Rod was very pleased with my ballet.

I took an excerpt from Rod’s musical, The Black Eagle and I illustrated the text with a suite of modern ballet solos, duets, and ensemble dances. I hoped that we would later do the entire production. Unfortunately, that never happened.

Doug choreographed The Minotaur for himself. Massine’s backdrop of Minotaur, which had been painted by Salvador Dali, would have been perfect. I had used it for Fantasia. However, Leon Falk donated it to the Carnegie Library and we were forced to create a new one. For effect, Doug, clad in a Walpurgis Nacht tunic, entered on a heavy rope that simulated his descent into hell, a concept enhanced by red lighting. Musically, it was very vivid, powerful, and had a jazzy undertone. I liked it; Doug, on the other hand, was unhappy. Rod was unusually reserved and unenthusiastic. He later admitted that he had envisioned it differently.

After the show, our post-performance party--choreographers, designers, and cast--migrated to Brandy’s in the Strip District, one of the few restaurants with late night hours. We expected to celebrate with a light dinner, but instead had an unpleasant clash between Doug and Rod. Doug arrived at the party in an altered state. When Rod tried to explain his concept of The Minotaur, Doug retorted that McKuen’s music was lousy. This was a shocker to everyone and especially to me. Rod McKuen was so nice to us. I felt the insult as deeply as Rod did. I have never forgiven Doug. I tried to smooth things over, but the incident put a damper on our evening. Rod was extremely hurt.

The next day, I visited Rod at his hotel. We discussed Doug’s behavior. He understood that I needed Doug, but refused to work with him again. Rod also decided to depart earlier than planned, because of this incident. I explain that Doug did not mean what he said and was sometimes very unpleasant because of substance abuse. Despite our discussion, Rod left quickly. I thought our affiliation had ended, but Rod was bigger than that. We arranged a third collaboration.

Mary and I had celebrated the 1980 Russian Orthodox New Year with the Kertsburg family, who resided in Mt. Lebanon. Awaiting us in their apartment was an eight-foot table filled with Russian specialties--piroshki, borscht, cotelettes pojarski, blinchiki, red caviar, smoked salmon, bitochki, shashlik, Russian salad--and more, including kvass and plenty of vodka. I was impressed. Many of these dishes, I had not eaten since I left my mother’s home. It brought back my youth and after a few drinks, I was completely melted. Opening a restaurant seemed to be a wonderful idea--and I said so. That remark consequently cost me lots of money and lots of time.

I am a fairly good cook and had always wished to open a restaurant. Perhaps it is a ballet thing--I remember a conversation with George Balanchine, which took place on a New Year’s Eve. George, who was also a good cook, explained how choreography was similar to cooking. He taught me how to make Georgian cabbage and told me that a good cook is a good choreographer and vise versa. When he disliked someone’s work, he would say, “This one is not a good cook.”

By February, we had purchased an old South Side building, adjacent to The Market building, on Twelfth Street, just around the corner from East Carson Street. At the time, interest loans were high--about eighteen percent. But the bank, which was eager for us to succeed, gave us a break. The City of Pittsburgh mended the sidewalk. South Side residents were very friendly, especially the very personable Mr. Shamahaw, who was instrumental in helping us to refurbish and rebuild the building, which took about two months.

As I recall, the Masonic Hall in Carnegie auctioned off furnishings and equipment. One of the last pieces on the block was a beautiful, new commercial stove. Bidding opened at two hundred dollars. No one stirred. The auctioneer dropped the bid to one hundred dollars. No one bid. At twenty dollars, I lifted my hand. The auctioneer called out “Forty dollars.” I lifted my hand again, but David Vinski grabbed me. “Are you crazy? You’re raising your own bid!” he hissed. The auctioneer burst out laughing and we bought a one thousand dollar stove for twenty dollars, but it cost an additional fifty dollars to transport it to restaurant.

Initially, we planned to serve multi-national food, but we excelled in Russian/Ukrainian cuisine. Lev’s mother-in-law was the chief cook and his wife was her assistant. Mary and I stepped in to make the salads. As the technical director, I ensured that everything functioned, plus I picked up the meats and the alcohol, and closed up at night. We recruited Vinski as our general manager, as we needed a capable administrator--Kertsburg and I were rather bad at writing.

Old Europe, a charming European style restaurant, opened in May 1980.The excitement was great. Pittsburgh always goes nuts about something new. The food was excellent; we had eager diners and favorable newspaper reviews. There were thirty seats on the first floor and another thirty on the second. Each table was filled about three times each night. We served from Tuesday through Sunday and on weekends reservations were a must. We later obtained a liquor license, but we did not have a bar.

Guests arrived in Rolls-Royces, limousines, and expensive cars. Unfortunately, we lacked parking facilities. Many patrons hunted for me, “Where is that Petrov? We want to see how he cooks.” My place was usually behind the scenes, but I stepped in if we had a shortage of servers or helpers. Actually, running up and down the stairs with two plates was very taxing on my knees.

Sometimes, I recruited my dancers (among them Roberto Munoz and Catherine Groetzinger) to work for me, “Come on, let’s go to the restaurant to help. You will get a free dinner, plus tips.” We were flying high for almost a year. People suggested that we open another “Old Europe” elsewhere. While it was a great idea, Madame Vozovaya (the chief cook and prima donna) refused to share her secrets.

And then, the Russians shot down a Korean airplane. There was general distrust and uneasiness directed towards Russia, which affected our “Russian” kitchen as well. Simultaneously, my prima donna chef--along with the Kertsburg family--decided that our prices were too low, as some of her friends had filled her head with that notion. Unfortunately, greed begets disaster.

Without my approval, they doubled the price of each plate, instead of applying a typical fifteen percent increase. It shocked the public. The increase was too steep, too fast. Patronage declined. The three covers per table dropped to two. I alerted them to the downturn, but they responded that we worked less and got the same pay--so what was wrong with that? We disputed with one another and after several confrontations; I resigned from my post as President of the Old Europe Corporation and was happy to regain my liberty. If I was unneeded, why should I break my back? We were working for nothing and, yet I considered opening another restaurant. I maintained both a cool head and a sense of distance, as I regarded the restaurant as a side job.

I had enjoyed the process of acquiring the building; consulting with engineer Steve George, whom I met during my first days in Pittsburgh, to redesign the space; doing the carpentry work to bring the building up to code; and buying equipment. Certainly, I wished for success, but was not devastated by failure.

Eventually, they could neither pay the mortgage nor afford the food. Consequently, Vinski channeled money earmarked for taxes to purchase food. The restaurant was in pitiful shape when they called me. I felt sorry for everyone. I returned to work. We had weak patronage on weeknights and barely filled the first level on Friday or Saturday. Disaster was written on the wall. I suggested going into Chapter 11, just to keep afloat for awhile. It was a bad idea. The restaurant went deeper and deeper into debt (and in the end, it cost me five thousand dollars). We were forced to close or lose everything that we had worked two and a half years to build.

In the meantime Lev, who had bought a house in Squirrel Hill, decided to go into the cleaning business, but he never grasped the American way. When the restaurant collapsed, he sold the house. The Kertsburg’s also sold their share of the business to me. They disappeared and I never heard from them again.

I rented the space to Biki Bikram, who opened Simply French II. He later changed it to a fish restaurant, before selling the business to Café Allegro Corporation. I rented the building to Café Allegro, which had the option to purchase it. They became successful, bought the neighboring building, and expanded the restaurant to include a party hall. It has been there for twenty years and is one of Pittsburgh’s elite restaurants. The “Old Europe” name survives however. One of our waiters picked up the name and opened a Bulgarian restaurant--just around the corner on East Carson Street.

My son Alex and Lev Kertsburg’s son Alexei often played together at the restaurant. However, Alex resented the restaurant and felt that we should have spent our time with him. Now, when I look back, my son was right. When he was born in 1972, I was not ready to be a father, as my time was focused on building PBT and the dance program at Point Park College. For recreation, I bought and rebuilt real estate--I think that breaking down walls and pounding in nails helped to rid me of tension and frustration. But my focus was not on little Alex. As he grew, I was willing to give him anything that he requested. But the one thing that he wanted the most was my presence, which he got very sparingly. At the time, I did not realize that he was upset with my absences. I am very sorry that I was not initially the ideal father. For many years afterwards, I tried to correct that and to be there for him anytime he needed me.

Chapter Eighteen: A Time for Every Season

1980-81 American Dance Ensemble Season

Doug departed for New York with Marty McDonough, who was graduated from the college the previous year. I had lost a co-director and a jazz teacher.

The Luigi studio in New York recommended Ricardo Salinas for the teaching post, but he was less versatile than Doug and a mediocre choreographer. His first contribution to our 1980-81 season, Same as Yesterday was a fair number, but nobody was really enthused by it. It lacked the guts and tension characteristic in Doug’s choreography. I realized that I missed Doug.

Lev was at the peak of his choreographic ability and we compensated for the loss of Doug by featuring his works--among them The Old Lecher, which he danced with Luba Hlutkowsky (Roman’s mother); the exciting Gorlitsa; an excellent Moldavian Suite, and a gypsy dance for four.

With the help of Peter Degnan and Michael Smith, I choreographed Les Comedies Olympienne, a version of Les Patineurs to the music of Meyerbeer and Offenbach. It focused on three sports teams, engaged in a variety of athletics--swimming, gymnastics, skating, wrestling, fencing, tennis, karate, and cheerleading. The partnered gymnastic number for Sue Hunter and Jon Walas was excellent. Walas stood on his hands and did a scale (peacock in Yoga). They looked like guests from Pilobolus. However, the funniest vignette was “wrestling” performed by my favorite Ukrainians (Jaraslaw Petruscak and Roman Hlutkowsky). The ballet was very successful.

Roberto Munoz also departed. He returned to his family home in Venezuela to start his own company. I was surprised when he phoned to invite ADE to perform there. He insisted that Gennadi Vostrikov, who again danced for me, and Jordeen Ivanov, a frequent guest artist, headline the cast of twenty. As the college students would miss two weeks of classes, it was more feasible to take the professional dancers, faculty, and only part of the corps, plus technical director Paul Dimeo, who served as stage manager. I programmed small ensemble ballets and adagios: Gypsy, Gorlitsa, Moldavian Suite, Gopak, Soiree Musicale, the “Pas de Deux” from The Nutcracker, the “Pas de Deux” from Le Corsaire, and a new jazz piece choreographed by Salinas.

I still had not recovered from my flight phobia. Consequently, I opted to stay in Pittsburgh to “run the department” (ha ha ha). Kenneth and Ricardo went in my place, as did Lev, but an irresolvable visa issue detained him in Miami. He vacationed for a few days, before returning to Pittsburgh. Retrospectively, I regret that I did not participate in this tour, which was very successful and provided subsequent professional opportunities for Gennadi and for Carolyn Paddock. The company was wined and dined by the U.S. Embassy, the Office of Foreign Affairs of Venezuela, and by rich Venezuelans.

The Government of the State of Suleano gave the company a plaque:

The Institute of Culture of Suleano is addressing the recognition to the ballet American Dance Ensemble and its director Nicolas Petrov, for their exciting visit to our country and their great contribution to our artistic activities and cultural development of the region of Suleano.

My ongoing search for guest teachers led me to Bolshoi-trained Sulamith Messerer, who was teaching in New York. She declined my invitation and instead, highly recommended her son, Mikhail. His gig was to teach classes and to perform in The Nutcracker, as our Cavalier. He had nice line and his Bolshoi training was obvious, but as I discovered, he was quite the prima donna. (Perhaps his mother covered up for him and his Uncle Asaf Messerer protected him at the Bolshoi.)

Mikhail’s classes were adequate, but not of the same caliber as his Uncle Asaf’s. He looked down on the college population, whom he regarded as amateurs. I explained to him that these were not professional dancers, but he had difficultly understanding what I meant. Our discussion encompassed teaching approach and the American way, but he ignored my suggestions and was unwilling to adapt to the circumstances. (I had similar problems with faculty member Mansur Kamaletdinov and wondered if all Bolshoi dancers suffered from a “complex of grandeur.”)

Messerer was a bombastic performer. I feared that he would injure an inexperienced partner; I recruited Jordeen, who knew the part, was extremely adaptable, and was a veteran performer. I am sure that she has an indelible memory of his caprices. After the performance, which appeared to go well, she complained that he was impolite and had put his derriere up to her nose as he had stepped in front of her to bow.

He was unwelcome to return.

I netted another Soviet defector--Anatole Aristov--who was a former Moiseyev Folk Ensemble member. Sasha Filipov saw him in New York and urged me to engage him, as there were fewer opportunities for folk dancers. His performance in The Nutcracker’s “Russian Trepak” was exquisite. Lev was excited to have him onboard, but unfortunately Anatole’s tenure was short, as he liked vodka too much.

Doug was unable to find suitable employment in New York and by the spring of 1981 had returned to Pittsburgh. He realized that at home, he had more freedom to do what he wanted--no auditions necessary. I knew that his dreams for a New York career had evaporated. At least, I could use him as a dancer in my company. We decided to revive his Oh Happy Day (an appropriate title, as I was pleased by his return), along with pieces that Lev, Kenneth, and I staged. Personally, I think Oh Happy Day is his best creation, as the choreography, the dancing, the costuming, and the story mesh well.

In the meantime, Aleksandr Agadzhanov, another of my former PBT dancers, had returned and settled in Pittsburgh along his new wife Julie Cunningham. As regular ADE members, they enriched the classical wing of our company with stellar performances, like in the “Pas de Deux” from Le Corsaire, which they performed that spring.

Since dance companies do not survive on The Nutcracker alone, I wanted something to attract Pittsburgh audiences. I decided to retool Rite of Spring. My version for PBT, done ten years earlier, was shaped after Béjart’s, as I was planning to bring him to Pittsburgh. For ADE, I fashioned the ballet in the modern classical style. I pared the cast to thirty-five (in order to fit on the Playhouse stage). I was surprised that the students heard the music better than my dancers at PBT. We used coarse fabric, woven into rug-like tunics for the costuming, and rocks that created a cave-like ambiance. In addition to the Chosen One, I added a role, The Hunted One, for Isabelle Fokine, who had returned to the college. I hoped that she had matured and would be a great addition to our company, but she disappointed me.

After leaving, PBT, my list of supporters and donors diminished. Fund-raising had never been my forte, but it was Loti’s. It was now challenging, especially as she and Leon prevented us from tapping the same donors who supported PBT. Leon Falk told others “If he (meaning me) was so good, he would be with us.”

Retrospectively, if I could start over again with the American Dance Ensemble, I would raise the money first. When there was no ballet in Pittsburgh, we appealed to people who felt that there should be a company, though they actually knew little about the art. A company, however, cannot exist on opinion.

Among ADE’s first supporters were Ted Hazlett, Willard Rockwell, and Alfred Hunt. I was always happy when someone stepped forward--such as Mr. and Mrs. Levinson of Levinson Steel, who remained faithful supporters. During one of Rod McKuen’s visits, ADE board member Joseph Nassif arranged a dinner with the reclusive Alfred Hunt to familiarize him with ADE’s activities.

Our chauffer to the Hunt party was college alum Jimmy Miller, who is now a well known agent and producer on the West Coast (and counts Jim Carey among his clients). The Hunt home had exquisite living quarters and a private, enclosed swimming pool--more appropriate for Hollywood than for Pittsburgh.

Hunt was very reserved, but friendly. His young friend served as the butler and made our evening as pleasant as possible. Everyone had a wonderful time. Doug was in good humor and there were no clashes with Rod this time. We wanted to show our best side to Alfred, whom we hoped would continue to support us, which he did until his death.

In April 1981, we opened with Grande Pas Classique, which Frano Jelincic, who knew it well, staged to Alexander Glazunov’s music. Yes, Frano--this ballet was a strange collaboration. His battle with Patrick Frantz over the supremacy of their respective ballerina wives was far worse than his skirmishes with me--and Mary was never Dagmar’s rival.

Although Mary had danced in all the opera productions and in Swan Lake, The Merry Widow, and Alice, plus in The King and I at the Playhouse, I never favored her, as I worried about what others would say. (“Ya, ya, he is doing favors for his wife.”) Jealousy is always very powerful. And I avoided that situation. But actually, I think myself to be a real dummy. If I had done it openly, what difference would it have made? Sometimes being too scrupulous and too honest is idealistic.

With his tie to PBT severed, Frano became my friend. There was nothing to gain by continuing the animosity and this would show Loti Falk that I held no grudges. He had paid his debt--his destiny was no better than mine. The work featured Julie and Aleksandr with Kristen and Peter as the alternates, backed by four couples, which included Point Park College’s best dancers--Ruth Leney, Jerry Premick, Melinda Cutright, JoAnn Michaels, and Laura Robezzoli.

Isabelle Fokine danced her grandfather’s The Dying Swan, which Vitale had previously reconstructed for her from notes of the original. Michel Fokine’s variation for Anna Pavlova provided a framework for improvisation, which over the years other ballerinas have adapted to more contemporary technique and tastes. When I had staged the variation years earlier for a teenaged Jordeen Ivanov, I had used the current, accepted version, as I was unfamiliar with Vitale’s. Based on the old notes and costumed in an early nineteenth century tutu--which resembled a lampshade--Isabelle’s interpretation drew on her creativity and was unique. What she did was more realistic and yet, not updated. I admired her naivety. Interestingly, she later opted for an acting career.

Ron Tassone, Lev, Doug, and I filled the program with new and repertory works. My contribution was The Man Who Tracked the Stars, a humorous zodiac ballet with narration and music by Rod McKuen. The work used a large cast. For Taurus, I staged a comic bull fight, which I performed with Doug. People laughed because I was in it.

In 1981, Pittsburgh dedicated its first incarnation of the David L. Lawrence Convention Center with a special celebration of performances and events. At the time, we were affiliated with the city’s department of Parks and Recreation, which recommended us to the center’s planning committee. We struck a lucrative deal. They required both afternoon and evening performances to cover a four or five day span with a hitch--none of the programming could repeat. Phew! What a challenge. I met with my ADE team to discuss the options. Along with the usual suspects, we invited Peter Degnan and Tommy Cousin (who assisted Tassone with Nutcracker rehearsals) to participate. We assembled eight hours of programming that included a variety of dance styles and music--among them, my popular and accessible repertoire works and Tassone’s signature piece--something for everyone.

Rehearsals for our cast of sixty-five dancers, including a roster of guest artists--like Jordeen, Gennadi and the men from Poltava--began six weeks prior to the opening. Since we could not expect students to cut academic classes, the only possible way to run all these rehearsals was to substitute them for technique classes--to Mary’s chagrin and I caught hell at home. I reassured her that it was only temporary. I had committed myself and when I commit myself, I do my best to follow through with it.

The greatest challenge of this Cecil B. De Mille epic was devising the complicated schedules, as this was in the pre-computer era. We mapped out huge wall charts that listed all the dancers and the programming. We tried to assign every dancer to four or five pieces--but because of scheduling logistics, some ended up in eight different works. We allowed for onstage overlap time, as we occasionally had two groups slated to dance simultaneously on different stages and some dancers had to dash madly from one stage to another--changing costumes en route.

We bused the students back and forth to the center, which surprisingly was a good space for dance. Seating accommodated a thousand, but the audience could stand and walk about--it was a cross between a nightclub and a park performance. The sound system was excellent and for the evening performances, we had theatrical lighting. The stage itself, which was provided by the city, reminded me of the Three Rivers Arts Festival stage. We brought an announcer from the Playhouse to introduce the program and decorated the back wall with an enormous banner--American Dance Ensemble of Point Park College.

The event was not ADE’s greatest artistic achievement, as some of the pieces were better than others, but it was our biggest project. No one got ill, there were no serious mistakes, and everyone participated with pride. We did it for the love of the art. We were acknowledged by the city, the public, and the media, but the college never thanked us. And the college failed to understand that our extracurricular activities were more important than the department’s daily routine. As students went out into the world and pursued careers, their stories about their crazy schooling attracted new students.

When I first arrived in Pittsburgh, I needed dancers for opera productions. I canvassed local studios for recruits. For Aida, I chose Cathy Groetzinger, then a student at Barth’s studio. She subsequently appeared in several productions, but opted for New York, where she joined the Rockettes. I saw her again in New York, between shows--the Rockettes, who wore their make-up all day long, did four performances per day. She introduced me to her fiancé, whom she later married. I lost contact with her for about ten years until she phoned me.

“Do you remember Cathy? I am back from New York.” I was glad to speak with her. She had left her husband, was exhausted from work, and had decided to move home, with her mother. I asked Mark Lewis if I could hire her, as I needed an office assistant. She was a good writer and organizer, plus she kept my office clean.

Cathy resumed taking classes again and within a year, was in dancing condition. She joined the ADE roster as a soloist, but also worked in the corps--while maintaining the administrative job. Her assistance was especially invaluable when I translated and rewrote Stanislavsky’s method for dance as a college handbook to be used in conjunction with my course--Analytic Approach to Dance. I dedicated the book to her. She remained my assistant until ADE folded. Subsequently, she became the Assistant to the Chair, is still engaged in clerical work at the college, and teaches dance both there and at private schools as a guest teacher.

A Russian dance teacher, who was teaching at the Joffrey, approached me about employment. Mansur Kamaletdinov, a small--short and fine-boned--dark-eyed guy, a typical Georgian, had been a character dancer with the Bolshoi before his retirement. He knew how to talk. He said that he and I could make wonders. He promised to produce dancers unlike any others in Pittsburgh and that PBT would eat its heart out.

I, in turn, filled Mark Lewis’ head with fantastic descriptions of Kamaletdinov’s attributes. I convinced him to appoint Kamaletdinov as director of the part-time community dance classes. Consequently, we offered him a salary higher than the other teachers earned--which displeased the others, especially Mary whose astute insight saw right through him. His classes were good and he developed a following, but as with all Russians, soon problems arose.

Kamaletdinov’s ex-wife lived in New York with their son, whom he loved very much. He maintained an apartment there and continued to spend weekends with his boy. He brought his son to Pittsburgh and just two days later, his hysterical ex-wife appeared, demanding the return of her son. We hid Kamaletdinov, but she was persistent and told us that he had stolen her son, whom she wanted returned.

We ended up in court--our pianist Phyllis Connor, Lev, and I were Kamaletdinov’s witnesses. The judge awarded custody to the boy’s mother. Kamaletdinov was granted permission to visit his son once a month, but was not permitted to bring him to Pittsburgh.

For awhile, he concentrated on teaching classes and successfully setting choreography for the spring concerts. However, he demanded things that the Playhouse could not offer. I reminded him that the Playhouse was not the Bolshoi. He thought that he was producing geniuses. Certainly his boasting pleased the students and they became attached to him.

About two years after his arrival, he opted to open a private studio and convinced Paddy Toon and Jean Gedeon, both former PBT members, who were on the part-time evening division faculty, to join him. He instigated animosity between Jean and me, leading her to believe that I disrespected her and her abilities. He knew how to heat the iron. Jean, who had been Frano’s star pupil, as Jordeen had been mine, was a talented soloist. After an injury and weight gain, Loti pressured me to dismiss her. Jean happily accepted a teaching contract and simultaneously took another job at Carlow College. Although she worked for me, I was less involved with the evening division.

Their collective departure and the mass exodus of their students--Kamaletdinov taught the pre-professionals, Jean the children, and Paddy the adults--was a great blow to the evening division program, from which it has never recovered.

When I arrived in Pittsburgh, ballet accompanists were at a premium. Like Mme. Pereyaslavec, I realized the importance of an accomplished accompanist. Vesta Piper, one of our first pianists, was a sweet, short lady who played fairly well, but had a great problem. The piano at the Playhouse School was on a cart, which raised it an additional six to eight inches off the ground. She stacked a bunch of telephone books on the stool in order to reach the keys, but even that did not compensate for her diminutive height. The scores often fell on her, covering her face and hands. Odd noises accompanied the music as she shoved the sheet music into place and continued to play.

We had many others but the ones I best remember were Cleveland native Phyllis Connor, who was capable of sight reading and worked for both PBT and the college; the chain smoking Herb Martin, an excellent pianist who never understood how to be a good accompanist; Filipino Patria Manalo, who was a very good pianist but lacked a feel for dance; and Sandy (Moore) Ball, with whom I worked closely.

Sandy, a highly intelligent musician, joined us from Erie, where she had worked with Ismet Mouhedin at Mercyhurst College. She possessed an extraordinary talent as an accompanist. She understood rhythm and had learned folk and character melodies. I was always most comfortable teaching when she was at the piano, as she was able to read my mind, a feat acquired through years of working together.

When I staged The Merry Widow in Ljubljana, Slovenia, Sandy cut and arranged the entire three-act ballet, plus created the instrumental parts. She frequently cut and chopped scores by literally gluing snippets onto paper to create a new score.

1981-82 American Dance Ensemble Season

I had seen many versions of Bizet’s Carmen in my career and had danced in several. I always wanted to choreograph a short version of it that was uniquely mine. Composer Rodion Shchedrin’s adaptation of Bizet’s music provided me with a danceable score that I divided into twenty scenes and choreographed with jazzy technique. I hoped to contact Shchedrin, but at the time, was unable to reach him--we met many years later. I cast Peter Degnan and Kristen Schleich in the leads, with the bombastic Doug as Escamillo. Student Lisa Sheppard, a lyrical dancer, portrayed Micaela. Pat Mincin created superb spandex costumes. The ballet, which premiered during the 1981-82 season, moved smoothly and was well organized. I was proud of it. My friend Violette Verdy seemed impressed with it too.

I invited Ruth Page to a rehearsal. She sat down and we had a little chat. However, by the time we had run the first third of the ballet, she was sound asleep. I did not dare wake her. We just continued. She awoke when rehearsal ended. I hesitated to ask for her opinion--but she burst out, “Darling! It is marvelous!” She repeated that twice and then changed the subject.

Carmen remained in our repertoire, as it was easy to transport--the costumes could be squashed into a shopping bag.

In February 1982, I restaged Fantasia--my last ballet for PBT--with a new title, Picture on the Wall. But the centerpiece of that program was my interpretation of Rimsky-Korsakov’s Schéhérazade, one of the first ballets that I performed as a student in Novi Sad. I was very excited by this project. I cast Doug and Peter as alternates in the Golden Slave role; Cathy and Kristen as Schéhérazade; Ron Hutson as the Chief Eunuch, and Leslie Unger as Zobeide.

I required Ottavio De Rosa’s help. As he happened to be in town, I asked him to put counts into sections of the music. He did this with pleasure, but neither of us noticed that the music was registered at the wrong speed--the thirty-three rpm recording was registered to the speed of a forty-five--consequently, the music played twice as fast as it should have. It was a little too fast for dancing, so we slowed it down electronically. Nobody realized the big mistake.

During a rehearsal, with the Johnstown Symphony, in Johnstown, Pennsylvania, we discovered that the choreography and live music did not mesh. The orchestra was dragging. Discretely, I asked the conductor if he could conduct it much faster. He said “Yes,” but remarked that the first part would become too fast. I handed him the tape and asked him to listen. Shortly afterwards, he growled, “This is registered on the wrong speed! The musicians won’t want to play it at this tempo!”

This was a tremendous shock. I explained that it was an error and asked him to speed it up as much as he could. He obliged. The version he played was satisfactory, but rather fast for those who knew the correct tempo. I was so distraught, that I pulled the ballet from our repertoire.

Later that season, we--Peter, Lev, and I--also collaborated on an abbreviated version of Raymonda, Act I. Peter staged Pas de Dix, which he danced with Kristen; Lev staged the “Czardas” and “Mazurka,” and I took responsibility for the “Grand Pas de Deux,” for Kristen and Peter.

Kenneth and I shaved and chopped Cinderella into a mini-production that maintained both the essential elements and the basic story, including pre-ball preparations, an abbreviated ballroom scene, and the Prince’s round the world search.

1982-83 American Dance Ensemble Season

I knew that my Romeo and Juliet was one of the finest productions in the U.S.--and maybe in parts of Western Europe as well, until Rudolph Nureyev choreographed his version for the London Festival Ballet.

Initially, I hoped to assemble my old cast for the principal roles, but Jordeen was having problems with her feet; Sasha was busy in San Francisco, and Gennadi was not available. JoAnn McCarthy accepted the role of Juliet, but later opted for an offer at PBT and bailed out of her agreement with me. I was upset and told her, “JoAnn, if you leave me, it will be the last time that you work with me.” I assumed that she could negotiate her contract to include guesting engagements. In the meantime, I taught the role to a student who had attended all of the rehearsals and I sent out an SOS to Violette, who was then the director of Boston Ballet.

As usual, Violette came to the rescue. She had many French dancers at her disposal and dispatched three to me--Marie Christine Mouis, Jean Philippe Halnaut, and Alexandre Proia. They were recently graduated from the Paris Opéra School and had followed Violette from her tenure at the Opéra to Boston. Although they were already principals at Boston Ballet, their fees were not outrageous and the college could afford to bring them in as teachers and performers.

In an interesting twist, JoAnn Michaels, my student Juliet taught Marie Christine the role and performed with Proia as her partner. From our ranks, I chose Doug Bentz, who was at home as the brutally commanding Tybalt; Peter Degnan, who was good as Mercutio; and Joseph Bowerman as Benvolio. Marie Christine was a charming Juliet, while Proia excelled as Paris. As Romeo, he was also very good, but it was difficult to compare him to Sasha. Rounding out the cast were Kenneth Johnson as Father Lorenzo; Ruth Leney as Lady Capulet; Patricia Truschel as The Nurse; James Prescott, as the Duke of Verona; Ron Tassone, as Lord Montague; and I performed the role of Lord Capulet. Joan Markert was responsible for the costume design, while the sets and drops were created by Eileen Garrigan. These elements were minimal, but well executed.

I made one distinguished change to the choreography.

The Boston Ballet had invited Rudolph Nureyev to appear in his Don Quixote. While I did not have the opportunity to see it in Boston, Violette insisted that I catch a performance in Detroit. His was quite a good version of Don Quixote. I had previously seen the Australian Ballet perform it.

The Detroit public expected the old Rudolph, which is not what they got. He danced poorly. The critics were harsh, as is typical of the Detroit press. (It had criticized my The Nutcracker and Romeo and Juliet).

After the performance, I headed backstage to visit Rudolph, whom I had not spoken with in awhile. His black limousine was waiting by the stage entrance. However, he was not ready to depart, as he needed a massage after the show. There were no autograph seekers clustered at the door, so I easily accessed backstage. We chatted in English and Russian as his masseur diligently worked on him.

I congratulated him on his choreography and remarked that it was one of the best versions around. I avoided mentioning his performance. I also remarked that I was absolutely impressed with his Romeo and Juliet.

And then I said, “Rudy, you have a wonderful scene in which Father Lorenzo offers the potion to Juliet. The scene freezes. A vision of the funeral bed appears with Romeo coming to kiss her and wake her up.” There was another scene in which Benvolio, unaware that Father Lorenzo’s letter has not reached Romeo, tells him that Juliet is dead. Romeo, struck with grief, jumps backwards onto Benvolio’s shoulder and collapses on his knee. This is repeated several times. I asked if I could incorporate these two details in my ballet, which I told him that I was reviving.

Rudy pursed his lips, which later turned into a smile. “Of course, by the way, I saw this movement in London, by a ballerina, in a completely different ballet and thought that it was quite appropriate to use in Romeo and Juliet, so I basically, already picked up the movement from somebody else,” he confided.

I was quite happy that he did not object and would not sue me for plagiarism.

Romeo turned out well and drew at the box office. The new version could stand on its own and was one of the American Dance Ensemble’s highlights, along with my Stravinsky Festival and my collaborations with Rod McKuen. I must applaud the Playhouse and everyone who made the production possible.

Following our annual Nutcracker, Doug revived Minotaur, without making any changes, as he was convinced that he had done a good job. This time, he used a “musical collage” and costumes by Joan Markert. The work rounded out a mixed bill dedicated to Ruth Page. She donated the exquisite costumes and décor for our performances of her Bolero and Carmina Burana. We only had to pay for their transportation and insurance. Although Ruth visited us, Kenneth Johnson revived both of her ballets, relying on films, videos, and his performing experience. His reconstructions were very authentic, as he knew almost every ballet in Page’s repertoire and was always a great asset in restaging her choreography. Kenneth, who retired from PBT in 1974 and joined the college faculty, had been slow to accept me as his friend and boss; perhaps because his loyalty and admiration for Ruth was so intense that by comparison, I was a poor replacement for her. However, our mutual esteem of Ruth and our outlook on dance created a strong working relationship and a lasting bond of friendship. Kenneth, with his good natured jokes, puns, and comic exaggerations, faithfully followed most of my adventures and produced my works for ADE. He and Mary stuck it out the longest at the college. They donated countless in-kind services, beyond earning their salaries. And they were my pipeline to what was going on in the college, while I was preoccupied with other actives.

Mary’s focus was more on teaching than on creating choreography or staging ballets. Excellent teachers possess knowledge and experience, plus the ability to communicate with their students, who in turn accept and benefit from the information. While some teachers only teach what they learned as students, the combination of both knowledge and experience is essential. Teaching also develops a learning process for the instructor. Mary understood and accepted this. Hers were carefully constructed, well-planned classes, unlike my improvisations. I remember that she got Asaf Messerer’s book, and from cover to cover, used every combination, every description that he wrote--but she was not teaching by the book. It was only a guideline that kept her organized and focused on the message that she wanted to share with her students. Her strength was in always being prepared. And when a student asked a question about the material, she had a ready answer. (Unlike me, as I often showed a combination and when the students turned at barre to do the other side, I demonstrated something completely different.) However, she was always in competition with me--something pushed her, vanity, maybe--to prove that she was the better teacher.

She did coach Les Sylphides. While I could restage it, for me, it was a very big challenge. I really had to prepare myself and re-learn it every time. Mary knew every detail, even the obscure ones. She had danced Sylphides in London, in Sweden--where we met, and for Evelyne Cournand. She danced it everyday for two years. (Sylphides was coming out of my ears--it was my sleeping pill.) For ADE, she worked with Kenneth, who was fast to restage things, but was unfamiliar with this particular ballet--he was more a dancer/actor like me--while Mary knew it like the back of her hand. They worked well together and got good results.

Looking at old posters, I am amazed by the degree of talent and the high quality of ADE’s work. Ballets like Carmina, with its professional costumes, provided our audiences with well-danced, well dressed evenings, while offering our students a taste of professionalism and an incentive to perform. Unfortunately, we were constantly faced with inexperienced newcomers, as our veteran students were graduated. However, we took pride in producing quality dancers, who embarked on successful careers and award-winning achievements--Tome Cousin, Tasha Baron, Rob Davis (Ashford), Cindi Klinger, Rebecca Timms, Jerry Premick, Ruth Leney, and Melinda Cutright, a promising dancer, who instead became an agent.

After graduation, a group of them (including Cutright, Ashford, and Joseph Bowerman) leased a New York apartment at Forty-Seventh Street and Eighth Avenue, sharing the twenty-five hundred dollars a month rent. I visited them--they had beds in the hall, in cubby holes, and in closets, but it was the only way they could afford to live in New York City.

I revived Rite of Spring to close out the season. It provided both an excellent musical lesson for the inexperienced and an introduction to Stravinsky’s rhythmic complexities. It is easy to create a three to fifteen-minute ballet in 4/4 or 2/4 rhythm, which is commonly used in contemporary jazz and rock music. It is more revealing to work with a score like Stravinsky’s.

Ron Tassone contributed the second half of the program with A Salute to Broadway. It unfolded as a chain of dances and short sequences that provided the public with a nice overview of different musicals. And, it pushed our dancers to a new artistic level. Ron did a very good job this time and I was very pleased with his work.

The New York-based Nikolais Dance Theatre frequently appeared in Pittsburgh under the auspices of the Pittsburgh Dance Council. During one of the engagements, I met and befriended Alwin Nikolais, who said, “I have a workshop, why you don’t come?”

We became very good friends--it was as if we had always known each other. He even permitted me to tape record his workshop sessions, though I agreed not to circulate his material. (I do not know if his book was ever published; I still have a dozen tapes of his voice, complete with background noise and static). In exchange, I gave him a copy of my dance system, based on the Stanislavsky translation--and we compared notes.

I recall that he compared a dancer to a propeller and noted that both covered space. “But is the propeller dancing?” he rhetorically asked. His answer was “there is no humanity in the propeller’s motion, as it lacks mental intelligence. Dance is intelligent motion.” And that is what I learned from Alwin Nikolais. He was a sensational person, who gave me enormous respect and although he never danced ballet, he said that we were still “brothers,” as dance is dance. There is no “special dance.”

1983-84 American Dance Ensemble Season

Although I had been living and working in the U.S. for many years, the question of citizenship had not crossed my mind--until Mary lost her South African passport. Consequently, she applied for U.S. citizenship and--after memorizing the names of all the U.S. Presidents and learning the Pledge of Allegiance--easily passed the exam to become gloriously American. I had an American child. I owned real estate. I realized that it was appropriate for me to become a citizen too.

I studied the Constitution and around 1983, I became an official member of the land of opportunities. In my past, I had harbored dreams and hopes about the American life that I wanted to live. I was quite excited about calling myself proudly American. I felt bigger and more important.

The reception held in our honor was sponsored by the Pittsburgh Rotary Club. Mayor Sophie Masloff, who presented the “Welcome” speech, invited me to her table. Going around in my mind, was how to invite her to join ADE’s board. And then I just asked her. She accepted.

Additionally, I became acquainted with Rotarian Leslie Dutka and subsequently joined the club, though I knew little about the organization at the time. As my Masonic lodge was in New York, I figured that I could be a Rotarian in Pittsburgh. Soon after joining, I visited the Rotary in Paris and invited Karoly and his wife as my guests.

American Dance Ensemble was “our” company. It operated as a collective--Doug did the jazz, Kenneth the classical, and I did the multi-media. There was no research, no recommendations, and no refusals--and that was what I most enjoyed about it. For the 1983 season we repeated some of our past works. I improved Carmen with better ensemble work and more convincing dances. Kenneth revived Mantodeo for Julie Cunningham and Aleksandr Agadzhanov, whose interpretation differed slightly from Linda Kintz’s and Mark Mejia’s. Doug choreographed Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue.

My new work, the slapstick Je Ne Sais Pas Quois (translated as “I don’t know what”) was constructed with a gymnastic base and a Pilobolus style technique. Sandy Ball arranged the musical collage. Catherine Groetzinger, Joe Bowerman, and Rob Davis (Ashford) did an extraordinary job. I realized that these young men had professional futures. Rob and Joe were close friends and always together. I thought that Joe was the more talented and would be more successful. I focused on Joe, while Rob, who was an observer and a follower, worked hard to fit in. The men were the heart of ADE’s male corps and I could not imagine working without them. After graduation, Joe continued in the theater--as an electrician and a stage manager, while Rob, under the name “Rob Ashford,” appeared on Broadway and later won a Tony award for his choreography.

Rob, a personable all-American boy, knew how to give respect and credit. When he returned to Pittsburgh in 2003 with his show, he invited the entire faculty to dinner and provided a post-performance backstage tour at the Benedum Center.

Doug and I hatched many new and exciting ideas, but lacked the funding to implement them. We relied on the money that The Nutcracker generated. Although we used Point Park College’s studios, telephones, and mailing, we needed funding for costumes, choreographers, and guest artists.

According to Mark Lewis, the college mistakenly believed that it was supporting ADE, possibly because John Hopkins had not officially instituted it as an educational activity of the dance division. Naturally, it was overlooked that the students were performing beyond the minimum requirements of the program. Every dance major had plenty of onstage time, as the full-length ballets used everyone, including the faculty. We annually presented between forty-five and sixty-five programs--not counting lecture demonstrations and festival gigs, which upped the count to seventy or eighty performances per year. In ADE’s ten-year existence, I never recall that any student complained of too few performing opportunities.

Comparing these past figures to the present number of performances--which totals thirty-seven, including summer dance performances--it is obvious that we were doing a double job for no money. Today, the performances are officially considered as class time and meet the satisfaction of the faculty’s load.

They called me a “slave driver,” as we worked every evening from 6:00 p.m. until 9:30 p.m., on Saturdays from 10:00 a.m. until 6:00 p.m. and on Sundays from noon until 6:00 p.m. The college did not sanction these extra rehearsals and performances; accordingly there was no budget to cover them. Our regular technique and academic classes satisfied the class load for our salaries. Those of us working with ADE--Doug, Kenneth, Ron, and I--were not paid overtime. Consequently, the so-called Rehearsal and Performance course was an unofficial class--we were not paid separately to teach it.

I am shocked and surprised that today’s dancers and teachers do not donate their time. They charge for every battement tendu. It feels like being in a taxi with the meter running. I do not criticize those who expect payment for their services. I do realize in the long run that the job required a tremendous effort and those who donated time and expertise were often not appreciated. It is not my intention to discourage others from the dedication needed to create and produce successfully. There is a fine line between being overly generous with your time and being very miserly. But I guess that depends on the temperament and intelligence of the artist.

We were never thanked for this enormous effort. The college owes us recognition and acknowledgement for graciously working overtime, which as “in-kind services” contributed to the progress and development of the dance department. Years earlier, during the formation of PBT, the college faculty had been perturbed that we were constantly in the news. I aimed to garner the same attention for ADE and succeeded. Our performances generated media coverage, especially in the Pittsburgh Press which brought the college’s name to the public’s attention. Additionally, our box office and tours netted sixty to eighty thousand dollars per year. That earned income paid for guests, costumes, designers, and our stage manager. Yes, we brought in professionals, who were role models for the students--at very little cost. Today, we import high priced choreographers and incur expense for salaries, travel, and room and board. We also rent costumes that are more expensive than those we produced ourselves. Yet, in the mid-eighties, the college administration believed that it was allowing us to use the facilities and regarded the dance faculty’s output as unnecessary.

The February 1984 show opened with the premiere of Ron Cunningham’s Summerset, a symphonic ballet for three couples and Incident at Black Briar, a story of two women torn between their love for each other and a man who complicates the situation. Cunningham, who was then with Boston Ballet did a first rate job. I had seen him in rehearsal at Boston Ballet, just after the company had returned from China. My impulse was to ask Violette if he could stage something for ADE. She gladly agreed. He was also excited about the opportunity. His work was very close to my concepts and to the Jiri Kylián style. At the time, I was planning to revive my old company, Ballet Petrov, and I thought that his high quality work would be perfect for it.

Funding issues beleaguered ADE. I asked the National Endowment for the Arts why I was having difficulty obtaining support. The President of the Pennsylvania Council for the Arts and an NEA member, was nice enough to explain the problem.

“Nicolas, you are falling through the cracks. As the American Dance Ensemble is a college company and there are professional dancers in it, the company is neither a professional company nor an educational company. So, I suggest that you divide the company into two parts--have the American Dance Ensemble present the students and have another company that will be a concert group, present the professional dancers.”

Mulling over what to baptize the new troupe, I realized that reviving my old company, which I had deactivated when I left Paris, might be good. Touring companies received no funding in Europe. Back then, I assembled my dancers and engaged an impresario, who arranged contracts for us. This commercial system, which survives in Europe, is feasible where there is an abundance of freelance dancers. In Europe, audiences are more willing to experiment--if they dislike the show that is of no consequence, while in America, they insist on name artists to guarantee that they will.

The name “Ballet Petrov” sounded too much like a Russian troupe, though it was good for a folk ensemble. However, at this point, it was just a façade. I knew that Ballet Petrov could not survive without ADE. It would have been strange to call it “Ballet Petrov of Point Park College” and I hesitated to attach the college’s name to it, fearing that “Ballet Petrov” would lose its professional status.

Since the NEA had no qualms about Ballet Petrov performing with ADE, I began to rebuild. For funding purposes we incorporated Ballet Petrov and formally announced it in the newspapers, under the pretense that it was a separate company. A few years later, Mark Lewis was forced to retire by the college’s acting President Matthew Simon and this fund-raising gimmick backfired tremendously.

In another fund-raising attempt, I approached the Rockwell Foundation (as Connie Rockwell was on the PBT board and I also knew her husband) for support of both ADE and Ballet Petrov. Mr. Rockwell committed twenty thousand dollars to the dance companies. I was very happy to receive this substantial operations grant.

Less than a day passed before President Hopkins summoned me to his office. He said, “Nicolas, what are you doing? You went to the Rockwell Foundation and we also went to the Rockwell Foundation. We were promised two hundred thousand dollars for the college and now we are only getting $180,000 because he gave you twenty thousand dollars.” If I had known, I would not have done it.

Among my very first students were a quartet of four exceptionally talented youngsters--Amy Chomas, Christine Ratay, Pamela Klare, and Karen Prunczik, who was the daughter of PBT board member Walter Prunczik. It was amazing to see them turn six to eight pirouettes--without a partner. I was impressed and satisfied with the results of my teaching. Perhaps, their accomplishment and my pride, made them a little bit bigheaded--which influenced their behavior. Nevertheless, they had enormous talent.

Karen, who studied tap with former PBT board member Paul Draper, was the most successful of the group. Karen made a career in musical comedy and by touring the U.S. as a singer/dancer. In New York, she landed the role of Anytime Annie in the show 42nd Street and met David Merrick, its famous producer, whom she later married--and divorced. She brought him to our studios on the second floor of Lawrence Hall and introduced us. He was an extremely charming person.

Ron Tassone offered Karen the leading role in his tribute to film star Jean Harlow, which she accepted. I suspect that she felt indebted to us for her early training and also, she wanted to give family and friends in Pittsburgh an opportunity to see her as the Broadway star that she had become. Surprisingly, the platinum blonde wig that the role required did not look bad on her. She said that dancing with us was like coming home again to the Pittsburgh Playhouse where all her dreams of becoming an artist had begun. (And since her father’s death, she has remained here to operate the family business.)

I was happy to see Karen, who was always bubbling and bursting with energy. And her work with ADE was a nice reunion. Her presence created a sensation, which generated good attendance. The show was successful--Ron did a very good job.

Doug grew restless again and decided to strike out on his own, but this time in Pittsburgh, not in New York. He hoped to raise funds unhampered by a college affiliation. For a time, his The Extension…A Company of Dancers, a jazz troupe of college alumni and advanced students, resided on the South Side.

The Jazz Nutcracker, which expanded on Duke Ellington’s musical suite, was one of his most notable works. The concept was interesting, especially the amusing nightclub scene that comprised Act II. The production was modest and fit within his small budget. Later, he lost the rights to present it, but in 2000, he revived it for the college with better décor, costumes, and theatrical production values, including live music.

Doug also hit a funding brick wall. He had no backers and nobody offered substantial help. The company was doomed, despite his good ideas, good choreography, and good dancing. Sadly, he failed to find a way to change our destiny, but on the other hand, I felt less ostracized by my unsuccessful fund-raising efforts. Here were two promising companies that collapsed for lack of support, not for lack of artistic merit. I suspected that because I was a foreigner, I had problems, but Doug was a Pittsburgh native. I realized that creating a new company was ill-timed. However, I did not give up. I imported artists from France and provided young choreographers with creative opportunities. The skeptical and destructive criticism of the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette did not help to change the opinion of the funding community.

1984-85 American Dance Ensemble Season

I was always interested in giving younger choreographers a chance, and, as a compensation for Doug’s absence, I allowed one of our students Tommy Cousin to create pieces for our 1984-85 season. We were impressed with Cousin’s sense of movement and independent style that reflected his personality. Emerging choreographers are always most vulnerable because they must work with friends and peers--there is no distance of experience between the dancers and the choreographer. But he did very well with his assignments--Come and Get These Memories, choreographed to a medley of sixties hits and the witty and spatially interesting Pressure Cookin.’ These experiences, which bolstered his confidence, were his first steps to a successful career. Our predictions were on target with Cousin, who later danced on Broadway and abroad (as Tome Cousin), but we misjudged Preston Simpson, a student with juggling skills, who showed great choreographic promise. He left dance, but remained in Pittsburgh. Initial success does not assure that artists will continue, nurture, or explore their talent to its full potential.

That season, I re-choreographed Ninth Symphony to accommodate a smaller, less technically competent cast, without guest stars and I premiered the mysterious Danse Macabre, to Camille Saint-Saëns’ music. For Danse I used black lights and had “ghost” ballerinas--tutus, empty tights, pointe shoes, and some muslin--hanging from overhead fishing lines. The suspended items appeared to float. I dressed the male cast completely in black. They held and carried skeletons that played the violin. Some fought each other with swords. Everyone danced with an invisible partner, wearing black, which also perpetuated the floating effect. I was really proud of my invention, though it was really a black light show and a theatrical trick.

Eighteen years had elapsed since Jean Guelis and I had worked together in Paris. I met with him there. He was still choreographing for French television. He also held a good job with Cine Cite in Rome, which was the Italian Hollywood. While he had aged a bit, he really had not changed.

I wanted him to work with my company in Pittsburgh and to later take a group of twenty to Europe with a jazz and modern dance repertory. Our name “American Dance Ensemble” had touring appeal abroad and Jean was interested in the deal, but for financial reasons, it failed to gel.

Jean always enjoyed creating unusual and interesting work, though in television production, his output was always subject to the producer’s request. He was enthusiastic about the carte blanche offer and, the U.S. gig was attractive. He had not visited the U.S. in many years. As a young boy with an uncommon jump, he won acclaim on tour with Léonide Massine’s Highlights Concert Ballet. Now it was time to return to showoff two pieces of his choreography, a new version of Seven Deadly Sins, with an electronic score and L’Aveugle (The Blind).

The backdrop for Sins featured a great devil’s head with an enormous open mouth. The dancers entered through his tongue. Personally, I think it was the best number in the show, which included works by Cousin and me. The music was dramatically different from Kurt Weill’s version. Instead of a melodic bonanza, it erupted as a concrete explosion of sound effects. The stories attached to each sin--greed, pride, envy, anger, lust, gluttony, and sloth, held together by Lucifer--were quite clear to the audience, who could understand and become emotionally involved.

At the time, I was still on two legs--as my hip problems were yet to come--but performing in his ballet was not easy, as I really had not danced much since we had last worked together. He gave me the role of an older guy in Greed--the adagio’s lifts were no problem, but I was not in condition for the jumps. Working with Jean was a pleasure, as it brought back good memories--we had done so many ballets and so many shows together from 1954 until 1967. We had also been friends--we got together even when we were not working. Our studio relationship was never clouded with the attitude, “you are my friend therefore I will not listen to you.”

For The Blind, Jean used his son Alain’s score. The drama was about a blind man (Joseph Bowerman in our production), who recovers his sight to discover that his family and best friend have lied to him and that he has been manipulated by others. Joe portrayed the character very well. Jean created a body-hugging adagio for Kristen and Peter, as his wife and friend, respectively that was quite effective and telling.

1985-86 American Dance Ensemble Season

I was bitter about my failure to raise funds. I was running out of ideas. My enthusiasm lapsed. I decided to import other companies and to create a dance festival, instead of programming concerts for ADE. The Nutcracker was the only opportunity for our students to perform. It was unjust to create a festival that excluded them, but I was discouraged. My detractors--Joseph McGoldrick in particular--convinced the students that I was not interested in them.

We performed The Nutcracker at the University of Pittsburgh’s Stephen Foster Memorial Theatre because the Playhouse was booked for another event that promised a larger box office than we would draw. The subscription season also carried the Lynda Martha Dance Company, Ballet Petrov, and Choreo-Expo 86.

I knew of Lynda Martha (who was originally from Pittsburgh) and her company from my visits to Chicago, where it was based. I made a trip to see it and was impressed with her class and her troupe--very professional, very controlled. I extended an invitation, which she accepted. During a weeklong residency, the group performed two separate programs with choreography by Kate Kuper, Ricardo Moyano, Anna Paskevska, and Lynda Martha. The gig was successful, as Lynda’s Pittsburgh-based family helped to advertise the concerts and bolster attendance. Moyano subsequently choreographed for Ballet Petrov and appeared in ADE’s The Nutcracker on tour in Ohio.

For Ballet Petrov’s first independent concert, I assembled a ten-member troupe--Sasha Filipov, Rob Davis (Ashford), Joe Bowerman, Kristen Schleich, Peter Degnan, Catherine Groetzinger, Amy Gear, and Daniela Panessa, plus Mindy Cooper from Twyla Tharp’s company. Besides my choreography, we presented revivals and new ensemble ballets by guest choreographers Ron Cunningham, Ricardo Moyano, Mark Thompson, Jean Guelis, Vassili Sulich, and Sasha. I invited the funding community, but few attended. Deep down, I knew that this was the last twitch of a dying idea.

Choreo Expo 86 was created to showcase student choreographers, older choreographers, newer choreographers, faculty, and anyone with the inspiration to produce a good piece. About a dozen participated in the inaugural event, which evolved into the Student Choreographers Showcase and later, into Tomorrow’s Choreographers.

The twenties had the Charleston; the sixties had the Twist, and in the eighties there was break dance. The craze, which started in New York’s Harlem and East Village, was in full swing. I was amazed by what some of the guys on the street could do, accompanied by a boom box and a plastic tablecloth for a floor surface. I saw a guy put a hat on his head and launch himself into a series of revolutions--turning on his head three or four times. (While Vaslav Nijinsky reportedly attempted a similar stunt in Schéhérazade, professional dancers did not follow his example.) These street dancers were not professionals and only danced for a hobby. Most of the kids were gang members or groupies who were in competition. I wondered how to lure these boys into a professional dance career, just as Edward Villella had been recruited from the street to the stage. I was sure that they had the talent.

I approached Mark Lewis with an idea. “Mark, I think we should do a break dance festival.” He looked at me quite puzzled and surprised and asked why I wanted to mingle with amateurs. But there are no amateurs--there are only the talented and the untalented. After winning him over, I approached the City of Pittsburgh, as we were working for the Department of Parks and Recreation.

Securing five thousand dollars in funding from the city was a snap. I convinced Lewis that if the college put up twenty-five hundred dollars, the payback in publicity for the college and for us would be invaluable. The major expense was renting Soldier and Sailors Memorial Hall, which could accommodate approximately four to five thousand people. I amassed a jury at a low fee. We offered three thousand dollars for first prize; two thousand dollars for second; five hundred dollars for third, and ten consolation prizes of one hundred dollars.

During the pre-selection process, we narrowed the field of one hundred applicants to thirty groups based on their three-minute demonstrations. Some of the performers looked like karate experts, others like Indians, and some just like ghetto kids. I approached many of them and passed around a piece of paper offering dance scholarships at Point Park College, including full scholarships. Their lack of response and interest was disappointing. They looked at me as if they just wanted to be paid before disappearing.

However, to our great surprise, the two-hour event filled the hall. We only charged a donation, but netted more than four thousand dollars. The bottom line was that it cost the college nothing and we still earned fifteen hundred dollars. This was more proof of my no risk, no gain philosophy. I was known for my kamikaze nature--I was willing to try anything at least once. The event was both a great success and a total failure. We received good press. Otherwise, it was a senseless waste of time.

In 1985, I went home. (Roberto drove me to the airport, tried to get me drunk--but I was sweating too much for the alcohol to take affect--and pushed me on the plane. His philosophy was that if you are afraid of something--just do it.) I had not been in Yugoslavia for thirty years. Tito had extended amnesty to those who had not served in the army. It was safe for me to return, but I remained apprehensive until I landed in the U.S.

My street had not changed since my departure, but Novi Sad had changed tremendously. It looked like a new city. Its center was now divided by a six-lane highway, which connected to a new railway station. There was a new bridge too, which crossed the Danube to Frushka Gora. It took awhile to adjust--everything seemed smaller and strange, even the things that were familiar.

Since that visit, I have returned once or twice a year and have spent summers there too. My Aunty Elizabeth, with whom I had stayed during my student days in Belgrade, had passed on; as had her brother, my Uncle Oscar. However, through my repeated visits, I grew closer to my cousins Oscar Jr. and Helena and their families.

My son, Alex, accompanied me on one of these trips. We went to visit relatives in Zagreb and Novi Sad, as my parents, who were both still alive, were anxious to see him. He spoke only English, but was very heroic. He loved the ice cream, which was inexpensive and plentiful.

I wanted to show Alex more of Yugoslavia and took him to the Dalmatian Coast by train. I thought that he would enjoy Dubrovnik, but we were unable to find lodgings there--all the hotels were booked. I could not even bribe someone to rent us a room. Next, we took a boat to Hvar, a resort, where my former teacher Margita Debeljak resided. I had not seen her in twenty-five years. She loaned us her small apartment for the night and went to stay with neighbors. Neither Alex nor I could sleep. We went outside to sit on the steps, when suddenly we were surrounded by bats. Alex said, “Daddy, I think it’s time we went home.” It was a long night--if we closed the windows, which overlooked the courtyard, there was no air and if we left them open, the bats would come in. The next day, we visited one of my former classmates from Novi Sad, who had become a wealthy businessman. In the thirty years since I had last seen him, he had filled out considerably from the skinny dance student I remembered. Here, with a big house, nice bedrooms, and a boat in the yard, Alex was very comfortable.

Shortly before graduating from high school, my friends and I vacationed at Lake Bled in Slovenia, where Yugoslavian President Josip Broz Tito had a sumptuous summer home. We visited a little church that stood on an island amid the lake. Following the local custom, I made a wish as I pulled the church’s bell. Thirty-two years later, my wish came true. I returned to Lake Bled--thanks to Milenko Banovitch.

He had been working as a guest teacher and choreographer at the State Opera of Ljubljana, in Slovenia where he had been asked to stage the full-length Merry Widow. The job was too complex for him and he suggested that his “friend” (me) would be interested in the project.

The Opera was familiar with Ruth Page’s version, which featured New York City Ballet star Peter Martins. The production was approximately fifty-five minutes long--too short by Yugoslav standards. It had to be extended into a full-length work.

Milenko asked if I could find or create a longer score. Initially, I was unsure if this was possible, but the project intrigued me. I liked Lehár’s music and operettas, which I had performed in Europe.

Ottavio De Rosa was too busy to accept the assignment. He recommended Jeff Cook, who was PBT’s assistant conductor. Jeff jumped at the offer and accepted--if he could conduct the Ljubljana Symphony. The Symphony agreed.

Apparently Ruth’s arranger failed to ask permission from the Lehár Foundation to use the music. As she did not have rights to the music, we could not use her score and the Lehár foundation prohibited taking it to Europe. Adapting the operetta into a ballet was an enormous project, which Jeff could not do unassisted. Sandy Ball stepped in to help and became addicted to cutting musical scores.

We built it scene by scene and I enhanced the libretto. For the overture, we created a scene with Sonya (the soon to be Merry Widow) and her husband. We set it in their bedroom, as Sonya was preparing for the nuptial night. The husband got so excited that he died of a heart attack. The scene was not dramatic, but rather funny.

In the next scene, we staged a meeting in the Marsovian Embassy, between Popov, the ambassador, and an official of Marsovia. Marsovia was on the brink of bankruptcy, illustrated with an unfurling scroll of debts. The plan was to persuade Prince Danilo to re-establish his relationship with the now widowed and very wealthy Sonya in order to tap her bank account. This scene was similar to one in The Green Table. The decision here was to invite Sonya to a huge reception at the Embassy.

In the ensuing ballroom scene, representatives from various embassies presented national dances. A tipsy Danilo arrived with an entourage of can-can girls. Sonya appeared amid the can-can number--much like the arrival of Cinderella at the ball and with the same impact. However, Danilo seemed disinterested until their eyes locked. The fire ignited and they started to dance. The following scene depicted a party at Sonya’s Montmatre villa. Here, I inserted native Marsovian dances and then segued into the traditional storyline of intrigue, romantic mix-up, and happy ending.

I arrived in Ljubljana at the end of the season, just after the dancers had finished working with Milko Sparemblek, who had expended their energy. They were ready for vacation and would not perform my ballet until September. We filmed it before I returned to Pittsburgh, but not before I revisited Lake Bled with Jeff Cook and his wife, who were awed by the superb scenery.

My duties at Point Park College prevented me from returning for the opening. Milenko substituted for me and brought back a tape of the performance. I was shocked by the changes in the cast. Several dancers whom I had worked with had not returned--including the leading dancer--so another couple assumed the starring roles.

The conductor decided that the ballet was too long after all and cut ten minutes of music, including all the cross-over scenes, which depicted the road between Sonya’s house and Maxim’s, plus a bunch of dances. This was justified, as there were too many Hungarian folk flavored dances.

The local designers adapted Henry Heymann’s costume designs, which were well constructed and the décor was adequate for a small theater. They tried their best, but by comparison to American Ballet Theatre’s lush production, Ljubljana’s was poor and simplistic. Critical response was good, though some critics were indifferent.

When the theater in Novi Sad learned that I had choreographed The Merry Widow in Ljubljana, they were eager for me to stage it there. However, the Bosnian war had just begun, which created complications. Instead, they engaged a Russian choreographer to stage it. I saw the video of this production and was disappointed with his concept and lack of rapport with the Austro-Hungarian spirit.

For ten years, James Prescott and I had directed the college’s drama and dance programs, respectively. Mark Lewis, who was the department’s chairman, suggested that Prescott and I share responsibilities, as Prescott was unfamiliar with dance and I was not well acquainted with drama.

Following John Hopkins’ retirement, Matthew Simon, former chairman of the natural science and engineering departments was appointed as the college’s acting president. Simon, who asked Lewis to step down, disliked having two chairs within one department. Administrative duties were not my strong point. While in Ljubljana, I received a letter asking for my vote. I voted for Prescott, assuming that I would remain director of the dance division--which I briefly did.

By 1986, ADE was on its last legs and that became evident on tour. The Ohio Arts Council and the Goodyear Tire and Rubber Company sponsored our Nutcracker performances at the University of Akron’s E.J. Thomas Performing Arts Hall. Our stars were Milwaukee Ballet’s Michelle Lucci and Medhi Bahiri, a Varna Ballet Competition medallist, who was with Boston Ballet. Our other guests were Ricardo Moyano and Lisa Nagatomo from the Lynda Martha Dance Company, who danced “Waltz of the Flowers.”

The hall was huge. Our décor was too small for a stage of this size. Consequently, our sold-out performances failed to meet the sponsor’s expectations. Our production had been over-hyped by our impresario. The hall’s director Robert D’Angelo was not pleased. He expected a more “magical” performance than what we offered.

In every establishment there are friends and enemies, people who are jealous or people who do not care. Joseph McGoldrick, a college recruiter, was always in the dance program’s shadows. He was not a dancer, but became friends with many of them by fussing over them and by hosting parties. He was also a very close friend of Prescott’s. While I was abroad, he took charge of our Three Rivers Arts Festival performances, which netted twenty-five hundred dollars for us.

Following the Akron disaster, I realized that without serious support and funding, ADE had no future beyond serving as a performing outlet for our students. While McGoldrick and Prescott aimed to eliminate me, ADE’s bylaws prevented it, as I had ensured that the company could not exist without me.

ADE was put on ice. McGoldrick--via his Prescott connection--now controlled the college’s performances. He launched the Playhouse Dance Theater, which provided opportunities exclusively for top level students. He had a penchant for dress-up and confiscated some of the costumes for his personal wardrobe, as he liked to wear them on Halloween and to outfit his friends. He quickly disposed of the décor and props from ADE’s The Nutcracker and Romeo and Juliet productions.

The Pittsburgh Youth Ballet purchased the first scene, snow scene, and second act drops from The Nutcracker. Ironically, I staged a great part of PYBC’s production for Jean Gedeon, so it was as if I had been transported from one Nutcracker to another. I had worked for ADE for nothing; by contrast, Jean paid me well.

Without ADE, Ballet Petrov could not survive. I was forced to disband it.

Although Matthew Simon was politically well connected within the college community, he lacked savvy outside of academia and had no fund-raising skills, or ties to Pittsburgh’s financially elite families. Instead, he cut expenses to balance the budget--including salaries--and consequently, drove the college to near bankruptcy.

He maintained that Ballet Petrov was subsidized by the college, which was absolutely untrue--and he never bothered to investigate. I launched Ballet Petrov in order to obtain outside funding that would benefit the student troupe--the American Dance Ensemble. After ADE’s demise, the college created a budget for the Rehearsal and Performance course. It became a lab class and part of the regular teaching load.

Prescott, who was just a “yes-man,” was appointed as acting Academic Dean and Vice-President. In turn, he handed the acting chairmanship of the Fine, Applied, and Performing Arts department to Alan Forino. This reminded me of when Loti Falk assumed the directorship of PBT and awarded positions to people who lacked the expertise. I knew that this could not last long, but there was little that I could do about it. They made the decisions and just informed me about them.

Just before Prescott became dean, he summoned me to his office. He asked me to resign as the dance department’s director, but lacked the guts to tell me that this was his decision. Instead, he said the college preferred the collective leadership of the department, which actually happened later--without much success. This was an obvious contradiction of policy--as Simon had not wanted both Prescott and I to be chairs of our respective departments.

Prescott later discovered that the faculty collective was incapable of running the division. No one could agree on anything and everyone had demands. He then appointed Ron Tassone as the director of the dance department. Ron was quickly succeeded by Susan Abbey, a nice but gutless lady. The position proved to be too demanding and too nerve-wracking--she resigned. Ron was reinstated.

Forino was succeeded by Shirley Barasch, who had been with the education department in the seventies. She had also directed the college chorus and had been the performing arts program’s music director. She held a Ph.D., but had no talent. Her heart was set on improving the department and to her credit; she helped with the annual Starmakers Gala, which bolstered public relations for the school. She was a bully, who lacked communications skills and could be verbally abusive. She thought that offering gold necklaces and gifts to people (for example--to McGoldrick) would strengthen her position. Unfortunately, she had no artistic vision.

Matthew Simon was not qualified to lead the school. He based his decisions on his wife’s suggestions. John Hopkins’ absence was strongly felt and we could see that the school would quickly collapse under his weak management.

The college, again on the brink of closing its doors, considered merging with Duquesne University, which was eager to grab the Fine, Applied, and Performing Arts division. However, the academic departments were uncertain of what a merger would bode and fiercely opposed the plan. Instead, the college’s Board moved to appoint a new president--Katherine Henderson.

Henderson applied her fund-raising savvy and public relations skills to the job as she worked diligently to reestablish respect for the college. Much like Loti Falk, she innately knew how to interest the funding community in the school’s activities. She chose administrators with strong management skills to work for the college and push it towards university standing.

In the meantime, Mark Lewis and James Prescott died. With Mark’s passing, I had lost a great friend who had believed in me. Without his influence, my history would have unfolded differently. He liked the theater; lived for the Playhouse, and when it was taken away from him by Matthew Simon, he died. Although I was never close to him, we had a common respect for each other that lasted for more than twenty-five years.

I was saddened by Prescott’s death, as he was still a young man.

Chapter Nineteen: Health, Wealth, and Tony Curtis

In December 1987, Pittsburgh Opera director Tito Capobianco imported Hartford Ballet’s Michael Uthoff to stage his production of Hansel and Gretel. As there was a connection between Uthoff’s family and the Capobiancos, Tito was obligated to produce it, but the Opera needed dancers, especially children. Tito advised Michael, who was a very charming man, to speak with me about recruiting young dancers, as I was the Opera’s choreographer. For this production I assumed the role of impresario and recommended the Pittsburgh Youth Ballet, which was the best school in the area. Jean upheld her end, but I encountered difficulties in supplying college students, as I was no longer directing the dance program and the other teachers refused to release their students for the production. Michael was really angry that students were often unavailable for rehearsal and Tito was annoyed with me too. They refused to understand that I was not in control; I had only engaged the dancers. (Michael became enamored with one of the Point Park students--Kim Horton, who had been in ADE. This compounded problems.) Consequently, Tito decided that because I had no dancers of my own that he would employ Pittsburgh Ballet Theatre for future productions and rely on choreographers recommended by Patricia Wilde. After twenty years, I was out of the Opera.

Since 1986, I have worked as a guest choreographer for private schools while producing works for the college’s dance department. Moonlighting was lucrative. I made an extra salary that compensated for the half salary I earned at Point Park College and was under less pressure to succeed. As a guest, I only did what I was asked to do and had no other responsibilities.

In 1988, I staged an evening of dance for the Mount Lebanon High School Center of Arts, which was then headed by Judy (Troan) Nawe, one of my former students. She created a school for the Civic Light Opera mini-stars, as at that time, CLO lacked its own school. Mary and I instilled professional lines. The children were talented, but most were busy with school activities and not committed to professional dance training. Several of the students were very good and did embark on dance careers.

The following year, I staged the full-length Saint-Saëns/Delibes Coppélia for Ballet Baroque, headed by Elva Scapes, who was a pioneer member of PBT. She had a fairly good school in the North Hills where I was often invited to guest teach. Besides staging the ballet, I played the role of Dr. Coppelius.

At the college, I set a series of Scott Joplin pieces, which I called Elite Syncopation and for the next two years worked with both Judy and Elva.

Frank Marinaro, who owned a gymnastics school in Buckhannon, West Virginia, contacted me about a summer teaching job. I accepted his offer, which evolved into an ongoing gig. The assignment was easy, as the students were all beginners, but he only had one class. To make the trip worth my while, he arranged for me to also teach in Parkersburg--where he took classes--at the Mid-Ohio Valley Ballet, directed by Norma Gunter and her daughter, who was a professional dancer.

Dance opportunities in West Virginia were sparse. I knew that Duncan Noble was involved with a company in Charleston, as well as with Velma Schrader’s youth ballet school. Oddly, West Virginians traveled as much as an hour and half from one city to the next just to take class. My residency followed the same pattern, as I taught in several cities during the span of one weekend. I went with the flow and adapted to the local conditions. Frank, who had obtained a grant, arranged a teaching circuit for me--Elkins, Fairmont, Clarksburg, Parkersburg, and others--all little schools, all amateur, but they loved what they did. I taught from Friday evening to Sunday evening. The drive time between cities ranged from twenty minutes to two hours. After class, I jumped in my car, drove to the next gig, and taught again. I often stayed in Clarksburg, as it was the most centrally located.

During my travels through West Virginia, I bought a sweet, fruity, locally produced wine called Mellow Mel that bore a Hungarian shield. I sought out the winemaker in Buckhannon--an eighty-year-old Hungarian, who was born near my neighborhood. His wine, mixed with honey instead of preservatives, was similar to Hungarian Tokei. For years, I continued to buy it, until I lost contact with him. I also discovered that West Virginia was the capital of prime rib, but restaurants served soft rolls with it--which I hate. I prefer French bread, but it was not available there. I took along baguettes bought at Giant Eagle. When restaurant patrons asked about it, I whispered, “You have to go to Giant Eagle.”

Working in West Virginia was interesting and I enjoyed the novelty. The classes were simple--tendu battement, sautés, glissade, temps lie--it was my four, four, four period. And they appreciated me--I was a celebrity and that pleased my ego. While I had brought PBT to Morgantown and Wheeling years before, I was surprised by how well known I was there. I hoped to raise dance awareness in West Virginia and maybe develop a company.

Frank and I became friends--he had a charming wife and three exceptionally handsome children, whom he wanted me to teach and inspire. Monique, his oldest daughter was the most advanced; Ashley was much less interested in ballet; and the little boy was only a couple of years old. He arranged a teaching residency for me at Davis and Elkins College in Elkins. This eased my travel a bit, especially in the winter when trekking between cities was difficult, owing to too few salt trucks--cars just floated into ditches around me. This residency also compensated for the time that I had been giving to Point Park College for free. Here, I was paid well.

I continued to work in Pittsburgh from Monday through Thursday, but after the last class, I headed for West Virginia. I was on the go seven days a week. It was a hell of a difficult job. I enjoyed it, but did not realize the toll it was taking on my health--my hip was already hurting.

I focused on developing a dance division at Elkins College, which was a charming school on the green. The buildings were old and of gothic style. The campus was absolutely gorgeous. I thought that working in this lovely environment that was far from city distractions, would be an ideal place to teach and develop dance (though I was unsure if I wanted to live there permanently). And, there were students here, who wanted to study the arts.

Dean Clarence Coffendaffer was interested in my concepts. With my eye on launching a department, I eagerly agreed to do anything they requested. I was asked to choreograph a musical theater production--The Fantastics. Following the show’s success, it was suggested that I speak with the chairman of the theater department, as a dance program would be under the theater department’s umbrella. Unfortunately, the chairman was intimidated by me and felt that dance would consume the budget. The dean and president both supported my ideas, but the curriculum committee rejected my proposal by a narrow margin. My two-year residency ended.

For two consecutive years, Frank produced The Nutcracker in Clarksburg. For the first venture, I negotiated for Jean Gedeon’s the Pittsburgh Youth Ballet to perform, along with guest artists. (If I remember correctly, Bahiri was the Cavalier.)

The succeeding year, I arranged for Misha Korogodsky’s Philadelphia-based school to appear, but owing to transportation problems, only his nine Soviet-trained soloists--all, excellent dancers--were available. Students from Peter Degnan’s and Kristen Schleich’s Wilkes-Barre school filled the corps positions. The Degnan/Schleich school owned good costumes and had the resources to build nice décor, as they were based at the college where Kristen’s father taught. Unfortunately, the house did not sell. While the performance was a triumph, we barely filled two-thirds of the Rosebud Theater. This was my last enterprise with Frank Marinaro. We stayed in contact and dreamed of opening a school in Clarksburg, but that never materialized.

I continued guest teaching in West Virginia for former PPC students Stephanie Lopez, who operated Movement in Dance, a school based in Fairmont and for Nina Scatteregia in Buckhannon. I maintained an affiliation with Mid-Ohio Ballet until some Hungarian dancers whom I had recommended got into romantic hot water with the students. I briefly taught at Schrader’s school, where I furthered my friendship with Duncan Noble. I really liked the guy and we spent time discussing everyone we knew.

After my hip operation, I continued to make the trek, but I enlisted Claudia Morris to substitute for me. On one occasion, I chauffeured a New York-based pianist, whom I imported for the gig, while Claudia provided transportation for Schrader’s daughter. En route, I purchased a large carpet at a discount store and stowed it in the car’s back seat. For the return trip, Claudia headed off to visit her boyfriend and stranded her passenger. Consequently, the Schrader’s were irate and I was never invited back. Overall, my West Virginia stint was not gloriously successful, but I left behind a few traces.

Maybe exhaustion, maybe age, maybe pressure, weakened my body. I developed an arthritic sclerosis degenerative hip and knew that I would have to do something about it. My longtime colleague Edward Villella had undergone hip surgery. He told me that following surgery, he quickly returned to dance and urged me to have my right hip attended to immediately. He influenced my decision, as his operation had been very successful. My operation took place in May. By June, I was working. A few years later, I underwent surgery on my left hip, which also went well.

As Misha Korogodsky knew many Soviet artists, who could now easily travel abroad, I strongly suggested that we create a Vaganova Festival. We approached Maya Plisetskaya, her uncle Asaf Messerer, Gabriella Komleva, and Lillia Sharapova.

This special event was organized during the first year of James Prescott’s chairmanship of the Fine, Applied, and Performing Arts division. He appointed Roberto Munoz, as the director of the evening classes, replacing Myles Marsden, who had succeeded Kamaletdinov. Roberto developed into a popular and loved teacher, became known as a coach, and re-established the policy of importing guest teachers. That summer, he invited a roster of Latin American guest teachers, including Laura Alonzo, Haydee Gutierrez, and Miguel Campaneria. Prescott must have felt uncomfortable about my situation at the college and approved the Vaganova Festival, which ran simultaneous to Roberto’s summer ballet program.

I had not seen Asaf Messerer for many years. We had been introduced to each other by Mikhail Lavrovsky during one of the Bolshoi’s visits to the Paris Opéra. I had stopped by to say “hello” to Lavrovsky, whom I had known since 1955, when he staged Giselle in Belgrade. He in turn introduced me to Galina Ulanova and Asaf Messerer, who was teaching company class on the third floor of the Opéra building. Asaf was a nice guy, slightly bald, but with a lot of energy. I liked his class and it crossed my mind that I could have joined the Bolshoi, had I gone to the Soviet Union.

While Asaf remembered the Paris engagement, he did not remember me, but both of us had changed in thirty years. He was now a diminutive old man, with lively blue eyes hidden behind coke-bottle spectacles. He had lost a little bit of weight and was less energetic, but paradoxically was a vigorous and active teacher. He had just celebrated his eightieth year of artistic life, a milestone acknowledged by the Bolshoi Theatre. I respected his knowledge and artistry. During his time at the college, we became friends.

His niece, Maya, was supposed to arrive during week two of the program, but she was a no-show. I met her many years later in Pittsburgh, but she had no recollection of the contract with the college.

Gabriella Komleva, who had long been a leading dancer with the Kirov, was an excellent teacher. (I actually have a film of her, dancing the principal female role in Le Corsaire.) She was an extremely pleasant lady. I had the opportunity to work with her in Philadelphia the following year.

Sharapova was a Moiseyev dancer and excelled in character. I watched her classes, which were physically challenging to the students, and these encouraged me. I compared mine to hers and realized that even if character dance had evolved since my time, I was not too far behind.

This festival was very successful and the quality of the classes was top caliber. We drew students from all over America, which offered the college’s dance division excellent exposure. It was not a break-even venture, but extra funding from the Pittsburgh Foundation supported the guest teachers.

Afterwards, I did some guest teaching for Misha, who was a fair director and a fair businessman, but he had much competition in Philadelphia.

Jean-Pierre Bonnefous, an acquaintance from Paris, was now based in Charlotte North Carolina and operated a wonderful summer school at the Chautauqua Institute in New York. He had great support, excellent facilities--four studios--and a fine faculty, including Patricia McBride; Violette Verdy; former PBT member Mark Diamond, who became his resident choreographer in both North Carolina and Chautauqua; and former colleagues from the New York City Ballet. While I had cut back on guest teaching, I could not refuse him. Jean-Pierre was one of the best directors that I have worked with, as he knew how to do his job. Everyone on staff respected everyone else. This was such a change from the tense relationships at Point Park College. I was working, but in this environment, I felt like I was on vacation.

Mostly, I taught male technique to a dozen or so boys, character dance, and company classes. Several of my former students were involved with the Institute, including Jill Keating, who had her own school in the area and served as secretary for the Chautauqua summer program. I continued to teach there annually, until I developed some physical problems.

It started with pain in my hand and chest. I submitted to many examinations--my chest, my colon, pretty much anything that could be examined--but no one found anything substantially wrong with me--until Dr. Grandis ordered a stress test. He discovered that one side of my heart was not contracting identically to the other. He prescribed heart medication.

I ignored my condition, took students on tour to Budapest, as usual, and while there was careless about nutrition. I ate greasy food and swam in hot mineral baths all day, not realizing the health risks. As usual, I went to Chautauqua to teach. Even with a slight pain in my chest, I was fine.

One evening, Violette and I went to dinner in the nearest city--Bemus Point. En route back to Chautauqua, I suddenly heard the car hit something soft. Violette yelled, “Nicolas, you have run over a cat!”

Well, I slowed down and looked back. There was a black cat lying in the road. We drove a couple hundred yards. I stopped and turned the car around. The cat was gone. I assumed that it had just passed out and after regaining consciousness, had run away. I was very superstitious and felt this was an omen.

The pain in my chest remained after the teaching engagement had ended. Back in Pittsburgh, Grandis sent me to the hospital for a heart cauterization. At the hospital, they explained the procedure--they would go in with a wire through my vessels to see if there was any clogging. If there was, they would insert a little balloon to force open the artery.

They put the wire, which was almost like a big needle, into the upper part of my thigh. We watched on the monitor as the little light floated in my body. I was told that when they pulled out the wire, I would feel heat. The doctor looked very serious. I thought this had been a very simple thing. I expected to get up and walk out. That was not the case. According to the doctor, several of my arteries were well clogged.

He explained that cauterization worked on veins that were fifty to sixty percent clogged. Mine were eighty to ninety. I needed heart surgery. An operation! I was not prepared for that.

I was transferred to a temporary room and there, the procedure, which was set for the next morning, was explained to me. I did not know how to reply. I asked what my options were. The doctor replied that there were few. I was so badly clogged that if I had a heart attack, I would drop dead. This was like being hit over the head. I asked the doctor how much time I had. He admitted that it was difficult to predict, but there was no solution aside from surgery. The operation had a ninety percent success rate, with an eight percent chance of complications and a two percent mortality rate. My mind was racing three hundred miles an hour--and I wondered if I would be among the unlucky two percent. The odds were good however. I called home and told my family that I was staying in the hospital and would have surgery the next morning.

A nurse administered a tranquilizer. They woke me at 5:00 a.m. to shave my chest. I was dazed and figured whatever happened would happen. I was in the OR by 6:00 or 7:00 a.m. I awoke in the early afternoon. I was completely out of it! I had pipes coming from my mouth, my nose, and my stomach. I looked like a creature from a science fiction movie. I could not talk. I could only move my eyes. I realized how difficult this operation was.

Mary and Alex visited me. They were upset. They were in the waiting room during the surgery, worried about me. I could not communicate very well--I could only lift my finger. For the next three or four days, I was plugged in like a recharging battery.

After three days, they eased me off the heavy drugs. A gorgeous blonde nurse ran into the room every morning and asked, “How are you?” How was I to answer with my mouth completely stuffed? I wondered why she asked, as I could not respond.

The rehabilitation from this operation was atrocious. When I came out of anesthesia this time--unlike after hip surgery--I felt terrible. After three days, I could not stand the pipe in my mouth anymore. I pulled it. That created a big commotion with my gorgeous nurses, but the doctor did not insist on putting it back in.

I was put on a breathalyzer, which is a little gadget to breathe into and then blow into at graded levels, ranging from three hundred to twenty-five hundred. I could barely blow the ball up to three hundred. It took almost a month before I got to two thousand, which is the rate for a normal person.

I spent two months sitting in the garden, as driving was prohibited, but I was required to walk for five minutes every hour. My out-patient rehab consisted of cycling and weight lifting. In three months, I was back to normal and realized that the surgery was successful--the pain was gone. I had exchanged my rusty pipes for new ones so that the blood could flow normally again. I regained pink cheeks and looked healthy. I was anxious to return to normal activities.

In 1973, both PBT and the college were each paying half of my salary, with PPC instituting annual six percent raises. In 1977, my tenure with PBT abruptly ended and the following year, I demanded my full salary from PPC. However, the school was constantly in the red and incapable of meeting my demands. Lewis offered to pay my salary on a nine-month schedule, instead of a twelve. This raised my salary substantially. He promised to pay me a summer salary, whether or not I taught. In the summer of 1978-79, I received thirty-five hundred dollars. This sum brought my salary of $16,300 up to $19,800--which was slightly under what I should have earned that year. The following summer, he paid me $4,800, which equaled my regular salary.

Between the 1979-80 and 1985-86 school years, my salary was updated and correct. However, when I became co-chair of the department with James Prescott, I lost the summer salary. There were no summer classes, which translated as a loss of almost six thousand dollars. No one on campus would listen. I hired a lawyer and presented a grievance, winning a settlement of five thousand dollars, most of which the lawyer took. I was left with one thousand dollars.

Oddly, as director of the dance program, my request for supplemental money was rejected and I was asked by Prescott to step down. My successor, Ron Tassone received a supplement as dance director. I wondered why I was discriminated against.

Since 1985, I have not received any special raises or considerations for my work and efforts done in behalf of the department or the college. I cannot retire because my TIAA/CREF has only been paid since 1982. I worked at the college for fourteen years without any retirement contribution. The administration failed to inform me about the retirement plan. I learned--too late--that it was my responsibility to request and pay into the retirement fund. The college only paid a part of it and I was required to contribute the remainder. Consequently, it was not paid from either side. I have since asked the college to compensate me for those lost years through supplements, but have not received any understanding or sympathy for this problem.

While I was recuperating from surgery on my left hip and still using a cane, I received a call from Canice Kennedy, a Playhouse publicist cum talent agent. George Miller was casting for the family tragedy Lorenzo’s Oil (1992), a film about a child with a degenerative nerve condition that left him unable to speak, control his body, and eat solid food. His father, a banker, launched an intensive research project to find help for his son. The film starred Susan Sarandon and Nick Nolte, as the boy’s parents. Canice thought that I would be perfect for the World Bank Executive role, as I speak with an accent--the story of my life--I always won roles based on my accent. I met Miller, who just loved me. The college was proud to have me working in the cinema and released me from my obligations to participate in the filming. Shooting began in early autumn. Some of the scenes were filmed in a Ben Avon residence and on its patio. A nearby school provided wardrobe, make-up, and technical facilities. One of the scenes was of an elaborate birthday celebration for the boy. I sat at a table, beside Nolte and during the party scene, which required multiple retakes; we ate ourselves silly with cookies. Ironically, the scene was left on the cutting room floor. Others scenes, including those in my office--where I presented Nolte with a check for the research--were shot on location in Washington. The cast was treated well. We had beautiful accommodations, very good catered food, and we were paid per diem. (I still receive royalties from the film.) I enjoyed the respect of the staff, which in cinema tradition was trained to treat each actor as a “big” actor.

Since Nolte liked to have a little drink here and there, we stopped for drinks after work. (The bars gave us VIP service.) We became friendly and talked about his home state--West Virginia. As I had been teaching there, I told him that I would just have to pay him a visit, which I never did. During the filming, I also became acquainted with Peter Ustinov, famous for his narration of Peter and the Wolf. In this film, he played a research scientist. Talking in Russian and French, we often lunched together.

In 1992, I created Matinee Musicale for the college students and in 1993, staged portions of The Nutcracker for the Pittsburgh Youth Ballet; Volga Song for the Playhouse Dance Theatre, and Hungarian Dances for the Pittsburgh Symphony at Heinz Hall.

I revived Peter and the Wolf in 1995 for the Playhouse and again worked with PYBC on The Nutcracker. In 1997, I created a comical ballet Scat set to a score by the Pittsburgh New Music Ensemble and later that year, staged Stravinsky’s Pulcinella, which was a big job because we re-worked Picasso’s original designs.

In 1999, I staged Divertissement for Mary Lorrain Dance Studio in suburban Pittsburgh. Two years later, I produced a series called Green Apples that utilized a musical collage--Lagzi, Joplin, Mozart, Paganini, and also staged a suite of character dances for the Playhouse. Green Apples II, produced in 2002 was a comical approach between Mozart and Offenbach, and Degas and Toulouse-Lautrec that used slides and commentary. I also staged Kit Kat to Rossini’s Cat Meow’s and a Mozart Divertissement for Ballet Westmoreland, at the Community College North Campus Theatre.

In June of 1999, while I was teaching at Chautauqua, sharp pains shot through my right hip, but I ignored them. As they persisted, I scheduled an appointment in Pittsburgh with Dr. Freddie Fu, a University of Pittsburgh Medical Center physician, who had a reputation for treating PBT’s dancers and professional athletes.

We first met while he was an intern at the University of Pittsburgh. He was always interested in dance and he along with several colleagues, provided advice and care to the college’s dancers and athletes. I often turned to him for advice and suggestions.

He recommended Dr. Cohen, head of Presbyterian Hospital’s Orthopedic Association, who in turn, referred me to Dr. Senha. The decision was reconstructive surgery on my hip. Consequently, I was left with one leg shorter than the other. While this was not a huge problem, the hip constantly popped out of its socket. After the third or fourth displacement, he thought that it would be wise to extend the stem in my thigh bone. Looseness in the area was causing the hip to pop out of place.

After more surgery, I received a longer stem, but consequently a shorter leg. The discrepancy between my legs was now two and a half inches. I wore a platform shoe to compensate for the difference. I was no longer slightly handicapped--I was really handicapped. Walking was challenging. It was almost impossible to push the car’s gas pedal with the platform shoe. While I am not easily discouraged by small problems, this was a big problem. During an eight-month period, I experienced three or four additional hip displacements; this time the cap loosened and could not be replaced.

I was tremendously disappointed. I complained to Fu and Cohen, who recommended Dr. Nicholas Sotereanos. In the meantime, I saw several other physicians, including Dr. D’Antonio. All were shocked and concurred that correcting the damage would be difficult. Amid my exam with Sotereanos, my hip popped out and an ambulance transported me to Allegheny General Hospital’s ER. While Sotereanos had suggested Dr. Poprosky, a specialist in Chicago, destiny changed my plans. In December, my hip popped out on the way to Allegheny General, where I was scheduled for surgery. The plate inside was too loose to replace.

Sotereanos offered two options--wait until after the holidays (three or four weeks) and then be transported to Chicago or agree to immediate surgery in Pittsburgh. The former would keep me in bed during the waiting period; the latter, could--if successful--solve the problem.

After discussing the options with my son, Alex, I opted for the immediate solution. The operation was scheduled for two days later. This confined me to the rehabilitation center for the holidays--a repeat of December 1999. It was almost becoming an annual custom.

In 1999, I had a mishap on my birthday. As I was descending the stairs for dinner, I became entangled in my crutches and tumbled down a whole flight of stairs, hitting my head and my hand on the opposite wall. My hand was completely displaced--I remember that it was distorted and I was on floor, with Alex and Mary looking on in absolute shock. I was more surprised by their expressions than by the pain in my elbow, shoulder, and left hand. This was how I entered the new century--with a disabled hip and my left hand in a sling. A straight jacket is nothing! I was immobilized without one. Now, it seems funny, but at the time, it was not.

By December 2000, I already felt like a veteran. I prayed this would be my last operation. Naturally, the repeated surgery around my hip and in the upper part of my thigh had chopped up my muscles--which are now more like hamburger.

My recuperation was slow. The college’s directors lost confidence in my health and recovery capacity. I taught from a chair, which reminded me of Edward Caton. Issuing instructions without demonstrating was a completely new experience. Two years elapsed before the pain abated and my leg became stable enough to use normally.

I considered retirement. However, my financial investments were affected by the September 11, 2001 terrorist attack on the U.S. and the Yugoslav and Iraq wars. This impacted my retirement income as well.

Mariss Jansons, director of the Pittsburgh Symphony Orchestra, programmed two works by his friend Rodion Shchedrin, including a symphonic movement from the opera Lolita and invited him to the late September 2001 premiere. The Russian composer brought his wife, Maya Plisetskaya, along to promote her autobiography.

Throughout my career, Plisetskaya’s well-known family and I had crossed paths under various circumstances, but we did not maintain correspondence.

During my school days, I had admired Maya’s dancing, which I had seen on celluloid--a black and white film that was one of the first to utilize dance as part of the plot; and a color film of Stone Flower.

We met at the Paris Opéra in the sixties. At the time, she probably regarded me as an enthusiastic fan, who offered a hand shake and compliments. In the early seventies, when a contingent of Bolshoi soloists was on tour, we briefly crossed paths in front of New York’s Empire Hotel. At the time, she was engaged in a heated argument with Nikolai Fadeyechev. Consequently, she was cold and disinterested in speaking with me.

Maya and her husband arrived on September 25, as the September 11 terrorist attack on the U.S. had postponed Shchedrin’s engagement with the PSO. They lodged at the Renaissance Hotel, a block away from Heinz Hall. I was invited to dine with them and to serve as an interpreter, if needed. In the meantime, I invited her to guest teach at Point Park College. She hesitated and then declined--as she was retired. Instead she proposed a book signing with a question and answer session. She asked me to phone the following day, after her husband’s itinerary was set.

En route to Curtain Call (the PSO store) to purchase her book, I met both Maya and Shchedrin on the street. I recognized her immediately, as her face had not changed over the years. I did not know him. I was fascinated by this seventy-five-year-old ballerina, who instead looked much younger. I struck up a conversation.

It was windy and she held her coat tightly. She wanted to know where they could buy fruit. As there were no longer any grocery stores in downtown Pittsburgh, I offered to take them to a supermarket, but they opted to walk a bit and see the city. We said “good-bye” and I agreed to phone them at five o’clock.

When we next spoke, by phone, she explained that their schedule was too full to permit a visit to the college. She welcomed our students to the book signing at Curtain Call. She had another scheduled for the following day at Pittsburgh Ballet Theatre. Apparently, she was eager to promote the English translation of her book, I, Maya Plisetskaya, which was in its second edition.

I attended the book signing at PBT, where chairs and a video monitor had been set up for a screening of Serenade, in rehearsal. The students watched videos of Maya performing The Dying Swan, Carmen (to the Shchedrin score), and her legendary interpretation of Raymonda.

Bob Vickery, who was Terry Orr’s assistant, chauffeured Maya and her husband. The couple was introduced to the PBT dancers, artistic staff, and Patricia Wilde, artistic director emeritus. Numerous photos were snapped. Dancer Dmitri Kulev, (who knew her from Moscow) and I served as translators for the question and answer session.

One student asked how she retained her youthful appearance. Maya smiled, obviously unwilling to disclose her secret. Instead she replied, “I will tell you a story. I love flowers very much, so I have plenty of flowers in my room. I water them, talk to them, feed them, and give them supplements. After all that, they all collapsed--except for one flower that stayed erect.”

There was silence. Not everyone grasped that she lived naturally, without any special diet or regimen, which was the meaning of her story. The audience erupted into laughter when I explained that she was the flower. Agitatedly, Maya asked what I had said to them. To some questions, she replied that the answer was in her book. That sounded a bit commercial to me. She pitched it throughout her entire Pittsburgh visit.

Her book did answer one question. During a private conversation, I learned that Maya disliked her cousin Misha Messerer. When I started to tell her about my experiences with him, she cut me off, stating that we should not discuss him. Only after I read her autobiography did I understand.

Following the book signing, Terry invited us to Café Sam for dinner. We spent a charming evening, with an abundance of red wine and cheerful conversation. During dinner, Maya said that she hoped to visit Point Park College when she returned to Pittsburgh in early December.

Sydelle Kessler, who is a symphony fan and friend of the Jansons’, invited me to the PSO concert. (She was influential in including me in the event.) Backstage, Sydelle introduced me to many musicians and to Mrs. Jansons, who had been sitting beside me during the program. I also met Mariss, who was friendly and communicative. He had conducted that evening, and the performance was a big hit. As a composer, Shchedrin borders between traditional classical and modern contemporary composers. I will let the experts judge the works however.

I stopped by Curtain Call to say “Good-Bye. See you in December!” to Maya, who was busy autographing her book. I lingered to chat with Shchedrin, who was friendly and personable.

However, during their next Pittsburgh visit, I was in Europe and when Rodion was acknowledged as the PSO’s “Composer of the Year,” I was not notified of their arrival. We only had one telephone conversation. Maya was disappointed that I had not contacted them sooner to arrange her tour of the college. Rodion gave me their Moscow telephone number, as I was planning a trip to Moscow in May, but they were slated for a residency in Munich, Germany and were unsure if they would be at home.

I always enjoyed visiting Hungary, Austria, and Czechoslovakia and decided to organize a study tour for students. The response was positive--the students were delighted. We flew to London, England where we visited monuments and important sites. As Aleksandr Agadzhanov was ballet master at the Royal Ballet, I arranged a Covent Garden and the Royal Ballet tour.

I had maintained a friendship with ballerina Alicia Pastorova, who had been one of PBT’s first guest artists. She was still based in Bratislava, Czechoslovakia, where Massine had taken his cure in the mineral baths. I was anxious to visit. Unfortunately, when I made the trip, Alicia was out of town, but mentioning her name to the denizens, opened doors for me. On a subsequent visit, I took the students to Bratislava, where it was possible to live for three days on twenty dollars. Alicia gave us the grand tour of the city. We visited the beautiful tower/apartment with secret corridors and exits where Queen Maria Theresa--a rather ugly woman--maintained a love nest, far from the prying eyes in Vienna. We stopped by the ballet school, which had very good students and attended a ballet performance. I realized that the Czechs were very good choreographers (especially Jiri Kylián, whom I admired).

We spent time in Prague, which resembled a picture from a children’s storybook. It sustained little damage during World War II. Many old houses that are 150 to 250 years old are still standing, as are churches from the fourteenth century. These have gorgeous stained glass windows that when hit by the sun, radiate with a heavenly glow. The restaurants and museums were very good, and I was impressed with a huge mechanical, musical clock in the center of the city. Here, we also visited the ancient Jewish cemetery that was desecrated during the war. The carved limestone monuments which were smashed and toppled have been propped up, but not necessarily in their original positions. There was a long wait to enter the site, which was not large. The first time I visited--I was with Mary and as I remember, the weather was cold, but it was worth waiting to see. On subsequent visits, I brought the students.

Tourists were attracted to the Czech Republic, as it was very inexpensive to visit as compared to other European cities. And The Czechs were very enterprising in terms of tourist trade and had a knack for selling reproduced icons at very reasonable prices.

Sites in beautiful Vienna included St. Stephens Church, the Royal Garden, and the wonderful bakery, Sacher Chocolat Torte that is world famous.

Visiting Warsaw and the nearby city of Krakow also taught the students about the Holocaust and provided understanding of the tragic fate of Poles during World War II. We vacationed on the Croatian seaboard in Opatija--an unforgettable opportunity to swim in the quiet, transparent blue water of the Adriatic Sea.

In Hungary, our accommodations were inexpensive, as we stayed in private homes. We visited Heiviz, a resort and spent time in Budapest, which was comfortable and centrally located. I was particularly enticed by the mineral baths. While in Budapest, the students enjoyed classes at the State Ballet School, which honored me with several awards.

The Hungarian dance magazine published a four-page article about my life and association with the Hungarian dance world. I had an excellent relationship with Ivan Marco’s Hungarian Festival Ballet. He was a charming person and invited me to guest teach. I was impressed with the company, but efforts to import them were unsuccessful. Perhaps Paul Szilard had an impact on my plans. He had strong ties to the Budapest Opera and I sensed a rivalry between it and the Hungarian Festival Ballet.

Kaan Zsuzsa, the editor of the Hungarian dance magazine, asked me for a favor--she was eager to interview actor Tony Curtis for the magazine and asked me to contact him. Curtis the Brooklyn-born son of Hungarian immigrants was extremely respected and of great interest to musical theater-loving Hungarians. As Curtis had danced in numerous shows, the magazine wanted to feature a dancing actor, especially one who at nearly eighty-years-old was still performing.

In May 2001, with a subsidy from the college and a visa, I embarked on my long postponed trip to Russia. I flew from the warm, rainy weather in Budapest to snowy Moscow. Luckily I toted my leather jacket--otherwise I would have frozen my butt off. I had roamed the world, but Russia had never been on my itinerary, especially after I developed a phobia about flying.

I stayed a few miles from Moscow in an enormous American-style hotel. My room, decorated in European style with a single bed, provided a view of the Moscow River.

Shortly after my arrival, my hip began aching and I relied on public and privately operated cabs for transportation. One of my private drivers was a nice older Russian named Vitalli. He resembled Stalin--and was an admirer of the Stalinist era. I ignored his political slant and enjoyed his camaraderie. He and his son drove me around town, pointing out the most important landmarks. I was impressed with Vitalli’s son, a boy of twelve, who knew much about the city’s history. We spent a day at Red Square, where I took photos galore, but was disappointed that Lenin’s mausoleum was closed. We visited churches and shops, which displayed European goods and stopped at the Memorial Park, where World War II heroes are buried. I was unimpressed with the sprawling city; its enormous four lane highways, and great distances between destinations.

I was more interested in getting inside the Bolshoi Theatre than in seeing Spartacus, which was on the boards. The ballet was sold-out, but a hotel worker scalped a ticket for sixty dollars. When I received it, I noticed that the original price was sixty-seven rubles (about two and a half dollars). I had paid thirty times its original cost. I was further taken for a ride by the cab company (as Vitalli was busy). At the taxi station, I inquired about the two-mile fare from the theater to my hotel. The reply was “the taxi meter will show it.” The thing ticked away like a typing machine and in the end, the meter “showed” seven hundred and fifty rubles--the equivalent of twenty-five dollars. By comparison, I had given Vitalli twenty-five dollars and his son, five; they had driven me around for five hours. (I had been gouged by a taxi driver once before--when Mary and I had visited Prague and Budapest. That time, a little man stepped forward at the depot, offering to carry our bags for free. But the two kilometer ride to our rented apartment cost twenty dollars, as he took a roundabout route.)

The hotel’s food and drink were extremely expensive and comparable to New York prices. Naturally, that created a social and economic divide between those who can afford luxuries and those, like Vitalli, who work two jobs to make ends meet. With a somewhat sour taste in my mouth, I left for St. Petersburg by train.

My departure was at half past six. Traveling between 110 and 160 kilometers an hour, which is approximately one hundred miles an hour, it arrived in St. Petersburg at eleven o’clock on a “white night.” I checked in at the old fashioned Grand Hotel Europe, an internationally high class hotel, which had nice rooms. The stained glass windows in its restaurant were designed by Benois.

St. Petersburg is significantly more centrally located and easily situated between Vienna, Prague, and Budapest. From my father’s stories and descriptions, I had, since childhood, imagined how St. Petersburg should look. Unfortunately, many of the monuments and buildings were repainted or under reconstruction to recapture czarist St. Petersburg. I appreciated the green colored Winter Palace, which is now the Hermitage Museum. The Museum, situated near the Neva River, is enormous and houses a fabulous art collection that takes two days to see.

My grandfather’s house, which was across the river from the Hermitage, should have been visible. I searched for it, based on my father’s description. However, on that side of the river, there stood many houses of the same construction--two-story, with twenty to thirty windows and ten to fifteen rooms on the front side. They differed in colors, but none was distinctive of the nineteenth century and I failed to determine which one had belonged to my family. I was disappointed. If my guess was accurate, the house with the most potential is now a university.

At the end of November 2002, the musical Some Like It Hot opened at Pittsburgh’s Heinz Hall for the Performing Arts for a short run. In the film version, Tony Curtis played a principal role with Marilyn Monroe. He was in town for this stage production, which included Marisa Rozek and Lenora Nemetz among the cast members. As I had promised Kaan Zsuzsa to arrange an interview with him, I appeared at the stage door and asked for him. A woman, working on the ground floor--whom I assumed was the wardrobe mistress--most courteously led me to his dressing room.

When I peered inside, Tony’s eyes lit up. “Come in, come in!” he said.

Addressing him in English, I introduced myself, then lapsed into Hungarian, not certain how fluent his Hungarian was. It was quite good. Those around us seemed surprised and raptly watched the verbal ping pong match.

Curtis had been among my favorite actors, which I told him. (And his onstage dancing ability, at his age, was remarkable.) He was quite generous and very supportive of Hungary and Hungarians. He readily agreed to a phone interview with the magazine.

Our conversation was brief, as it was nearly curtain, but he took a moment to proudly introduce me to his young wife and her mother, whom I had mistaken for the wardrobe mistress. His wife, I estimated was in her thirties, which meant a half-century age difference. I think that Tony achieved the dream of most old men.

I caught the show, which was adequate. The older crowd had come to see Curtis, who had a secondary role. Afterwards, I congratulated him and also ran into Marisa and Lenora. I took a photo with Tony’s wife and later another with Marisa and Tony, who was wearing his cowboy hat.

Plans to meet with him the following day fell through, as bad weather hastened his departure for Chicago. And so my acquaintance with Tony Curtis ended.

I usually spent the Christmas holidays with my family in Yugoslavia. On one such visit, I decided to see my cousins in Zagreb, Croatia. These relatives are now my only remaining family in the Old Country, as my mother, who lived her life in Novi Sad, has passed away. My father and mother wanted to die in their own home. Father kept his promise and my mother did the same.

Old friends--Pera and Buba Dobrievichis, a former classmate and cast mate of mine, were also enjoying Christmas in Zagreb. We met at a café for espresso. Our paths had parted in the sixties. They looked a bit older and heavier, but still carried themselves like dancers. They had built their post-performing careers and financial security by staging Maurice Béjart’s ballets worldwide and now could afford a summer house on the Adriatic Sea, a house in Switzerland, and a place in Zagreb. Buba and I reminisced about our school days in Belgrade and our travels to Asia and the Far East. She hoped to have our graduation photo published in the national newspaper.

While in Zagreb, a newspaper caught my attention for an entirely different reason. The front page headlined a dispute between the dancers of the local ballet company and their artistic director, whom they accused of cruelty and disrespect. The director in question was Dinko Bogdanic, who had danced with PBT in the mid-seventies and had since succeeded Milko Sparemblek as director of Zagreb’s ballet troupe.

Dinko, as I knew him, was an easy going personality. I was shocked by the accusations and decided to visit him for his side of the story--and also to meet with Milko to hear his spin. After an unsuccessful attempt to phone Dinko, I just went to the Croatia National Theater and asked to see him. The doorman immediately called his office and instructed me to wait, as he was on his way to meet me.

Smiling from ear to ear, Dinko invited me to his office. He gave me programs of the ballets that he had staged for the company--an impressive repertoire, amassed during his year and a half tenure. Interestingly, the playbills also included CDs that offered snippets of the ballets. I was surprised that I had to go to Zagreb to discover something that is internationally very valid.

That evening, the company performed his adaptation of Swan Lake, built on traditional choreography for Acts II and IV, but set in eighteenth century Austro-Hungary instead of fourteenth century Germany. The production was sold-out, but he invited me to see it and provided me with a chair, which he brought to one of the boxes. The ballet was excellent. The dancers were excellently trained and disciplined, performed well as a unit, and were well-rehearsed. He had obviously raised the artistic bar and under his directorship, audience attendance jumped from fifty percent to full-capacity. People stood in line for tickets.

His predecessor always had a penchant for modern ballets. I suspected that the public had become saturated with these works. Consequently, with a shortfall at the box office, the theater officials decided to hire new blood. And really, Milko is a few years my senior, he had to stop sometime. Instead, he was jealous and bitter. Most likely, he had instigated the insurgency.

I was proud of Dinko and congratulated him on his work and award-winning achievements, but asked him about the controversy. He answered, “Well…you know me. All in all, this brings me even more publicity.”

I was surprised when he added, “You know Nicolas, I just followed your programming system of giving the public what it wants to see. I do not force feed the public ballets they dislike. I don’t try to satisfy myself.”

Chapter Twenty: You Know What You Know…

After many years of work devoted to the college, which produced good dancers and choreographers, I puzzle over whether or not I reached my goals. Yes, there were successful moments, but I never assembled a class of promising, talented students who were focused on ballet alone. I worked with thousands of students, but never produced the ideal dancer. Jordeen Ivanov, JoAnn McCarthy, and their generation were the nearest to that ideal. The university’s dance program is revitalized and enrolls 250 full-time students annually, who come from studios where standards are higher than in 1967. Yet, I must inform some students that unless their poor placement is corrected, their work will lack classical quality. My attempt to establish professional middle and high schools on the Kirov model was initially a paradise, but it collapsed with the college’s escalating financial crisis. In 1973, when the college and PBT separated, I suggested establishing a new PBT school. However, we were required to teach underprivileged children, as a city project. These children were completely uninterested and undisciplined. Most came for poor families and were brought up on the streets. The PBT School was established after my tenure ended.

Perhaps I should have opened a private studio to nurture and develop students from their early years through their teens. I never had that luxury and probably never will. I had a great wealth of experience to share. Teaching was also a self-awareness process as it reaffirmed, crystallized, and clarified my knowledge. I have been teaching for thirty-eight years. It has become second nature. I love teaching those who are interested. I hate teaching those who do not want to learn, who are uninterested, or are resistant. However, it is rewarding when former students--like Rob Ashford--who may have been momentarily resistant, change their minds, and develop into successful artists.

I unfortunately, do not think that I fully achieved my artistic goals.

In Pittsburgh, I started from nothing. Without help from Mark Lewis, Arthur Blum, and Loti Falk, I would not have progressed as fast or as effectively. However, I had to educate them first and that dominated the initial years of my tenure.

I wanted to gradually develop the audience and the company--by following the historical progression of ballet repertoire--and to eventually raise the standards of both. I knew how to lead the company towards its ultimate goal, but when I lost Loti Falk’s confidence, the company’s healthy growth diminished. She failed to understand that I was not doing what I wanted to do. I was instead adapting to the interests, needs, and understanding of the local audience, while slowly building the company’s quality.

Ironically, Patrick Frantz, who was PBT’s third artistic director, favored the Béjart-style that I had envisioned for PBT. Loti did not even realize that this was where we were going.

Instead, she blamed me for lack of artistic growth and artistic mismanagement.

I think the company achieved an international level and was enviable to competing companies. When I severed my relationship with it, I felt that my baby was not yet mature and had not completed the educational process to be a leading company.

Hiring Patricia Wilde was a positive move for PBT, but her vision was completely different from mine. Her experiences with Rebekah Harkness’ the Harkness Ballet had groomed her to accept Loti’s orders and to never say “yes,” but to never say “no.” She heavily depended on George Balanchine’s repertoire, which was dissimilar from the way that I had groomed Pittsburgh audiences. The corps improved and she had some very good artists on the roster. The company progressed slowly, but reached neither the level of Pennsylvania Ballet nor the Cleveland Ballet, its nearest neighbors.

In 2003, PBT celebrated its thirty-fifth anniversary with Swan Lake performances. I was invited to participate in an onstage ribbon cutting ceremony. Typically the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette’s Jane Vranish credited Loti Falk as the company’s founder. Without Loti, PBT would not have flourished, but without me Loti would have never become involved in ballet. Despite that, it was a good feeling that we started something that succeeded and survives. However, if I had remained with PBT, it would have achieved its current level of artistry much sooner.

Terrence Orr returned to programming popular story ballets, which long ago I discovered rang the cash drawer, while mixed bills played to empty seats. Yes, the company is in a bit better shape and under the influence of American Ballet Theatre. There are a couple of solid soloists and the corps is fairly good. They are heavy on administrative support staff, while dancers are shy in numbers. Consequently, PBT draws students from its school to supplement the cast in large works. Yet very few of those students are offered full contracts upon graduation. The policy of augmenting the corps with students has caused tension between the union dancers and management. From my perspective, the company is where I left it.

A

Abbey, Susan, 176

Abjornson, Bruce, 111, 133

Agadzhanov, Aleksandr, 142, 157, 158, 166, 187

Ailey, Ailey, 116

Alexander II, 2, 3

Almede, Ramon, 14

Alonzo, Laura, 179

Anders, Donna, 82

Andrade, Adolfo, 53, 62

Andréani, Jean-Paul, 45

Anouilh, Jean, 54

Aragno, Anna, 87

Arden, Elizabeth, 151

Aristov, Anatole, 157

Arnold, Carole, 99

Arpino, Gerald, 113

Arrieu, Claude, 53

Artimovski, Nikola, 21, 26, 27

Astier, Daniel, 69, 78

Augenblick, Vladimir, 54

Auric, Georges, 54

Ausensi, Manuel, 83

Averty, Jean Christophe, 71, 76

Aznavour, Charles, 72, 75

B

Babilée, Jean, 46, 74, 75, 119, 147

Bach, 99

Badings, Henk, 89

Bahiri, Medhi, 175, 179

Bakst, Leon, 39, 54, 91

Balada, Leonardo, 128, 129, 135

Balanchine, George, 100, 101, 107, 108, 111, 112, 116, 119, 124, 126, 127, 131, 132, 151, 153, 191

Ball, Sandy (Alexandra Moore), 161, 166, 174

Banovitch, Milenko, 47, 78, 79, 122, 151, 173, 174

Barasch, Shirley, 176

Barnes, Clive, 56, 95, 109, 113, 114, 144, 146

Baron, Tasha, 103, 165

Barth, Madame, 84, 160

Baryshnikov, Mikhail, 46, 69, 101, 132, 135

Barzel, Ann, 56, 95, 96, 119, 143, 145

Bataille, Nicolas, 72

Battles, Charon, 85, 99, 103

Beatles, The, 12, 34

Beaumont, Cyril, 29, 57, 59, 105

Beaumont, Tessa, 23, 55

Beaurepaire, Andre, 54

Becaud, Gilbert, 72, 76

Bechade, Jean-Jacques, 61, 69

Beethoven, Ludwig van, 118

Begley, Greg, 133

Béjart, Maurice, 23, 24, 46, 52, 55, 56, 66, 109, 113, 118, 135, 146, 147, 157, 190, 191

Benois, Alexander, 115, 143, 188

Bentancourt, Angel, 103

Bentz, Douglas, 129, 130, 135, 140, 141, 142, 143, 151, 152, 153, 156, 157, 158, 159, 162, 163, 164, 166, 167, 169, 170

Benvin, Debbie, 99

Beriosova, Svetlana, 12, 15

Beriozoff, Nicholas (Papa), 12, 138

Bernstein, Leonard, 116, 151, 152

Bessy, Claude, 75

Bezobrazova, Marika, 61

Bikram, Biki, 154

Bizet, Georges, 83, 161

Bjegojevic, Jovanka, 29

Blazia, Akiba, 84, 85

Blier, Bernard, 72

Blum, Arthur, 86, 87, 88, 90, 91, 92, 94, 97, 98, 100, 108, 110, 112, 121, 122, 123, 191

Blum, Jo Ann, 91

Boccaccio, G., 53

Bock, Frank, 91

Bock, Susan, 85, 99, 103

Bogdanic, Dinko, 118, 125, 127, 128, 190

Bolm, Adolph, 40, 96, 97

Bon, Madame, 20

Bon, René, 13, 20, 24, 53, 54, 55, 68, 69, 101

Bonnefous, Jean-Pierre, 45, 180

Borelli, Ariodante, 56

Borgeaunad, Isabelle, 39

Bortoluzzi, Paolo, 54

Boudreau, Robert, 87, 89, 90

Bowden, Bruce, 136, 139

Bowerman, Joseph, 142, 163, 165, 166, 171

Bradshaw, Donald, 103

Brando, Marlon, 150

Brel, Jacques, 75

Bremer, Betsy, 137

Britten, Benjamin, 125, 142, 143

Brockett, Don, 102, 106

Brown, Jack, 82

Bruhn, Eric, 131

Buckle, Richard, 57

Buckley, Robert, 139

Bujones, Fernando, 24, 134

Burgmüller, Friedrich, 130

Buswell, Stanley, 90

Butler, John, 135

C

Caligiuri, Richard, 83

Callas, Maria, 45

Camille, Valerie, 60, 151

Campaneria, Miguel, 179

Campion, Leo, 72

Cannsius, 66

Capobianco, Tito, 177

Carey, Jim, 158

Caron, Leslie, 46

Carter, Jack, 56

Cartwright, Paula, 83

Caton, Edward, 28, 47, 61, 62, 84, 94, 110, 112, 121, 185

Cecchetti, Enrico, 21, 54, 115

Cela, Camilo Jose, 135, 136

Chan, Jackie, 39

Chaplin, Charlie, 30, 78, 79

Chaplin, Geraldine, 78, 79

Charrat, Janine, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 27, 34, 38, 54, 55, 56, 69, 109, 119

Chase, Lucia, 116, 117

Chauviré, Yvette, 46, 47

Chevalier, Maurice, 68, 73, 76, 80, 82

Childs, Frank, 107, 126

Chkalikoff, Nicolas, 27

Cho, Philip, 83

Chomas, Amy, 85, 99, 169

Christensen, William, 122

Clement, René, 51

Cocteau, Jean, 54

Coffendaffer, Clarence, 178

Cohen, Dr., 184

Cole, Jack, 151

Comelin, Jean-Paul, 99

Como, William, 95, 106, 128, 144

Connor, Phyllis, 107, 117, 160, 161

Cook, Jeff, 173, 174

Cooper, Mindy, 171

Corrado, Ann, 99, 103

Corwin, Earl, 83

Cosgrove, Mary, 84

Cournand, Evelyne (Anna Galina), 31, 33, 34, 36, 40, 44, 47, 111, 115, 165

Cousin, Tommy (Tome), 159, 165, 170

Cranko, John, 113, 122, 142

Crawford, Countess Christina, 82

Crawford, Joan, 82

Crofton, Kathleen, 28, 59

Crumb, George, 135

Cunningham, Julie, 142, 157, 158, 166

Cunningham, Merce, 66, 67, 113

Cunningham, Ron, 168, 171

Cuoco, Joyce, 101, 102, 107

Curtis, Tony, 177, 187, 188, 189

Cushing, Kay, 139

Cutright, Melinda, 158, 165

D

D’Angelo, Robert, 175

D’Antonio, Dr., 184

d’Antuono, Eleanor, 118

D’heue, Nicole, 71

Dali, Salvador, 152

Danilova, Alexandra, 84

Danto, Joanne, 116

Darget, Claude, 72

Dauberval, Jean, 116

Davis, Rob (Ashford), 165, 166, 167, 171, 191

Daydé, Bernard, 96

de Valois, Ninette, 57

De’Voss, Audrey, 27

Dean, James, 12

Debeljak, Margita, 3, 5, 8, 9, 18, 22, 28, 173, 193

Degas, Edgar, 38, 183

Degnan, Peter, 137, 138, 140, 142, 151, 156, 158, 159, 162, 163, 171, 179

Degnan, Susan, 138

Delfau, Andre, 96, 107, 124

Delibes, Leo, 177

Delon, Alain, 51

Derevsky, Conrad, 40

Diaghilev, Serge, 15, 18, 25, 30, 31, 38, 39, 53, 57, 58, 59, 60, 67, 105, 110, 121, 130, 131

Diamond, Mark, 119, 180

Diaz, Luis, 62

Dickson, Nancy, 133, 135, 136, 139

Dijk, Peter van, 13, 23, 24, 62, 134

Dimeo, Paul, 117, 142, 156

Doaks, Joe, 140

Dobrievichis, Buba, 190

Dobrievichis, Pera, 190

Dobrohotov, Alexander, 16

Dohnanyi, Ernst Van, 127, 141

Dokoudovsky, Vladimir, 86

Dolbeu, Annie, 39

Dolin, Anton, 66, 116, 127, 134

Domer, Peggy, 99

Donoughe, Charles, 99

Dorado, Thierry, 122, 126, 127, 128, 129, 135, 139

Dowell, Anthony, 143

Drach, Karoly, 64, 68, 69, 81, 166

Dragadze, Ivan, 53, 54

Draper, Paul, 91, 169

Drutter, Verdran, 125

Duncan, Isadora, 44

Dunham, Katherine, 60, 88

Duparc, Bob, 73

Dutka, Leslie, 166

E

Eastwood, Clint, 56

Egorova, Lubov (Princess Nikita Troubetzkoy), 16, 60, 61

Ellenberger, Barbara, 107

Ellington, Duke, 116, 169

Emery, Jacqueline, 24

Erickson, Betsy, 116

Evans, Lester, 84, 85, 86

Evans, Marietta, 84, 86

F

Fadeyechev, Nikolai, 185

Falco, Louis, 88

Falk, Leon Jr., 91, 120, 121, 123, 128, 137, 152, 158

Falk, Loti, 82, 85, 86, 90, 91, 92, 93, 98, 100, 110, 111, 112, 121, 122, 123, 125, 131, 132, 134, 136, 137, 138, 139, 141, 145, 146, 158, 161, 176, 191, 192

Fedicheva, Kaleria, 136, 146

Fehlandt, Rick, 152

Feldman, Len, 118

Feuillet, Raoul-Auger, 130, 131, 147, 148, 149

Field, John, 12

Figaret, Huguette, 73

Filipov, Alexander (Sasha), 104, 105, 106, 107, 108, 110, 111, 116, 118, 119, 125, 127, 128, 129, 130, 132, 133, 135, 136, 137, 139, 145, 157, 163, 171

Flack, Michael, 89, 91

Flaherty, Pete, 82, 83

Fokine, Isabelle, 157, 158, 159

Fokine, Michel, 8, 31, 32, 34, 36, 39, 54, 85, 96, 100, 138, 158

Fokine, Phyllis, 115

Fokine, Vitale, 31, 36, 40, 94, 112, 115, 119, 158

Fonteyn, Margot, 11, 12, 15, 29, 60, 69, 138

Forino, Alan, 176

Fox, Richard, 103, 107

Fracci, Carla, 53, 54, 55, 58

Franc, Alberty, 19

Franck, César, 135

Franco, 48

Franklin, Frederic, 88, 89, 94, 105, 110, 126, 127, 128, 129, 130, 131, 134, 135, 138, 140

Frantz, Patrick, 134, 145, 146, 158, 191

Freund, Geraldine, 134, 135

Fris, Maria, 13, 24

Frobe, Gert, 78, 79, 80

Froman, Margarita, 10

Fu Man Chu, 39

Fu, Dr. Freddie, 39, 184

Fujisava, Dr., 34

Fuller, Charles, 122

Fuller, Phillip, 122

G

Gabay, Eugene, 27

Gabay, Nina, 27

Gabay, Papa, 27

Gainsbourg, Serge, 76

Garbo, Greta, 30

Garcia, President Carlos, 37

Garrigan, Eileen, 163

Gear, Amy, 171

Gedeon, Jean, 89, 99, 103, 107, 142, 161, 175, 177, 179

Geffner, Debbie Lynn, 84, 85

Geffner, Joseph, 91

George, Lynn, 82, 84, 86

George, Steve, 82, 91, 154

Georgi, Yvonne, 13

Gerdt, Paul, 60

Gershwin, George, 12, 166

Geruschat, Carl, 99

Gielgud, Maina, 52

Gielgud, Sir John, 52

Giffin, John, 103

Gillespie, Dizzy, 89

Gilpin, John, 127, 134, 139, 145

Glazunov, Alexander, 158

Gleeson, Mark, 91

Gleeson, Rosemary, 99, 103

Gligovic, Zorica, 17, 18

Glodowski, Greg, 133, 135, 140

Glodowski, Justin, 140

Goldman, Sherwin M., 116

Golovine, Alexander, 21

Golovine, Serge, 21

Goncharova, Nathalia, 31

Gorsky, Alexander, 101

Gotavac, Jakov, 8

Goubé, Paul, 47, 49

Gould, Morton, 116

Goya, Francisco, 49

Graham, Dan, 85

Graham, Martha, 89

Grandis, Dr., 181

Grantzeva, Tatiana, 94

Grebeldinger, Stevan (Grebel), 9, 10, 11, 47, 56, 61, 62, 73, 75, 88, 101, 102, 106, 121, 129

Greco, El, 49

Green, Laura, 84, 85

Greenwood, Patty, 99

Gregory, Cynthia, 116

Griffis, Amy, 124

Grigoriev, Serge, 29, 57

Grjebina, Irina, 25, 27, 47, 52, 57, 64, 65, 68, 81, 103

Groetzinger, Catherine, 154, 160, 162, 166, 171

Gsovsky, Victor, 46, 47

Guelis, Alain, 171

Guelis, Jean, 51, 52, 55, 57, 59, 61, 67, 70, 71, 72, 74, 75, 76, 78, 170, 171

Guerrero, Maria, 119

Guest, Ann Hutchinson, 149

Gunter, Norma, 177

Guterl, Barbara, 133, 136

Gutierrez, Haydee, 179

H

Hakim, Raymond, 52

Hakim, Robert, 52

Halnaut, Jean Philippe, 163

Hanson, Joseph, 148

Harkness, Rebekah, 191

Harmos, Oskar, 15, 16

Haskell, Arnold, 57

Haythorne, Harry, 27, 54

Hazlett, Ted, 92, 104, 116, 158

Heimbuecher, Ruth, 96, 124, 145

Heller, Vic, 121

Helpmann, Robert, 15

Henderson, Dr. Katherine, 176

Hering, Doris, 95

Hertel, Peter, 99, 116

Hess, Dr., 28

Hewitt, Debby, 99

Heymann, Henry, 32, 104, 108, 124, 174

Hgecht, Joshua, 83

Hightower, Rosella, 11, 21, 61, 62

Hill, Bud, 118

Hillyer, Jayne, 84, 85, 87, 89, 99, 102, 103

Hitchcock, Alfred, 51

Hlutkowsky, Luba, 156

Hlutkowsky, Roman, 151, 156

Holder, Christian, 138

Holliday, Jhonny, 45

Holmes, Anna Marie, 94

Holmes, David, 94

Holzman, John, 82

Honegger, Arthur, 71

Hopkins, Dr. John, 122, 140, 144, 167, 168, 175, 176

Horosko, Marian, 95

Horton, Kim, 177

Horvat, Franio, 16, 17, 21

Hossein, Andre, 78, 79

Hossein, Robert, 78, 79, 80

Hubert, Yves-Andre, 69

Hugo, Monsieur, 22

Humphrey, Doris, 96

Hunt, Alfred, 158

Hunt, Dr. William, 91

Hunter, Sue, 156

Hutson, Ron, 162

I

Ilic, Beba, 25

Ilic, Darinka, 25

Inglutine, Madame, 86

Iseman, Maureen, 152

Itow, Candace, 95, 99, 101, 102, 103

Ivanov, Jordeen, 85, 103, 110, 111, 112, 119, 125, 126, 127, 128, 129, 130, 133, 134, 136, 140, 141, 142, 143, 156, 157, 159, 161, 163, 191

Ivanov, Lev, 99, 105

J

Jansons, Mariss, 185, 186

Jansons, Mrs., 186

Jarozewicz, Ella, 69

Jeanmaire, Zizi (Renee), 45

Jelincic, Frano, 16, 73, 74, 75, 84, 85, 94, 99, 112, 117, 118, 119, 121, 125, 135, 136, 137, 138, 139, 146, 158, 161

Joffrey, Robert, 113

Johansson, Christian, 60

Johnson, Kenneth, 97, 98, 101, 103, 105, 107, 110, 112, 118, 119, 124, 125, 128, 143, 151, 156, 157, 162, 163, 164, 165, 166, 167

Joplin, Scott, 177, 183

Jouvin, G., 73

Jovanovic, Nadia, 16, 17

K

Kacamon, Joseph Jutec, 105

Kahler, Elizabeth, 107

Kamaletdinov, Mansur, 157, 160, 161, 179

Karinska, 67, 107

Karlow, James, 101, 103

Karp, Richard, 83, 89, 90, 107

Karsavina, Tamara, 29, 39, 40, 57

Katcharov, Michel, 69

Katz, Connie, 91

Kayan, Neal, 107

Kayan, Orrin, 97, 98, 101, 103, 107, 108, 124, 125

Kaye, Danny, 76

Kchessinska, Mathilde, 60, 61

Keating, Jill, 142, 180

Kennedy, Canice, 183

Kent, Jerry, 101

Kerr, Thomas, 90

Kertsburg, Alexei, 155

Kertsburg, Lev, 152, 153, 154, 156, 157, 159, 160, 162

Kessler, Dagmar, 112, 117, 118, 119, 124, 125, 126, 127, 133, 134, 135, 136, 138, 146, 158

Kessler, Sydelle, 186

Khatchaturian, Aram, 102, 135

Kijek, Steven, 152

Kintz, Linda, 151, 166

Kirby, Ruth, 39, 40

Kirkland, Gelsey, 108

Kirsanova, Nina, 10, 21, 25, 29, 105

Kirstein, Lincoln, 137

Kisch, Irina, 7, 10

Kiss, Nora, 20

Kivitt, Ted, 110, 117

Klare, Pamela, 99, 103, 169

Klekovic, Patricia, 97, 98, 101, 103, 105, 107, 110, 114, 118, 119, 124

Klingensmith, John, 83

Klinger, Cindi, 165

Kniaseff, Boris, 23, 24, 69

Kocka, Katarina, 16, 58

Koellner, Alfredo, 53

Komleva, Gabriella, 179, 180

Korogodsky, Misha, 179

Kozlov, Leonid, 143, 144

Kozlov, Valentina, 143

Kreutzberg, Harald, 13, 14, 15, 97

Kulev, Dmitri, 186

Kuper, Kate, 171

Kwitowski, Holly, 193

Kylián, Jiri, 147, 168, 187

L

Laban, Rudolph von, 13

Lacotte, Pierre, 66, 67

Laforet, Marie, 51

Lander, Harald, 116

Lapauri, Alexander, 14

Lapenieks, Sarma, 143

Lavirgen, Pedro, 83

Lavrovsky, Leonid, 15, 108, 109, 126, 180

Lazzini, Joseph, 28, 62, 122

Leech, William, 87

Legat, Nicolas, 28, 60

Lehár, Franz, 173

Leifer, Judith, 143

Lemoine, Jean-Bernard, 13, 23, 61

Leney, Ruth, 158, 163, 165

Leskova, Tatiana, 27, 54

Leubbert, Carol, 99

Lewis, Mark, 77, 80, 82, 86, 87, 92, 94, 121, 122, 142, 144, 160, 167, 168, 172, 174, 175, 176, 182, 191

Lichine, David, 80, 143

Lido, Serge, 56

Lidova, Irene, 56

Lifar, Serge, 13, 22, 23, 24, 109

Limón, Jose, 88

Litvinoff, Valentina, 150

Loomis, Jeanne, 127, 138

Lopez, Stephanie, 179

Lucci, Michelle, 116, 175

Luigi, 60, 85, 156

M

Maazel, Lauren, 82, 104

Maazel, Lincoln, 82

Maazel, Marie, 104

Macapagal, Diosdado, 37

MacMillan, Sir Kenneth, 142

Mady, Charlotte, 84, 85, 102

Makarova, Natalia, 69, 90, 103, 110, 116, 117

Manalo, Patria, 161

Manalova, Maia, 68

Manessier, Alfred, 53

Marceau, Marcel, 69

Marchand, Colette, 62

Marco, Ivan, 187

Maria Theresa, 187

Marinaro, Ashley, 178

Marinaro, Frank, 177, 178, 179

Marinaro, Monique, 178

Marino, Yolanda, 91

Markert, Joan, 163, 164

Markova, Dame Alicia, 15, 25, 66, 84, 106, 116

Markovic, Branko, 15

Markovic, Vjera, 53, 54

Marsden, Myles, 16, 179

Marten, Felix, 72, 73

Martha, Lynda (Burkel), 171, 175

Martin, Christopher, 108

Martin, Herb, 161

Martin, Keith, 116

Martin, Nicole, 28

Martinovic, Dragan, 17

Martins, Peter, 173

Martin-Viscount, William, 87, 101, 102, 105

Masloff, Sophie, 166

Massine, Léonide, 8, 15, 23, 26, 27, 29, 31, 34, 39, 47, 51, 52, 53, 54, 55, 56, 57, 58, 59, 61, 63, 69, 71, 73, 86, 88, 95, 97, 100, 107, 109, 113, 121, 126, 127, 130, 131, 148, 152, 170, 187

Massine, Léonide Jr. (Lorca), 54, 56, 61, 69, 127

Massine, Tatiana, 8, 53, 54, 58, 59, 61, 63, 69, 88, 127

Massine, Tatiana Orlova, 26, 27, 69

Matich, Mira, 9

Mattox, Matt, 60, 151

May, Charlene, 85

Mayer, Gilbert, 45

Maynard, Olga, 95, 112

McBride, Patricia, 180

McCarthy, JoAnn, 85, 99, 103, 107, 110, 111, 112, 115, 119, 125, 126, 127, 129, 133, 135, 137, 140, 145, 163, 191

McDonough, Marty, 156

McGoldrick, Joseph, 171, 175, 176

McHenry, Peter, 78, 79

McIntosh, Carolyn, 99

McKuen, Rod, 128, 144, 145, 152, 153, 158, 159, 164

McNearney, Judy, 99, 103

Mejia, Mark, 118, 151, 166

Melodia, Mario, 84, 102

Merrick, David, 169

Messerer, Asaf, 14, 157, 164, 179, 180

Messerer, Mikhail, 157, 186

Messerer, Sulamith, 157

Meyer, John, 124

Meyer,Yvonne, 53, 54

Meyerbeer, Giacomo, 156

Meyrowitz, 62

Michaels, JoAnn, 142, 158, 163

Mihalic, Melani, 101, 102

Mihm, Shea, 99

Mille, Agnes de, 116, 128

Mille, Cecil B. de, 159

Miller, George, 183

Miller, Jimmy, 158

Milosěvić, Slobodan, 2

Mincin, Pat, 141, 162

Minkus, Leon, 118

Miskovitch, Milorad, 13, 21, 23, 24, 54, 55, 56

Mlakar, Pia, 10

Mlakar, Pino, 10

Mochnick, Paul, 82

Moiseyev, Igor, 14, 15, 25, 85, 105, 107, 119, 157, 180

Molina, Randy, 152

Monin, Janine, 62

Monique, 66

Monroe, Marilyn, 189

Morales, Hilda, 116

Morawski, Mieczslaw, 92, 94, 121

Morris, Claudia, 141, 179, 193

Morris, Mr. and Mrs., 30

Moticska, Joyce, 99

Mouhedin, Ismet, 28, 45, 68, 69, 94, 110, 121, 123, 161

Mouis, Marie-Christine, 163

Moyano, Ricardo, 171, 175

Mozart, Wolfgang, 183

Munoz, Roberto, 119, 136, 139, 151, 152, 154, 156, 172, 179, 180

Mussolini, 145

Muyden, Cor Petrus van, 69, 112, 140

N

Nagatomo, Lisa, 175

Nagy, Ivan, 116

Nahat, Dennis, 118

Nassif, S. Joseph, 90, 92, 106, 158

Nativo, Italia (Marga), 58

Neary, Patricia, 129

Neely, Paul, 120

Negri, Joe, 106

Nemetz, Lenora, 189

Nijinska, Bronislava, 29, 78

Nijinsky, Vaslav, 15, 29, 40, 57, 74, 113, 172

Nikola, Alimpich, 10

Nikolais, Alwin, 165, 166

Noble, Duncan, 84, 102, 111, 177, 179

Nogaret, Nicole, 53

Nolte, Nick, 183

Norde, Cleo, 27

Nugent, Dana, 114, 118, 124, 125

Nureyev, Rudolph, 24, 61, 62, 69, 74, 101, 136, 163

O

O’Reilly, Sheilah, 27

Occhipinti, John, 84, 85, 87, 89, 99, 102, 103, 140

Offenbach, Jacques, 74, 156, 183

Ohn, Gerard, 54

Okawa, Heihachiro (Henry), 34

Olatunji, Babatunde, 87, 88

Olenjina, Marina, 7, 8, 10, 15, 23, 54

Olivier, Sir Laurence, 12

Olvis, William, 83

Onassis, Aristotle, 45

Orr, Terence, 116, 117, 132, 186, 192

Ostroff, Boyd, 141

P

Paddock, Carolyn, 141, 151, 152, 156

Paganini, Niccolo, 183

Page, Ruth, 13, 56, 96, 97, 98, 101, 102, 103, 107, 108, 124, 125, 128, 129, 130, 133, 162, 164, 173

Panessa, Daniela, 171

Parker, H. Sheldon Jr., 91

Parlic, Dimitri, 10, 11, 15, 16, 41, 43, 52, 106, 108, 125

Parnel, Ruth, 11, 15

Pasinski, Irene, 128, 129

Paskevska, Anna, 171

Pastorova, Alicia, 89, 187

Pavlova, Anna, 28, 30, 31, 85, 97, 158

Pécourt, Louis, 130

Peretti, Serge, 45, 47

Pereyaslavec, Valentina, 94, 95, 161

Perez-Porter, Hernan, 103, 107

Perkins, Bertha, 82

Perrot, Jules, 101

Peticolas, Sandra, 143

Petipa, Marius, 11, 13, 23, 29, 60, 63, 99, 100, 101, 105, 110

Petit, Roland, 45, 46, 52, 74, 122, 135

Petrov, Alexander, 1, 117, 138, 155, 173, 182, 184, 193

Petrov, Courtney Claire, 117

Petrov, Irena Roboz, 1, 2, 4, 10, 17, 56, 57, 173, 189

Petrov, Mary (Marion Brookes), 13, 27, 28, 29, 30, 35, 36, 39, 41, 42, 43, 44, 47, 52, 53, 55, 56, 57, 58, 61, 62, 63, 75, 80, 81, 82, 83, 84, 86, 88, 89, 94, 99, 100, 103, 107, 111, 115, 117, 121, 138, 153, 158, 159, 160, 164, 165, 166, 177, 182, 184, 187, 188, 193

Petrov, Nicolas II, 117

Petrov, Sergei Nikolaevic, 1, 2, 4, 17, 56, 173, 189

Petruscak, Jaraslaw, 151, 156

Philippe, Gerard, 12, 15, 149

Piaf, Edith, 75

Piankova, Tatiana, 31

Picasso, Pablo, 49, 67, 137, 183

Pierini, Kathy, 99

Pilecki, Michelle, 96

Piper, Vesta, 161

Plisetskaya, Maya, 179, 180, 185, 186

Pochapin, Martin, 82

Polajenko, Nicholas, 69, 125, 129

Popesco, Elvire, 51

Popovski, Nikola, 19

Poprosky, Dr., 184

Posvar, Mildred, 91

Posvar, Wesley, 121

Potkovac, Zvonko, 27, 68

Pradier, Perrette, 72

Premick, Jerry, 158, 165

Preobrajenska, Olga, 17, 20, 21, 22, 25, 27, 28, 29, 45, 60, 61, 86, 123

Prescott, James, 163, 174, 175, 176, 179, 182

Price, William, 107

Proia, Alexander, 163

Prokofiev, Serge, 8, 15, 109, 123

Prokofiev,Vladimir, 150

Prokovsky, André, 23, 24

Prunczik, Karen, 89, 99, 103, 169

Prunczik, Walter, 91, 169

Pushkin, Alexander Ivanovich, 105, 132

Putnik, Jovan, 8, 149, 193

Q

Quillan, Charles, 140

R

Rabovsky, Istvan, 101, 102, 104, 105

Rakitin,Yuri, 6, 149

Rambert, Marie, 57

Rank, Arthur, 42

Rasputin, (Grigory Yefimovich), 78, 79, 80

Ratay, Christine, 99, 103, 169

Reasner, Pamela, 96

Reed, Janet, 112

Regnier, Bernard, 73

Reich, George, 60

Renard, Colette, 68, 72

Renault, Michelle, 45

Resnik, Regina, 83

Reynolds, Lucy, 89

Riabouchinska, Tatiana, 143

Richards, Eugene (Geno), 84, 85

Rimsky-Korsakov, Nikolay, 8, 54, 162

Rincones, Jan, 84, 85

Robbins, Jerome, 116

Robeson, Paul, 144

Robezzoli, Laura, 158

Robinson, Gene, 60, 88

Roboz, Elizabeth, 1, 3, 173

Roboz, Lenka, 1, 2

Roboz, Oscar, 1, 173

Roboz, Theresa, 1, 2

Rockwell, Connie, 91, 168

Rockwell, Willard Jr., 91, 158, 168

Rodzianko, Vladimir, 110

Roger, Pierre, 71

Rogers, Fred, 83

Roje, Ana, 15, 16

Rone, Elvira, 20

Ronet, Maurice, 51

Rosa, Ottavio De, 131, 162, 173

Rosan, Seymour, 59, 118

Rossi, Tino, 67, 68

Rossini, Gioacchino, 55, 119, 125, 183

Roth, Audrey, 102, 106

Rouleau, Raymond, 52

Rousanne, Madame, 20, 24, 46, 74

Roux, Roland, 115

Rozek,Marisa, 189

S

Saint-Léon, Arthur, 125

Saint-Saëns, Camille, 85, 170, 177

Salinas, Ricardo, 156

Sanders, Dick, 71, 76

Sandonato, Barbara, 99, 100, 116

Sarandon, Susan, 183

Sarrade, Madame, 68, 77

Satlov, Ronald, 86

Saxman, Rose, 99

Scapes, Elva, 89, 99, 177

Scatteregia, Nina Vigile, 179

Schaufuss, Peter, 69, 90, 118, 119, 124

Schenck, William, 139

Schleich, Kristen, 142, 151, 158, 162, 171, 179

Schnieder, Romy, 51

Schorer, Suki, 112

Schrader, Velma, 177, 179

Schumann, Robert, 39

Scoto, Renata, 83

Scuillo, Henry, 107

Sebastian, Stuart, 129

Semanitzky, Dr. Michael, 59, 104, 109, 110, 114, 125, 130, 131

Senha, Dr., 184

Serebrier, Jose, 137

Shakespeare, 15, 32, 108, 109, 135

Shamahaw, Mr., 153

Sharapova, Lillia, 179, 180

Sharif, Omar, 79

Shawn, Ted, 147

Shchedrin, Rodion, 161, 185, 186

Shearer, Moira, 15

Sheppard, Lisa, 162

Shields, Harrison, 107

Sieveling, Earl, 87

Sifnios, Duska, 53, 54

Simmons, Pat, 114, 125

Simon, Matthew, 168, 175, 176

Simon, Victoria, 119

Simpson, Preston, 170

Skibine, George, 21, 123, 128

Skorik, Irene, 21

Skouratoff, Vladimir, 21

Smith, Michael, 156

Smith, Oliver, 116

Smuin, Michael, 109, 117

Sokolova, Lydia, 57

Soler, Antonio Ruiz, 50

Somes, Michael, 11, 12, 29, 69

Soriano, Madame, 84

Sotereanos, Dr. Nicholas, 184

Sparemblek, Milko, 13, 16, 21, 23, 25, 47, 52, 75, 146, 174, 190

Spessivtseva, Olga, 57

Sportiello, Enrico, 54, 55

Stander, Pat, 145

Stanislavsky, Konstantin, 6, 8, 119, 144, 147, 148, 149, 150, 160, 165

Steinberg,William, 59

Stepanov, Vladimir, 130, 147, 148, 149

Stewart, Edward, 103, 107

Stone, Bentley, 97, 129

Stone, Susan, 99, 136

Stoop, Norma McLain, 129

Stravinsky, Igor, 66, 67, 78, 113, 114, 115, 119, 129, 134, 140, 151, 164, 165, 183

Struchkova, Raisa, 14

Stucki, Nini, 61, 69

Sulich, Vassili, 13, 47, 53, 54, 55, 151, 171

Svetlova, Marina, 138

Swoboda, Maria, 84

Szilard, Paul, 34, 111, 123, 187

T

Taglioni, Filippo, 32

Taglioni, Marie, 32

Tallchief, Marjorie, 123

Tangette, Miss, 68

Taras, John, 116, 127

Tassone, Ron, 159, 163, 165, 167, 169, 176, 182

Tchaikovsky, P.I., 13, 56, 108

Tcherina, Ludmila, 23, 47, 48, 49, 51, 52, 53, 102

Tchernicheva, Lubov, 29, 57

Ter-Arutunian, Rouben, 135, 141

Terechkovich, Constantine, 54

Terry, Walter, 95, 129

Tharp, Twyla, 171

Thomas, Thom, 89

Thompson, Mark, 171

Timms, Rebecca, 165

Tito, Josip Broz, 3, 21, 172, 173

Toon, Paddy, 161

Torez, Jose, 14, 38

Torez, Olga Grbic, 14, 20, 38, 66

Torre, Torre, 92

Toth, Edra, 108

Toulouse-Lautrec, Henri, 183

Trailine, Hélènee, 13

Triplett, Roger, 137

Tristao, Lucia, 107

Trninic, Dusan, 15

Troan, Judy Nawe, 84, 85, 177

Troynovsky, Audrey, 84

Trunov, Alexander, 29

Truschel, Patricia, 163

Tudor, Antony, 116

Tupine,Oleg, 102

U

Ulanova, Galina, 31, 108, 180

Unger, Leslie, 162

Uricchio, Marylynn, 96

Urosevic, Branco, 66

Ustinov, Peter, 183

Usupoff, Prince, 78, 79

Uthoff, Michael, 177

V

Vaganova, Agrippina, 8, 31, 92, 94, 95, 105, 136, 149, 179, 180

Valesca, Carmen, 40

Valton, Jean, 73

Van Grove, Isaac, 107

Velàzquez, Diego, 49

Verdak,George, 130, 131

Verdy, Violette, 46, 66, 69, 87, 90, 101, 102, 103, 104, 105, 106, 107, 108, 116, 134, 162, 163, 168, 180, 181

Vickery, Bob, 186

Villella, Edward, 66, 90, 91, 101, 102, 104, 105, 106, 116, 125, 127, 138, 172, 179

Vilzak, Anatole, 84, 102

Vinski, David, 141, 153, 154

Virski, Pavel, 152

Vishnijevska, Valentina, 95

Vitalli, 188

Vodehnal, Andrea, 127

Volinine, Alexander, 96

Vostrikov, Gennadi, 107, 108, 114, 115, 118, 119, 124, 125, 156, 159, 163

Vozovaya, Madame, 154

Vranish, Jane, 96, 144, 192

W

Walas, Jon, 156

Waldrep, Shelia, 99

Walker, Jewell, 84, 85, 108

Wallach, Eli, 150

Wayne, John, 74

Weill, Kurt, 170

Weisberger, Barbara, 73, 100, 116

Weiss, Ljalja, 10

Weiss, Wendy, 99

Weitershausen, Leonard, 84, 85, 103, 125, 142

Wenta, Stefan, 36, 43, 123

Wentzel, Jonette Lancos, 152

West, Edward, 137

Wetzig, James, 91

White, Diane, 99

White, Donna, 99

Wigman, Mary, 13

Wilde, Gus, 82

Wilde, Patricia, 131, 138, 177, 186, 191

Wilkins, Donald, 124

Williams, (Ellen) Virginia, 108

Wilson, Sally, 116

Winter, Ethel, 89, 94, 99

Woizikovsky, Leon, 27, 53, 54, 130

Wood, Mr., 73

Wright, Bishop John, 59

Wuenschell, Mary Grace, 99

Y

Yeats, Willian Butler, 62

Yudenich, Alexei, 99, 100, 112, 116

Z

Zakharov, Rostislav, 123

Zeffirelli, Franco, 108

Zelenak, Susan, 99

Zivanovic, Dancia, 6, 41

Zsuzsa, Kaan, 187, 189

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