“Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world.”
— Margaret Mead, cited on the back cover of Issue #1 of The Dance Insider, Summer 1998
“Dance writing shouldn’t hide backstage, but should join in the wider cultural critical dialogue.”
— Dancer Z, inaugural issue, The Dance Insider
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On June 11, 1998, in SoHo, New York City, a new dance magazine was born, printed on 100% recycled paper paid for by the Eddy Foundation: The Dance Insider, with founding editor Veronica Dittman, founding publisher Paul Ben-Itzak, and a stable of professional dancers, journalists, and photographers, notably Jamie Phillips and Robin Hoffman. Features editor Rebecca Stenn provided the model of the dancer-writer and choreographer-educator Sara Hook the brain trust. Eileen Darby eventually became our senior advisor. Officially launched later that month at (and graciously hosted by) the American Dance Festival in Durham, North Carolina, the issue featured original cover and back cover photography by Phillips of Pilobolus Dance Theater performers Rebecca Anderson, Mark Santillano, and Gaspard Louis. (The Pilobolus connection having been secured by Pils alumna Rebecca Jung.) Our mission (besides going where no dance magazine had gone before): To give a voice to dancers, to tell stories not told elsewhere, and to build the dance audience. The content included:
** Insider Picks of upcoming performances by the Hamburg Ballet, whose artistic director, John Neumeier, confided in the DI, “The most successful ballets, if they are stories…, are stories we cannot retell — just as it is very difficult to tell what you dreamt last night”; ODC / San Francisco; and, at Jacob’s Pillow and the ADF, respectively, Joanna Haigood and David Grenke, the latter of whom explained to the DI: “All of this stuff comes out of my body, and then it’s a matter of having it make sense to other people.”
** An Insider Forum in which Joffrey Ballet star and choreographer Christian Holder, American Ballet Theatre principal Ethan Stiefel, Joffrey alumna Hoffman (at the time in-house notator with the Paul Taylor Dance Company), Ben-Itzak, and moderator Veronica Dittman debated the question: “Is ballet irrelevant?” The article also featured interviews with Lines Contemporary Ballet director Alonzo King and Kennedy Center president Lawrence J. Wilker, and was illustrated with photography by Marty Sohl and Weiferd Watts.
** Insider News, illustrated with photography by Roy Volkmann of the Alvin Ailey Dance Company’s Mucuy Bolles and Don Bellamy, on personnel changes, promotions, guest appearances, and upcoming performances by the Ailey, Dallas Black Dance Theater, Mark Dendy, the Frankfurt Ballet, and Hamburg Ballet, plus labor strife at the Martha Graham Dance Company. Contributors to the section included recently retired Ailey star Elizabeth Roxas, the DI’s modern dance editor.
** “Fear and loathing with the fungus,” PBI’s inside report from Washington Depot, Connecticut, on the creation of Pilobolus’s collaboration with laureated jazz composer and big band leader Maria Schneider, who told the DI after one session with the dancers and the choreographic triumvirate of Robby Barnett, Jonathan Wolken, and Michael Tracy, “You get the feeling they all want something different….” The article was accompanied by a Pilobolus lexicon, more photography from Philips featuring Anderson, Louis, Santillano, and Trebien Pollard, and a first-hand report from an audition for Momix, the company of Pilobolus co-founder Moses Pendleton.
** An interview with Donald McKayle on the occasion of his 50th year in dance, illustrated with a photograph of McKayle and Carmen De Lavallade performing the former’s “Rainbow ‘Round my Shoulder” provided by fabled archivist Joe Nash and ADF. “When you find the linkage between dance and story,” McKayle told the DI, “you have found something very rich.” The article offered an exclusive excerpt of McKayle’s upcoming autobiography.
** “Inside Presenting,” sub-titled, “From the cradle to the grave, new ways to build your audience,” and featuring interviews with Wilker, ODC co-director KT Nelson, Pacific Northwest Ballet co-founder Francia Russell, Walker Art Center director Philip Bither, and many others, and illustrated with Keith Haring’s body painting of Bill T. Jones. The article was accompanied by a side-bar by Stenn recounting her experience performing for and teaching children on behalf of Pilobolus.
** A farewell to San Francisco Ballet diva Evelyn Cisneros, with a review by Aimee Ts’ao of Cisneros’s swan song and a tribute by Cisneros’s colleague (and DI education editor) Edward Ellison.
** An exclusive interview with flamenco legend Lola Greco on her controversial departure from the National Ballet of Spain.
** Dittman’s unique perspective on a performance by American Ballet Theater: “It is truly heartening to be reminded that there is still plenty in the world of dance, where lately I’ve seen only paucity.” (Harald Landers’s “Etudes” did not fare so well.)
** The DI’s inaugural issue terminated with a manifesto from “Dancer Z,” the nom de plum of a busy NYC modern dancer. Analyzing the current critical landscape, Dancer Z wrote: “The mere reportage of events which comprises most dance reviews seems directed towards the audience member who fell asleep and missed what happened on the stage, or for the viewer who seeks a poetic recapitulation.” Dancer Z terminated with an appeal and formula which the DI would adopt a year later when it began publishing online Flash Reviews of performances, most written by active dance artists:
“I want opinions, I want comparisons, I want meaning. Dance needs to be talked about not only in the context of its own history and trends, but in conjunction with trends in other art forms. I would like to read reviews which attempt to identify dance’s place in the constellation of ideological, economic, social, and aesthetic influences involved in its creation. Dance writing shouldn’t hide backstage, but should join in the wider cultural critical dialogue.
“I want to feel that writers are not only watching dance, but are asking the questions which need to be asked, drawing the parallels that need to be drawn, and fueling the wheel that struggles always to turn. In providing the push, the next challenge, or simply the truth, dance writers can be more involved in gathering and preparing the audiences of the future. Through writing which looks at dance in a larger context and acknowledges it as a citizen of the world capable of the responsibility which that invovles, dance can find the bridge to understanding itself and making itself understood, a connection imperative to its growth and ultimately, its survival.”
In other words, as Skoop Nisgar said: If you don’t like the news, go out and make some of your own.
Which the DI did.
— Paul Ben-Itzak
DI subscribers who would like to receive text versions of any of the above stories from the DI’s inaugural Summer 1998 print issue, please e-mail DI publisher Paul Ben-Itzak at firstname.lastname@example.org . DI subscribers also receive access to the DI’s 20-year archives of more than 2,000 exclusive articles by 150 writers related to performances, films, and exhibitions on five continents. Not yet a subscriber? To subscribe, for just $29.95/year individuals or $49.95 institutions, just designate your PayPal payment in that amount to email@example.com, or write us at that address to find out about payment by check or in Euros .
Returning to its roots as a Direct E-mail List — as the most effective, efficient way to serve our subscribers, writers, advertisers, and readers — the DI will heretofore make all new content, as well as reprints from our 20-year archive of more than 2,000 exclusive reviews by 150 writers of performances on five continents, plus news, commentary, art, and the Jill Johnston Archive, available strictly by e-mail. To subscribe to the DI and access both this new content and archived stories, for just $29.95/year individuals or $49.95 institutions, just designate your PayPal payment in that amount to firstname.lastname@example.org, or write us at that address to find out about payment by check or in Euros. (In the latter case, the payments will be directed to our European correspondents.) You can also contact us at that address to find out about limited, well-integrated e-mail advertising options.
By André Levinson
Copyright Librairie Bloud & Gay, Paris, 1924
Translated by Paul Ben-Itzak
(Excerpted from “La Danse au Théâtre,” which assembles Levinson’s critical articles published between April 1922 and April 1923, for the most part in the Paris daily Comoedia, here from a December 11, 1922 piece entitled “The Quarrel Between the Ancients and the Moderns,” with the sub-heading “The Trial of Isadora Duncan.”)
Certainly, Isadora Duncan is guilty as charged. She was the grand switch operator who redirected dance onto a dead-end track and made it derail. Her enthusiastic brand of Hellenism à la headmistress produced unprecedented ravages. Her musical dilettantism grew into a rage of epidemic proportions. “Rise, Lazarus, and dance!” clamored the American demagogue. And a thousand young women suddenly declared themselves dancers. An army surged around Isadora, an international brigade of the barefooted. With the great stamping of her large naked feet she makes Beethoven jump, Chopin run, Gluck trot. Proclaimed the redeemer of the body, which she emancipates from all the conventional shackles, she enters in the Pantheon. Bringing with her, it’s claimed, a re-birth.
I have a dear friend in Russia, one of the country’s most subtle critics. An intelligence that I call gourmontienne* and a pure sensibility inhabiting a sickly and deformed body. Disabled, he drags himself along laboriously with the aid of a crutch and a cane. Well, this man was transported to such a degree by the Duncanian “miracle” that he declared her art to be “the means for all of us to become beautiful.”
Without doubt, the personality of the dancer herself has a lot to do with this infatuation, or rather this idolatry. Without any particular physical beauty, with her figure recalling a kindly school-marm, her torso lacking any suppleness, her feet flattened out and widened by two decades of naked stomping on the planks, Isadora nonetheless has been able to preserve a certain plastic prestige. Her gestures are sober, at times evocative. And if her musicality seems doubtful and approximate, she has the gift of fecund emotions. Her practically non-existent technique can be assimilated in 24 hours by just about any dancer. Her audacity, on the other hand, is incommensurate, genial. Her pupils and imitators are innumerable; to imitate her one has no need of audacity!
Nevertheless, Isadora might have been useful to dance: useful like a good old-fashioned fire is useful for the beautification of a neighborhood.
When Isadora appeared on the scene, dance had been languishing for 20 years. Classical dancers continued their arduous task in a complete moral isolation; artists and poets had lost interest in this grand tradition. And all that was left of the not so distant past of the incomparable kingdom of the ballerina’s court — of which Théophile Gautier, Jules Janin, Théodore de Banville, Stéphane Mallarmé, Gavarni and Lamy had been the reigning dignitaries — were the last remnants of some decrepit members. Even if the handful of simple-minded and upright true believers, gifted with good instincts, who knew how to maintain, despite and against all the others, their unshakeable conviction and keep their metier intact were admirable. Because being a ballerina, only a few years ago, was a perilous distinction.
Well, it was Isadora who brought the masses back to dance, who created a new audience for it. She knew how to promote a vast surge of opinion. One which is not going away, however much she uses her very real power to inculcate deplorable and paltry concepts, and nurtures false sensibilities among this public. Thanks to her, those who have come to clear the terrain and reconstruct will not be operating in a void. And it’s thus that the fruits of her efforts, negative as they may have been, appear considerable and propitious.
*A reference to the journalist and critic Remy de Gourmont (1858 – 1915), known for his vast erudition. In 1889, was one of the co-founders of the new Mercure de France, to which he almost exclusively devoted his literary efforts after being diagnosed with Lupus. Gourmont also worked for the French Bibliothèque Nationale.
To commemorate the centennial of the death of Edgar Degas (1834-1917), through Sunday the musée d’Orsay has organized an exhibition that juxtaposes paintings, pastels, and drawings from the Impressionist artist and others with “Degas Danse Dessin,” published in 1936 by the art dealer Ambroise Vollard. Accompanied by 26 hors-textes reproductions of Degas’s graphic work, the luxury edition was written by French poet Paul Valéry (1871-1945). “Degas is one of the rare painters to lend the floor its own importance,” Valéry noted. “He has admirable planks. At times, he views a dancer from high up, and her entire form gets projected on the plane of the plateau, like seeing a crab on a beach.” Edgar Degas (1834-1917), “Dancers,” also known as “Group of Dancers,” between 1884 and 1885. Pastel on paper, 78.3 x 77.2 cm. Paris, Musee d’Orsay, RF 51757. © Musée d’Orsay Dist. RMN- Grand Palais / Patrice Schmidt. Courtesy Service Presse / musée d’Orsay.
To commemorate the centennial of the death of Edgar Degas (1834-1917), through Sunday the musée d’Orsay has organized an exhibition that juxtaposes paintings, pastels, and drawings from the Impressionist artist and others with “Degas Danse Dessin,” published in 1936 by the art dealer Ambroise Vollard. Accompanied by 26 hors-textes reproductions of Degas’s graphic work, the luxury edition was written by French poet Paul Valéry (1871-1945). “There’s an immense difference between seeing something without the pencil in hand, and seeing it in drawing it,” Valéry observed. “Or rather, one sees two different things. Even the most familiar object to our eyes becomes something completely different, if one proceeds to draw it; we realize that… we never really saw it.” Edgar Degas (1834-1917), “Dancer.” Drawing featured in Paul Valéry’s “Degas Danse Dessin,” published by Ambroise Vollard in 1936. Paris, musée d’Orsay. © Musée d’Orsay, Dist. RMN-Grand Palais / Patrice Schmidt. Courtesy Service Presse / musée d’Orsay.
“I see the bells as a silent scream.”
— Michael Gorra
By Jill Johnston
Copyright 2005 Jill Johnston
Flying to Cologne September 14 for an art event, accompanied by Ingrid, I had an unexpected postwar experience at the foot of Cologne’s great Cathedral, its Dom. By “foot” I mean its vicinity, and I was always there. Our hotel was close by, and Museum Ludwig, site of the art event, a pebble’s throw away. The whole city really is in its vicinity because the structure looms everywhere, seen from all vantage points, a giant double-spired sentinel more omnipresent than our World Trade Towers were, or Empire State Building is. The Dom is very old, a structure begun in 1248, and everything way below it is new — or so it seems. In a British RAF “thousand-plane” raid March 30 1942, 90% of the city was firebombed and destroyed. Oh I’ve been in other German cities where I would look for what’s old, and notice the new. Hamburg, in 1943 one of the worst hit, leaving a charred city and 200,000 dead, was one of them. In Osnabruck for a day and a night I saw nothing old at all. I’ve been to Berlin, Dusseldorf, Frankfurt and Hanover. I’d visited Cologne once before, in 1993. But I never had an Experience, not in Germany anyway. In Britain I had the kind of emotional exculpation I’m talking about, a terrible seismic sadness, in Coventry, the midlands city firebombed the night of November 14 1940 by the Luftwaffe in a raid code-named “Operation Moonlight Sonata.” And I had it right on the Cathedral premises, or I should say the ruins. St. Michael’s, like the Dom in Cologne a medieval treasure, dated from the 1300s. All that’s left of the body of St. Michael’s are low decimated walls on three sides, and remains of a polygonal apse with tall arched open-to-the-air windows. Amazingly, its head — tower and spire, rising 295 feet — survived. Like the Dom, it’s another sentinel, here overlooking an impressive carcass, a cross at opposite end fashioned from scorched beams that fell in the November 1940 carnage; and something brand new — a shockingly modern cathedral joined by porch and built perpendicularly to the ruins, dedicated in 1962. Such an enormous architecturally necrologic “birth,” literally from the side of the ruins, was what undid me. I experienced this in 1976. After Cologne last month, I could draw a straight line between the two cities, the perfect zoom lines you see in airplane magazine maps. At home and as of yesterday I’m adding Lubeck, a moderate-sized city in northern Germany on the Baltic Sea, a place I’ve never been. Reading and scanning a book someone gave me that had been lying about in my apartment since the end of summer, showing up unaccountably here and there, I found Lubeck in it. If my lines were finer, and maps more accommodating, they would pinpoint my special interest in these cities of the Dom in Cologne, the ruins of St. Michael’s in Coventry, and most recently the Marienkirche in Lubeck. All three were damaged, one beyond repair, in a war of unprecedented terror against civilians, including six million singled out for special annihilation as Jewish, and all three have extraordinary bells. The ones in Cologne and Coventry survived, but of Lubeck’s pre-war tower bells there are only two, and these are fallen mementos, lying just where they crashed — in a wrecked but somehow aesthetic configuration, under the south tower in the Marienkirche. They are pictured in a photo on the cover of the book I finally got around to investigating. An American professor of English, Michael Gorra, wrote about his travels in Germany after spending a sabbatical year there. Books by professors are not my normal fare, but the photo, and title, “The Bells in their Silence,” could be a curiosity even for those not incurably habituated to these bronze shapes the way I am. For myself though, I’ve passed up many literary references, always quoted to invoke the romance of bells — Dante, Longfellow, Byron, Tennyson and Shakespeare among them — and Gorra’s title seemed fairly belletristic. It took my recent trip to Cologne to make the war connection. Gorra’s beautiful fallen image from Lubeck, embedded in the richly muted grey-green colors of his jacket cover, must be the memento of his travels, the symbol of his search for what Germany once was and has become: a replete civilization, a land of rubble and devastation, finally of buried memories. One month after Lubeck in 1942, Cologne became Germany’s second city to be firebombed and depopulated by Allied forces. I was there this September to attend the opening of artist George Brecht’s retrospective at Museum Ludwig. Brecht, an ex-pat American and old friend, now 79, has lived in Cologne since 1972. Strangely, or not perhaps, he never appeared at his opening (an event marking an exhibition that’s a major deal for an artist whose work has been dedicated to showing that life is more important than art), and I replaced him, as I fancy now, with the city’s colossal Dom, the tips of whose spires we could see over a lush growth of trees from our hotel windows. The din of its bells had me excitedly opening the windows, leaning way out and shooting pictures. It would be through postcards — black and white pictures dated 1945 — that I realized I was staying in a vast war memorial, buried under the rebuilt city, hidden in the Dom by seamless repairs. Here is a postcard showing the skeletons of burnt and roofless buildings from the heights of the Dom. Here is another, of the Dom’s high Gothic interior — its floor a chunky mass of marble and wooden debris. While we were basking briefly on the Rhine one afternoon, I shot a pretty crescent-shaped iron bridge, later finding a postcard picturing the same bridge, the Hohenzollern in 1945, twisted and broken, half submerged in the river, the Dom looming in the background. At home I made a before-and-after photo album, anchored at the end by a postcard image of Cologne’s magnificent swinging bell, St. Peter, tuned to a deep C, at 24,000 kilograms Europe’s largest, inscribed: “St. Peter is my name of birth,/I protect the German earth;/Sprung of German agony,/I raise my voice for unity.”
I presume this “agony” is of that earlier conflagration, the Great War, since St. Peter was cast in 1923. If you have no fear of heights or claustrophobic spiral stone staircases, you could climb 509 steps to see it. Imagine a bell of that magnitude falling like Gorra’s two, and from the Dom’s dizzying summit, 157.38 meters tall. Left as a memorial, to see its shattered remains you would be peering over the edge of a deep crater. “What altar,” Gorra writes of Lubeck’s bells, “could compete with this twisted mass of bronze?” He had originally been drawn to the city because of a literary hero, Thomas Mann, born and raised there. Now he was making his last of many visits to Lubeck before returning to the States. And he saw something in the Marienkirche he had never seen before: “… a gleam of silver in the corner of my eye, and I turned to see two stainless steel spikes, put one against the other in the shape of a cross, the NAIL CROSS OF COVENTRY IT’S CALLED, MADE OUT OF METAL FROM THE RUINS OF COVENTRY’S CATHEDRAL: a gesture of reconciliation from the city that Hitler destroyed to the one on which the British took vengeance.” (Upper case mine.) So Lubeck was Britain’s first catastrophic incendiary strike against Germany — a year and four months following the demolition of Coventry. After 234 aircraft dropped 144 tons of firebombs and 160 tons of high explosives, at least half of Lubeck was destroyed. The Marienkirche had a gaping hole where its spires had been, and its roof had been blown off. I found a phone number for Gorra and put in a call to him after reading about the “nail cross,” wondering if he knew that the altar in Coventry’s new cathedral bears the same kind of cross, made of nails salvaged from the same ruins, its own. No he didn’t. Then I rushed in where fools might, imagining that bells in general, like those at Coventry or Cologne, alive and swinging, should interest him. However, the last line in his book reads, “Other bells may ring, but these (Lubeck’s) will stay silent.” He seems clearly to rest his involvement here. In their “silent scream,” Gorra finds Germany’s culpability (“… the curse that the Nazis laid upon their own house”), and his personal sorrow for the German people. In his moving words and through my discoveries in Cologne, I find my own lament. Ingrid, while traveling through Germany in 1954 with her Danish parents, saw Cologne’s ruins from the tower of the Dom, 509 steps up. She quotes her mother as saying, “This is what happens when people don’t get along.” Is this an understatement, or what? Why, I have asked, did Cologne’s Dom, damages withal, remain standing? And why, you might ask, am I so interested in these Christian edifices? I am not and have never been a Christian, and I find the history of Christianity appalling (as what thinking person does not?). The answer to both my questions lies in the bells. I’m not interested in dinner bells or hand-bells or cowbells or bell telephone, only bells in towers, and many of these, such as university towers, are secular. The Dom in Cologne survived because of St. Peter and his nine companions, several of Middle Ages vintage. It may be hard for Americans to understand how important bells are in European countries. Other traditions were imported to America, but not the concept of Europe’s consummate and ubiquitous bell population, an indispensable spiritual voice of the people — independently of religious faith or ideology. As Europe was in flames, many bells were saved by tacit or open agreement between opposing forces. In one such pact, the Allies consented not to bomb the great swinging peal in Cologne Cathedral if the Axis spared Belgium’s historic carillon in Mechlin. Many historic carillons in the Netherlands, France and Germany, were thus saved. But many carillons and swinging peals did perish, or were stolen to be melted down for armaments. Over 100,000 bells were deposited in holding areas in Hamburg and other German cities.
Thirty of these ended up in Lubeck’s rebuilt tower of the Marienkirche after the war. They had belonged originally to a 36-bell carillon in Gdansk (Danzig), Poland. When Hitler annexed Gdansk in 1939, a key moment in the outbreak of war, he pirated the contents of the city’s towers. The story goes that Lubeck received its gift in thanks for hosting many postwar refugees from Gdansk. Now I can extend my zoomy airplane magazine lines to a city in Poland, not a place I could previously even envision on a map. But I return always to Coventry for my signature experience of an event I would never know first-hand, not until September 11 2001 when I saw our Towers in New York come down. And Coventry held a second coming for me. In May of 2002, Ingrid and I were approaching St. Michael’s tower and steeple when a huge ruckus filled the air. A band of change-ringers holding ropes to 14 bells was making the most stupendous ear-rending cacophony. I never knew that bells existed here at all. They ring out wildly over St. Michael’s ruins and new cathedral body — a resurrection and the life.