A Body of Work: Dancing to the Edge and Back - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

David Hallberg is a Principal Dancer with American Ballet Theatre in New York. He was the first American to join the Bolshoi Ballet in Moscow as a Principal Dancer. He continues to dance around the world and is a Resident Guest Artist with The Australian Ballet. He has also started the David Hallberg Scholarship, mentoring young aspiring boys in a career in ballet, and the Innovation Initiative, a platform for emerging choreographers, both at American Ballet Theatre. A Body of Work is his first book.

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A Body of Work

CHAPTER 1

Morning class was an essential daily task. Like making that pot of coffee first thing in the morning. Out of bed, half-asleep, and straight to the coffee machine. Filter. Water. Coffee grinds. On switch. Every day. Day in. Day out.

By nine thirty a.m. I would shuffle into a worn studio that was always empty and silent. The only light came from the morning sun edging in through huge windows. Outside, one floor down, the streets and noise of New York City.

At first, my body resisted the task at hand, especially when I was drained from the previous night’s performance. But the work continued the following morning, as if no exertion occurred, as if I hadn’t given to the performance every ounce of my emotional and physical energy.

I started with what I often dreaded: that first small physical movement that would call me to attention, easing me out of my slumber into another day. I would always begin with the same exercises. Done at my own pace and with the understanding that if I skipped them, I would not be set up well for later, when I would need to push my body in order to transform ballet’s absurdly difficult steps into seemingly effortless movement onstage. I began with small, basic movements, continuing on to those that are more advanced and complicated, each of them essential to achieving huge jumps and whiplash turns. People often wonder why we need daily ballet class when we are already professionals. But it is when we are performing virtuoso moves that we need those classes more than ever.

The deeper I went into the movements, the further I escaped into thought. The exercises slowly became a meditative experience. My mind would wander to last night’s show, my coming travels, the day’s rehearsals, a project I wanted to develop, a choreographer I needed to contact, emails I needed to write.

As the start of class drew near, other dancers trickled into the studio, shuffling in just as tired as I was. Everyone spoke in hushed tones. The lights would be turned on by someone who needed to feel they were officially starting class. As more dancers arrived, the volume and energy picked up. Some chatted about the show the night before, about what they did after it. Others discussed the new ballet they were learning, talking as they stretched or strengthened. A few, with headphones on, weren’t yet awake enough to discuss anything. We all wore different “uniforms.” Mine was Nike sweatpants, tights underneath, a cotton T-shirt, an insulated track jacket. Traditionalists wore nothing but tights and a T-shirt or leotard, as we all did when we were training and weren’t allowed to wear “junk”: the sweatpants, leg warmers, and baggy clothes that obscure the body and keep it from being exposed to the teacher’s critical eye. But I like junk. It’s comfortable.

Fads in dance attire come and go. In the 1970s and ’80s the more tattered and ripped your practice clothes were, the better. Maybe the wear suggested the dancer was working harder than others or was too dedicated and rehearsing too hard to take the time to buy new clothes. That has changed. I’ve gotten flak from my colleagues for having holes in my dancewear. When I was promoted to Principal Dancer a friend said, “Now you’re making Principal salary, so you can afford some better-looking clothes.”

But class is not a catwalk. The important thing is not how good the clothes look on the dancer; all that matters is what’s being danced in those clothes.

Moments before class was to begin, the teacher and accompanist would enter the studio, the former standing in the front of the room, the latter taking a seat at the grand piano.

“Are we ready?” the teacher would ask, “or do we need five more minutes?”

Always five more minutes. Compulsory for dancers to do their last stretches, yoga positions, exercises with weights. Or merely to delay the recognition that the day’s responsibilities were calling.

Grace period over, the talking ceased. We assumed our usual places at the barre. These barre spots are not free for the taking. There is, in every ballet company in the world, a pecking order. All the spots—by the piano, by the mirror, at the end, in the center—are accounted for. Some are claimed by Principal Dancers, others by members of the Corps de Ballet who have stood in the same spot for years. When outsiders come to take class with a company, they know not to claim a place at the barre until class starts. And God help the new kid who takes a much-coveted spot.

With one hand placed on the barre, we began with pliés. The most basic of movements. A dancer’s training commences at a very young age and starts with pliés at the barre. Whether you’ve danced once or a thousand times, it is the plié that begins your day.

A plié is a bending of the knees with the feet positioned in specific ways. This fundamental movement is the precursor to more advanced steps. Every turn and every jump—however high or low—starts with a plié. It’s the essential taking-off point to things far more difficult and impressive. For so many years I did pliés every day with a mindless ease and agility gained through repetition. I had done this series of exercises daily for twenty years. That is what we do: repeat the same movements every day throughout the entirety of our careers. It never ceases. If we think we don’t need class and the daily focus it provides, our work slips and that slippage is eventually visible on the stage. The audience can tell; they may not know in technical terms what isn’t working, but they know that something doesn’t look right. “I can’t put my finger on it,” they’ll say, “but it didn’t quite do it for me.”

So class is critical; if the basics go, the rest goes with them.

As we moved along to more strenuous movement, still holding on to the barre, my mind would drift again. At times I would become bored. Distracted. Want another coffee. I would look out the window, wishing I could take advantage of the beautiful day. Especially on Saturdays, when it seemed that everyone in New York City was just a few blocks away, leisurely strolling through the stalls at the Union Square Greenmarket. But class pushed on. That was a saving grace. You had to dive in and take motivation from other dancers in the room as you executed the familiar steps in their never-changing order: plié, tendu, dégagé, rond de jambe, fondu, frappé, développé, grand battements.

* * *

CLASS ALWAYS HAS the same structure: barre followed by center work, during which we execute combinations of steps, some in one place and some moving across the entire studio. As they increase in complexity, class becomes more like a performance, with dancers caught between two desires: to show off to colleagues and to dance for the sheer bliss of moving. As the dancers grow ever warmer, layers of clothing come off, one by one. The daily strip-down to a leotard and tights.

After a while, the windows would steam up from the body heat of eighty exhausted, sweating dancers. Inevitably someone would write on them in the same spirit that you’d write Wash me! on the dirty windshield of a car. Here, the words were always some variation of I LOVE BALLET!, in all their intended sarcasm.

Some dancers would trail out of the studio and leave class early, saving...