A GLANCE AT THE BALLET’S TECHNIQUE
The name of Camargo, which arose in the first half of the eighteenth
century, may be taken as the milestone that marks the progress of
dancing into its modern development. Predecessors had brought to it
pleasing execution and a good spirit; Camargo appears to have surpassed
them in both qualities, and, in addition, to have added immensely to the
art’s scope both of expression and of technique. Her relation to the
dancing of her time has been profoundly studied by Mme. Genée, whose
fascinating programme of re-creations is the result. After the work
attributed to Sallé and Prévost, that of the re-created Camargo shows a
very striking emancipation from former limitations. Sallé and Prévost,
charmingly graceful, consummately skilful, performed their Dresden-china
steps evenly, coolly, in full conformity to the fastidious etiquette of
the aristocracy of their day. Camargo, without bruising a petal of the
hot-house flower that was her artistic inheritance, first freed it from
a fungus of affectation that others had mistaken for the bloom of
daintiness. Then she arranged it to show the play of light and shade, to
make it surprising--in short, to make it a vehicle of interpretation.
The material at her disposal, as noted before, was limited. To her
advantage in “elevation,” she replaced high-heeled shoes with ballet
slippers; she was the first, since antiquity, to dance on the toes.
Nevertheless her changes of level were not exciting; of big leaps she
had none. The day of vivid _pirouettes_ was yet to dawn. Her most
extended step was a little _balloné_. Her _entrechat_ was almost the
only step that raised both her feet distinctly off the floor; it, with
_petits battements_, gave brilliancy but nothing of grandeur. Hers was a
dance of simple and little steps. But they were composed, those steps,
with appreciation of the value of contrast. By contrast, movement was
made long or short in effect. Movements soft and crisp were juxtaposed.
We may believe that Camargo’s knowledge of composition compensated for
the meagre step-vocabulary of her day; that she commanded cumulative
interest, surprise, and climax. In short, that she produced an
expression; limited to the lyrical, but none the less real.
That there may be no risk of misunderstanding the present use of the
word “expression,” let it be agreed that the word here has the same
application that it has in relation to instrumental music; also let it
be agreed emphatically that it has nothing to do with the imitation of
nature. Wagner makes a composition of tones portray the attributes of
heroes and gods. Grieg’s gnomes are of the same tissue: suggested
attributes as distinguished from specified facts of the concrete.
Broadly, such suggestion is called music. For present clearness let it
be known as _music of the ear_. Because, the very same mental sensations
produced by rhythm and sound variously juxtaposed and combined, acting
through the medium of _hearing_, are susceptible of stimulation by means
of rhythm and line, in suitable juxtapositions and combinations, acting
through the medium of _vision_. It follows that dancing, in effect, is
_music of the eye_. The familiar musical resources serve both
choreographer and composer impartially. As will be understood before the
reading of this chapter is completed, the equivalent of long and short
notes is found in steps of varying length; musical phrases are, to the
mind, the same as step-combinations, or _enchainements_; argument toward
expression of motive is as possible to the silent music as to music of
the ear. Indeed the values of the several orchestral instruments have
their parallels in steps; the light staccato of the clarinet is no more
playful than are certain delicate steps executed _sur les pointes_, nor
is the blare of brass more stirring than the noble _renversé_. The scope
of expression, in short, that is attainable by the orchestra is
identical with that within range of pure dancing--dancing without
pantomime. Add pantomime, and in effect you add to your music the
explanatory accompaniment of words. Broadly, music is sentiment, while
the words of a song are supplementary description. In the ballet, the
dance, as such, is the sentiment (or its representation), the pantomime
the accompanying description.
Added expression in this musical sense was among Camargo’s contribution
to the art, definitely restoring to it a quality it had held in a grasp
at best precarious since the passing of the glory of Athens. Belief in
pantomime rises and recedes from one decade to another. But purely
orchestral or æsthetic expression continues at all times (with
interruptions) as the fundamental intent of the classic French and
Italian ballets. To demand that the figures in a composition conceived
in this idea should act and look like the people of every-day life,
owing to the mere coincidence of their being human beings, would be like
asking the composer of _Pagliacci_ to rewrite his score to include the
sound of squeaking wheels, because of the latter’s pertinence to the
wagon of the strolling players represented in the opera. The function of
the composer of the opera is to _suggest_ by such tonal symbols as have
been found effective, the various _emotions_ undergone by his
characters. Identically, the function of the ballet-master is to suggest
by the countless combinations of line--majestic and playful, severe and
gracious--and by the infinite variety of movements and postures, the
emotions he would arouse in the spectators of his work. At his disposal
he has a number of plastic, sentient and sympathetic figures, trained to
movements of grace. They are the instruments of his orchestra, the paint
on his palette. That they also are human beings is absolutely a
coincidence and beside the point.
Pantomime, to be sure, is carried to a high development in both French
and Italian academies; they present mimo-dramas calling for practically
unlimited scope of expression. Pantomime they added to the dance without
departure from the ballet’s basic intent. Both schools well know that
the introduction of one pose or gesture _imitating_ an act of human
life, automatically throws the work into another category; that which
was purely interpretative mural decoration verges toward the
story-telling picture.
The argument is put rather insistently because of the periodical
complaint that the ballet “looks artificial.” “In real life,” people
say, “you never see hands held as they are held in the ballet.” Mother
of all the muses, why should they be? In real life hands are doctoring
fountain pens, hewing wood and drawing water, reaching out for things;
in real life hands are concerned with their practical occupation, and
quite disregardful of their grace or expression while so engaged.
Whereas the ballet uses hands as the vehicle for lines of grace,
exaltation, vivacity, or whatever emotion you will, expressed in terms
of the abstract. It is the same in regard to work on the toe: in real
life people have no occasion to walk on the tip ends of their feet,
because as a means of locomotion it is inconvenient. The ballet’s use of
it is not based on a belief in the minds of ballet-masters that it is a
fashion either in polite society or among nymphs of the primeval forest.
The position “on the point” makes possible an agreeable change in
elevation, and can instantaneously eliminate the appearance of
avoirdupois. The ballet art is a convention, strictly; the figures in it
are changing units of a moving design, and not people. A _ballerina_
does not ask, “How do I look in this pose?” She asks, “What kind of a
line does this pose make?”
Of late years the classic ballet has suffered from public indifference.
Doubtless this has been due in part to an insufficiency of competent
performers; a great work requires great execution, and the difficulties
created by the ballet’s ideals are tremendous. But failure on the part
of the public to consider the ballet’s intent has certainly contributed
to an unsatisfactory state of its affairs.
A general acquaintance with the individual steps adds in various ways to
the spectator’s enjoyment. Relieved of effort to decipher a dancer’s
means and methods, he who understands the mechanics of the steps can
surrender himself to a luxuriance in their grace of execution, and be
the more susceptible to the hypnotic charm of the rhythmic movement
playing upon his eye. To him who has taken the trouble to learn some of
the elemental theories, that which was once a bewildering maze of
movement, which he mentally scrambled to follow, becomes an ordered and
deliberate sequence, whose argument he follows with ease; instead of a
kaleidoscope, he sees phrasing, repetition, and progress of interest,
theme, enrichment and climax. With bits of special virtuosity he is
instantly gratified; shortcomings he instantly detects. To communicate
his observations he has a vocabulary of specific expression; and there
is satisfaction in that, for a ballet performance is just as fruitful a
subject of controversy among its connoisseurs as a new novel among its
readers. Furthermore, the need of a general power of expression as an
essential to the betterment of American choreographic conditions is
self-evident.
While the ensuing analysis of ballet steps is far from complete from the
point of view of the academy, it should give the reader a comprehension
of the steps that make an impression on the layman’s eye. The material
that follows is selected with that end in view. Some description of
simple fundamentals, though not in themselves “showy,” is included in
order to facilitate analysis of the great steps and turns. Moreover,
since character dancing includes nothing of technical note that is not
also used in the ballet, it is confidently hoped that the subjoined
analysis will serve as a useful lens through which to look at dancing of
all kinds.
Those whose interest in the subject leads them to seek a more complete
knowledge are referred to Zorn, _Grammar of the Art of Dancing_; by
means of his choreographic stenography he goes into sub-variations of
ballet steps with the utmost exactness. Naturally a course of
instruction under a good ballet teacher is best of all;
[Illustration: MME. ADELINE GENÉE, AND M. ALEXANDER VOLININE
Ballet, _Robert le Diable_ Butterfly Dance
Pierrot and Columbine]
[Illustration: _Photos by Mishkin, N. Y._
MME. GENÉE IN HISTORICAL RE-CREATIONS AND M. VOLININE
Sallé (1)--The Waltz (2)--Camargo (3)--Guimard (4)]
theory is best understood by its application. And execution, it should
go without saying, is acquired only by long practice under expert and
watchful eyes.
Before considering actual movements, it must be borne in mind that
separately they are incomplete. Like tones that unite to form chords of
music, each in itself may seem lacking in richness. Interdependence of
successive parts is more marked in the classic ballet than in any other
great school of choreography. The dance of the Moor is a series of
statues, each self-sufficient. Of the ballet movements, almost the
reverse is true. Their magic comes of the flow of one unit into another.
As France is the mother and nurse of the ballet, it follows that French
is its language. Few of the terms translate successfully. To rename the
movements would be superfluous--and in practical use, worse; for a big
_corps de ballet_ is often a gathering from many nations. Being explicit
and sufficient, the French terms are the accepted designation of the
steps in all lands where the ballet is danced.
To describe steps with precision, it is necessary to use a system of
choro-stenography not easily learned, or to refer to positions of the
feet. The latter is the usual method, and long usage proves its
adequacy. The following arbitrary designation of positions of the feet
has long been standard wherever Occidental dancing is taught:
Simple positions one to five, inclusive, are the fundamentals, which are
modified in a great variety of ways. Figures 6 and 7 represent instances
of such modification.
The weight may be upon both feet, or either.
In third, fourth and fifth positions: speaking of either foot (say the
right) it is said to be in anterior or posterior third, fourth or fifth
position.
[Illustration: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7
FUNDAMENTAL POSITIONS OF THE FEET.
Fig. 1, first position; 2, second position; 3, third position; 4,
fourth position; 5, fifth position; 6, open fourth position; 7,
crossed fourth position.]
Second and fourth positions are defined as closed or amplified,
according as the feet are separated by the length of a foot, or more.
The positions, unless otherwise specified, indicate both feet on the
floor. But the second, third and fourth positions sometimes relate to
positions in which one foot is raised; for instance, _right foot_ in
_raised second position_.
The same designations apply whether the feet be flat on the floor, on
the ball, on the point, or a composite of these: as for instance, second
position, right foot on the point, left foot flat, etc.
Heights are definitely divided; ankle, calf and knee serve as the
measures. But as the subjoined explanations are aided by diagrams, the
terms to measure heights may be disregarded for the sake of simplicity.
Likewise we need not go into the enumeration and names of crossed
positions and other complications. The five fundamental positions,
however, are important and should be memorised. Apart from their
importance in any discussion of ballet work, familiarity with them
greatly aids the acquisition of ballroom dances. (The latter place the
feet at an angle of 45° to the line in which the dancer’s body faces,
instead of 90°, the form of the French-Italian ballet.)
The school of the ballet also defines the positions of the arms, in the
same manner. They need not be memorised as a preliminary to reading this
chapter; but they are interesting as a matter of record of the
limitations of the classic school, and as a measure of the distance to
which the Russians have departed in the direction of freedom of arm
movement.
[Illustration: 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19
POSITIONS OF THE ARMS.
Figure 8, arms in repose, sustained; 9, extended; 10, rounded in
front of the chest; 11, rounded above the head; 12, high and open;
13, _à la lyre_; 14, on the hips; 15, 16, one arm high, one
extended; 18, one arm rounded in front of the chest, one open
horizontal; 17, 19, one arm high, one on the hip.]
Steps, which are now to be considered, fall naturally into the classes
of _gliding_, _beating_, _turning_ and _jumping_. Each class ranges from
simplicity to more or less complexity, and certain steps have a
composite character, partaking of the nature of more than one of the
above general classes.
Dancers distinguish between a step and a _temps_, whose relation to each
other is that between a word and a syllable. A _temps_ is a single
movement. By definition, a step must effect a transfer of weight;
subject to that definition, a single movement may be a step.
The simple gliding step is the _pas glissé_. It is executed by gliding
the foot along the floor. It may move in any direction. Used as
indicated in figures 20, 21 and 22, the step becomes a _glissade_.
[Illustration: 20 21 22
“GLISSADE.”
The essential gliding feature of the step is indicated in the movement
of the left foot along the floor, figure 21.]
A _chassé_, in effect, “chases” one foot from its place by means of a
touch from the other. For instance: the feet are in second position,
weight on the right foot; bring the left foot sharply up to this
position behind the right foot; at the instant of contact, let the right
foot glide sharply out to second position on the right side. The step
also may be executed toward the front or toward the rear. It keeps both
feet on the floor.
Executing a series of _chassés_: _simple chassés_ commence the step,
each repetition, with the same foot. _Alternating chassés_ are begun
with each foot in turn.
A _coupé_ is analogous to a _chassé_; but the foot that is displaced
leaves the floor and goes to more or less height in the air. Both
_coupé_ and _chassé_ give an impression of one foot kicking the other
out of place.
[Illustration: 23 24 25
“ASSEMBLÉ.”
See figure 26.]
An _assemblé_, starting with the feet in fifth position, effects a
reversal of their position. Example (see diagram): the left foot is
behind. A little jump upward raises both feet from the floor. Kick out
with the left foot to the left, bring it back to fifth position _in
front_ of the right foot, at the moment of alighting. The right foot,
instead of the left, will _dégage_, or “wing out,” in the next step, if
the step is repeated.
A _changement_ is similar to an _assemblé_; its difference is in the
fact that it causes both feet to “beat.”
[Illustration: 26 27
“ASSEMBLÉ.”
“CHANGEMENT.”
Each diagram shows two performances of its step. Both steps take
both feet off the floor. In the _assemblé_, one foot remains
passive. In the _changement_, both are active.
]
A _relevé_ consists of a simultaneous (a) rise to the ball or point of
the supporting foot, while the active foot is raised to the height
(usually) of the knee of the supporting leg. The active foot usually is
kept close to the supporting leg.
This step furnishes an interesting example of the changes wrought by the
Russians. The classic turn-out of the foot confines the movement of the
active leg to a plane cutting the performer laterally; i. e., as the
classic performer advances _en relevant_ toward the spectator, the legs’
movements are seen to have their extension out to the sides. Whereas the
Russian “toes out” (with exceptions) at a much smaller angle. His knees
therefore may rise in front of him; in which case the step, as seen by
the spectator, is most effective while the performer crosses the stage
from side to side. It is made the thematic step of some of the new
Russian dance-poems of Greek nature. It is executed sharply, lightly.
An _échappé_ moves the feet from closed to second position by means of
moving both feet simultaneously outward.
[Illustration: 28 29 30 31 32
“JETÉ.”
Essentials: both feet off the floor simultaneously, and receipt of the
descending weight on one foot.]
The _jeté_ is a step that is simple in principle, at the same time
subject to so wide a range of use that it creates the most varied
effects. Essentially, it is the step that is used in running.
The _jeté_ also may be executed to the side--_à côté_. From its use in
that manner it is easy to understand its employment as a means of
turning in the air: i. e., with both feet off the floor. The _jeté en
tournant_ is one of the much-used means of producing an effect of big,
easy sweep; it lends itself to the embellishment of any one of several
_beating_ steps--_pas battus_; or others, yet to be described.
[Illustration: 33 34 35 36
“JETÉ” TO THE SIDE.]
Of the “beating” type of step, the fundamental is the _battement_: a
beating movement of the free leg, the supporting leg remaining
stationary. The accent is not on the up-stroke, as in a kick, but
sharply on the down-stroke. The beats may be made from side, front, or
(less usually) back. The foot may be raised to the height of the head
(though it is not often done), to horizontal, to the height of the knee,
or the distance of a foot’s length away from the supporting leg.
Executed with a straight knee, the movement is a _grand battement_. A
_petit battement_ is action of the lower leg only, working from the knee
as a stationary pivot, while the foot strikes the supporting ankle,
calf, or knee. It is a movement designed for brilliancy, and should be
executed rapidly. With practice it can be carried to such a degree of
speed that the active foot seems to shimmer. It is the basic step of
Scotch dances. Modified to allow the sole of the active foot to touch
the floor, it provides the shuffle-step of the Irish _Jigs_ and _Reels_.
_Petits battements_, it should be added, are usually employed in a
sequence of several in succession.
[Illustration: 37 38
“BATTEMENTS.”
_Petit battement_, 37. _Grand battement_, 38.]
Correctly speaking, a _battement_ does not constitute a step, but a
_temps_.
The _cabriole_ is a development of the _battement_. In the latter, only
one leg is active; it leaves the supporting leg, and rejoins it. The
_cabriole_ is executed with both feet in the air; both legs act in the
beating movement, rapidly separating and coming together, but not
crossing.
A further development of the same theme brings us to the gem which, of
the ballet’s entire collection, is the most dazzling: the _entrechat_.
Instead of merely bringing the legs together, as in the _cabriole_, it
uses a jump as the occasion for repeatedly crossing the feet. Cleanly
done, it is as the sparkle of a humming-bird.
The word is derived from the Italian _intrecciare_, to weave or braid.
The French compound it with numerals, to indicate the number of times
the feet cross: as, _entrechat-quatre_, _entrechat-six_,
_entrechat-huit_. The number includes the movements of each foot; an
_entrechat-huit_ implies four crossings. Prodigious stories are told
about the number of beats that various artists have accomplished in
their _entrechat_. It forms an attractive centre for choreographic
myths. In general, the number of beats said to have been accomplished by
a given artist is in direct ratio to the number of years that artist has
been dead. In reality there is small object in going beyond an
_entrechat-six_; the three crossings (always assuming performance by a
master of the technique) are quite sufficient to prove that the law of
gravity has ceased to exist. When their staccato twinkle is added as a
finish to the long pendulum swing of a big _glissade_, or a long _jeté
en tournant_, the effect is that of a swift _pizzicato_ following a
long-sustained note--always surprising, always merry.
[Illustration: 39 40 41 42
STEPS OF THE “BATTEMENT” TYPE.
_Changement_, 39; _entrechat-quatre_, 40; _brisé dessus_, 41;
_brisé dessous_, 42. In the _brisé dessus_, the active foot beats
in front of the passive foot; in the _brisé dessous_, behind it.
]
The _brisé_ is of the category of movements executed while both feet are
off the floor. It is so closely related to the _entrechat-quatre_ that
the layman who can distinguish between the two, during the speed of
performance, may conscientiously congratulate himself on having
developed a passably quick and sure eye. The difference between the two
lies in this: that in the _brisé_ only one foot really “beats”; the
other makes only a slight complementary or counter-movement. Starting as
it does in an open position, it lends itself to the embellishment of
broad leaps.
The _balloné_ is, in a broad sense, related to the beating steps; its
accent, however, is on the up-stroke, which makes it a kick. Start in
third position; _pliez_ slightly (as preparation); jump, and
simultaneously kick forward, bending the knee in raising the leg,
straightening it when it has reached the necessary height; usually the
_balloné_ leads into another step.
(As this description is at variance with that of two eminent
choreographic writers, it should be added that it is made from the step
as demonstrated and explained by Sr. Luigi Albertieri, ballet-master of
the Century Opera Company, an unquestioned authority; his traditions are
those of La Scala, and of Sr. E. Cecchetti. Mlle. Louise La Gai, former
pupil of Leo Staats, one-time ballet-master of l’Opéra, demonstrates the
step in the same manner.)
A phrase of steps (_enchainement_) is rarely made up of big or difficult
steps exclusively; the value of the latter would soon be lost in
monotony were they not contrasted with work of a simpler nature. The
_pas de bourrée_ and the _pas de Basque_ are among the little steps
useful in furnishing such contrasts, in giving the dancer a renewed
equilibrium, and in the capacity of connecting links between other
steps. They are like prepositions in a sentence--insufficient in
themselves, but none the less indispensable.
The _pas de bourrée_ (the name is taken from an old French dance) is
essentially the familiar polka-step late of the ballroom, with varied
applications. Forward, backward or to the side, it “covers stage”--or
gives the dancer progress in a given direction. It furnishes a means of
turning, or preserving the continuity of a dance while the performer
keeps his place. Always it is useful as a filler when interest is to be
directed away from the foot-work--in such case, for instance, as when
the hands have important pantomime.
The _pas de Basque_ is of similar value, but commits the dancer to a
swinging movement from side to side. Like the _pas de bourrée_ it is an
alternating step, with one foot on the floor all the time, and executed
without much “_elevation_“--i. e., variety of level. It runs through
many of the dances of Spain, and presumably is, as its name suggests, a
native of the Basque provinces. Probably, too, it is a remote ancestor
of the _Waltz_.
[Illustration: 43 44 45 46
“FOUETTÉ.”]
In contrast to the sharp, dry quality of the beating steps is the fluid,
swinging _fouetté_. Its many variations conform to the principles
indicated in the diagram figures 43 to 46.
The word “_fouetté_” means literally, whip; the movement, a swing with a
snap at the finish, is well named. A relaxed manner of execution gives
it a feeling of pliancy, while lightness is preserved by the smart
termination.
Start with a _plié_ of both knees, for preparation; sharply lift the
active leg sidewise to horizontal (i. e., raised second position);
_snap_ the lower leg back, in a movement curving downward, to the
crossed leg position in figure 46. There it is prepared to enter into
another step, or to lead to an _arabesque_, or to continue to finish in
third or fifth position of the feet. The body has remained facing the
spectator.
[Illustration: 47 48 49 50
START OF A “FOUETTÉ PIROUETTE.”
Figures 47-50 inclusive serve also to describe a _developpé_.]
Now, let it be understood that a _pirouette_ is a turn, or spin, on one
foot only, or else in the air. One species of _pirouette_ is made in
conjunction with the _fouetté_, the body being permitted to turn with
the impulse of the leg’s backward sweep. The making of a _pirouette_,
however, requires its own preparations, as shown in the first four
figures of the diagram. In figure 47 the legs are _pliés_. Figures 48,
49 and 50 represent a _developpé_, or unfolding--a device of frequent
use in the present conditions, namely, the need of bringing the active
leg to horizontal in preparation for a step. The extension of the arms
as indicated enables them to give a vigourous start to the revolving
movement; the leg, by a sharp sweep “outward,” contributes to the same
impulse. The turn started, the _fouetté_ is executed as it proceeds. The
free foot drops to position behind the supporting leg. But note that as
the body continues turning, the foot changes from position behind to
position in front; very simple, in performance very effective--and until
understood, puzzling in its illusion of winding up and unwinding. It is
permissible, in the position of figure 52, to drop to the heel of the
supporting foot, for a momentary renewal of equilibrium; but there is
merit in going through without that aid. The position at finish leaves
the dancer prepared to repeat the _tour_, which can be done an
indefinite number of times in succession; to continue into an
_arabesque_ (figures 55, 56); or to enter a different step.
[Illustration: 51 52 53 54
“FOUETTÉ PIROUETTE,” CONTINUED.
Right leg sweeps “out” in horizontal plane (51) continuing as in
52, turning the body with its revolution. As the body completes the
turn from 52 to 53, the right foot is brought to crossed position
in front of the ankle.
]
Among the variations of the above typical _fouetté pirouette_ is its
execution “in” instead of “out”: that is, to sweep the active leg across
in front of the supporting leg, to start the turn, instead of raising
it out to the side. Again using the left foot as support, the turn of
the body is now toward the left, instead of toward the right as when the
step is executed “out.” The active foot arrives at its position of
crossing the supporting leg when it has described a half-circle.
[Illustration: 55 56
OPTIONAL FINISH OF A “FOUETTÉ PIROUETTE.”
Continues (55) into _arabesque_ (56).]
Tradition makes the _fouetté pirouette_ a step for men, although it is
not intrinsically less feminine than any other of the great steps.
Nevertheless, tradition is often a thing to respect. So, a _fouetté
pirouette_ performed by a woman is customarily called a _rond de jambe
tour_. Mlle. Zambeli, the _première_ of l’Opéra in Paris, has on
occasion performed a succession of thirty-two such turns in a steadily
accelerating tempo. The result, instead of monotony, is a cumulative
excitement little short of overpowering.
The _fouetté pirouette_ leads into the subject of _pirouettes_ in
general. By their common definition, they are turns made on one
supporting foot only, or without support (i. e., turns in the air). The
definition serves to distinguish a true _pirouette_ from a turn made by
means of alternating steps, such as a _pas bourrée_ turn.
The purest example of _pirouette_ is that performed “on the crossed
ankle”--_sur le cou-de-pied_. (Figures 57 to 61.) This turn is made
without the aid of impulse from either leg after the free foot goes into
its position, in distinction from the _fouetté pirouette_, for instance,
in which the active leg’s movement in the air furnishes the motive power
by which the body is turned.
[Illustration: 57 58 59 60 61
THE “PIROUETTE SUR LE COU-DE-PIED.”
Figures 57, 58, 59, preparation; 60 represents the completion of
the turn, and the position the feet have occupied during the act of
turning; 61, finish.
]
The _pirouette sur le cou-de-pied_ here diagrammed is according to the
specifications of Herr Otto Stoige, ballet-master and dancing teacher at
the University of Königsberg, as quoted by Zorn. Raise the arms and the
active leg (figure 58). Drop the active foot to anterior fourth position
(figure 59), _plié_, and at the same time dispose the arms to give the
twisting impulse to the body. The same impulse is aided by the sharp
straightening of the left leg, coming into position as support. The arms
drop (figure 60) as the free foot is placed _sur le cou-de-pied_ of the
supporting leg. Comparing the finish (figure 61) with figure 57, it is
seen that the feet have resumed third position but exchanged places. In
making the turn, the face is turned away from the spectator as short a
time as possible.
The ability to do a double turn in this form is not rare, and a few men
make it triple. The Prussian Stullmueller brought it to seven
revolutions. An amusing conventionality of gender in _pirouettes_ makes
it man’s prerogative to do the _pirouette en l’air_--i. e., with both
feet off the floor. This too is doubled by some of the men now dancing:
Leo Staats, formerly of l’Opéra in Paris, is said to triple it!
[Illustration: 62 63 64
VARIOUS “PIROUETTES.”
_À la seconde_, 60; _en attitude_, 61; _en arabesque_, 62.]
A _pirouette_ of this sort is one of the few _pas_ that have a value
independent of what precedes and follows; it is a beautiful thing by
itself. In combination it gives a feeling of ecstasy; or, in other
conditions, of happy eccentricity. A few years ago Angelo Romeo used it
as the theme of his solo in a _Ballet of Birds_ (under Fred Thompson’s
management, the New York Hippodrome staged some real ballets). As King
of the Birds, Romeo gave his part a gallantry at once amusing and
brilliant by the reiteration of double _pirouettes_ as a refrain.
Between the two extremes of _fouetté pirouette_ and _pirouette sur le
cou-de-pied_ lie such a variety of manners of turning that experts fail
to agree on any definition of the word “_pirouette_,” more explicit than
the one already given. A half-turn _sur le cou-de-pied_, _pas de
bourrée_, and complete the turn with a _fouetté_:--there, for instance,
is a turn that is a _pirouette_ or not, according to arbitrary
definition. There are half as many subvarieties of _pirouette_ and other
turns as there are solo dancers. Turns of mixed type, partaking of the
natures of both pure _pirouette_ and the _rond de jambe_ character of
movement, are known collectively as _pirouettes composées_.
A _rond de jambe_, it should be explained parenthetically, is a circle
described by the foot. A _grand rond de jambe_ is a circle (in any
plane) described by the straight leg. A _petit rond de jambe_ is made by
the lower leg, working from a stationary knee as pivot. Cf. _grands_ and
_petits battements_.
As the _pirouette sur le cou-de-pied_ has its virtue of sparkle, its
cousin the _renversé_ is endowed with a species of bewildering,
bacchanalian ecstasy. Words and diagrams fail to convey an impression of
its qualities; but analysis of its mechanics is worth while, in order
that it may be recognised when seen, and not allowed to pass without
yielding its full and due pleasure to him who sees it.
Preceding the position indicated in figure 65, the dancer, placing his
weight on the left foot, has raised the right foot in a _developpé_
forward, and around on a horizontal plane “outward.” Figure 65 shows the
right foot at a point that may be conveniently designated as the
quarter-circle. In figure 66 the right foot continues to sweep back,
and the body begins to lean forward--or away from the active leg. This
lean of the body has become more pronounced in figure 67, in which the
active foot has reached the three-quarter circle. Note the sweep of the
left hand accelerating the movement of the turn, and its continuance
through the remaining figures.
[Illustration: 65 66 67
BEGINNING OF THE “RENVERSÉ.”
A _developpé_ has preceded the position in figure 65, as indicated
in vertical dotted line. The body begins to turn as the active foot
completes a half-circle (66). In 67, note that the body leans
forward.
]
Up to the position in figure 68 the body has leaned forward--or in other
words, has been chest down. In figure 69 it is seen chest up. Figure 68
is the intermediate position. In performance the turn-over takes place
so quickly that only a trained eye sees just when it is done.
The right foot touches the floor at the point of completing the
half-circle. The body continues leaning back, straightening up in figure
70 after describing a round body-sweep started in figure 69. Figure 70
finds the weight on the right foot; the left is raised on the first
_temps_ of a _pas de bourrée_, very quick, which brings the feet to
fifth position as in figure 71. The right-handsweep upward, meantime,
has been continuous.
[Illustration: 68 69 70 71
THE “RENVERSÉ” CONCLUDED.
Figures 68 and 69 trace the over-turning of the body, without
interruption to the movement of rotation. A rapid _pas de bourrée_
intervenes between 70 and 71.
]
Another variation of the _pirouette_ is based on the _rond de jambe_
described on a previous page. The _rond de jambe pirouette_ is executed
with the aid and embellishment of a horizontal leg. It usually starts
with a _developpé_, like the _fouetté tour_. A _pirouette à la seconde_
is so called by reason of the active foot’s continuance in raised second
position. If the heel is touched at the half-circles for equilibrium,
the turns can be continued ad libitum. Still another _tour_ is the
_pirouette en arabesque_, the pose being entered into (usually) on
completion of a half-circle of a _rond de jambe tour_, the revolution
being kept continuous while the necessary changes are made in the
position of the body. A turn in the air that may be included among
_pirouettes_ is a _jeté en tournant_; and it may be adorned with an
_entrechat_, a _brisé_, or whatever “beats” may suit the artist’s taste
and abilities.
The words “_arabesque_” and “_attitude_” do not refer to steps, but to
postures. Their composition is as exactly defined as that of any step.
Figure 56 shows a typical _arabesque_.
[Illustration: 72 73
TWO FORMS OF “ATTITUDE.”
Open (_ouverte_) 72; crossed (_croisé_) 73. The position of the
supporting leg is the same in both.]
The _developpé_ above referred to is a usual means of bringing a leg to
horizontal, as a preliminary to further work. It is the opening step of
many a dance-poem, and a pretty accurate index of the class of work to
follow. If the leg rises without hurry or faltering, and unfolds with
its proper sense of proud elegance; if always the body keeps the serene
relaxation that accompanies only the perfection of equilibrium, there is
coming a feast for the gods. Far from the least of Genée’s
manifestations of virtuosity is the legato poise of her entrance
_stepping down_ from a picture frame: so deliberate and even is her
_developpé_ that the eye at first fails to discern movement, as though
it were watching the opening of a morning glory. Never the twitch of a
muscle, never an impulse of hurry, never the suspicion of
hesitation--through bar after bar of music, the ethereal one makes that
first step reverence-compelling in its incredible beauty of movement.
Analogous to the _developpé_ in execution is the _pas de cheval_, the
latter, however, serving to change the dancer’s place on the floor. It
is proud, strong, triumphant; used in an advance of a _corps de ballet_
toward the spectator, the motive of dominance is strongly felt. Though
effective, it is not one of the structural parts, like the steps
heretofore described. It is, rather, a decorative unit superadded. The
same may be said of the _pas de chat_, which is a jerky, short and very
rapid simple alternating step; bending the knees sharply, but not
bringing them high; the feet crossing at each step. It is not the
physical locomotion of a cat, but it is a good interpretation of the
spirit of an especially capricious one. It expresses well the idea of
witchcraft or mischievous spirits.
Going to the extreme contrast of this step, a fortissimo effect is
attained by the male dancer’s form of extended jump. It is necessarily
high; but it emphasises especially its effect of length horizontally.
(See figures 74 and 75.) Auguste Vestris, the eighteenth-century
virtuoso, owed a part of his reputation to his power in this step;
“suspended in the air” was the phrase attaching to his performance of
it. Its function is, in great part, to astonish. Women accomplish its
effect with the aid of a supporting man; the change of level attained by
this leap aided by a “lift” is indeed a harmonised explosion,
especially if it follows an arrangement of little steps.
Stories of the impression created by Vestris’ leap would be quite
incredible were their possibility not confirmed in our own time. In
_Scheherazade_ Volinine jumped a distance that seemed literally more
than half the width of a big stage. An illusion, of course. The world’s
record in the broad jump is less than twenty-five feet, and the broad
jumper’s covered distance does not look so impressive in actuality as it
does on paper, at that. Whereas the dancer’s leap seems to be under no
particular limit--when adequately performed, which is rare. Being
typical of the trickery by which dancing plays with the eye, it may be
worth analysing.
[Illustration: 74 75
MECHANISM OF BROAD JUMP.
As the body descends, the advanced leg and arm are raised, producing the
illusion of sustained horizontal flight.]
The magic is based on two illusions. First, horizontal lines are
insisted upon and preserved as continuous; while lines not horizontal
are “broken up” into short lengths, to the end that they make
comparatively little impression on the eye. The pose itself, then, is
horizontal, which practically coincides with the direction of the
dancer’s flight. Every one has seen the experiment of apparently
shortening one of two equal pencil lines by means of cutting short lines
across it: the converse of the same principle governs the jump. As the
pencil line was shortened by cross lines, the jump is lengthened by long
lines parallel to its direction.
As the dancer passes the top of his flight, the second illusion begins
to go into effect. Contradicting the eye’s observation of the gradual
descent of the body, the long lines of the artist’s arms and legs are
steadily raised to point more and more upward. Be the reason whatever it
may, the spectator is much less conscious of the body’s descent than of
the level--or even rising--direction of those long lines; lines which,
by the time the step is half completed, have come to appear a good deal
longer than they are. The dancer lowers his foot just in time to alight
properly. The eye meantime has been so impressed by the sweep of
horizontals that it conveys to the mind an agreeably exaggerated
statement of the length of leap they represent. Also it probably has
been so puzzled that its owner, unless he knows something of dancing,
has failed to catch the value of the step as a thing of beauty.
Reasonable familiarity with the foregoing descriptions of steps will, it
is hoped, enable the reader to look at great dancing with the added joy
that comes of intelligent sympathy with the ballet’s intent as
decoration, as well as insight into its technical means. The résumé of
steps includes the ballet’s fundamentals. Each step has its variations,
as has been suggested; some of the variations diverge far enough from
the basic step to have earned a special designation. For the sake of
simplicity, the special names of subvarieties of steps have been
eliminated from this little discussion; but not at the sacrifice of
anything that a well-informed connoisseur of the ballet need know.
It is a subject whose study is accompanied by the satisfaction that time
spent on it is not being frittered away on an affair of a day. Some of
the steps are coeval with the earliest graphic records of social life;
Emmanuel (_La Danse Grecque Antique_) has made a fascinating book
showing the use of many present-day ballet steps (including “toe-work”)
by the figures on early Greek ceramics, carvings, etc. Various ages have
added to the vocabulary of choreographic material; the national
academies of France and Italy have preserved that which is contributory
to their ideals of almost architectural style, and rejected that which
lacks form, even though expressive. The _tours_ and _pas_ of which
ballet eloquence is composed, therefore, represent a selection based on
generations of careful and accurately recorded experiment in the
interest of pure beauty. The designation “classic,” attached to French
and Italian ballets, is in all ways correct and deserved. The watchful
care of guardians keeps both schools aloof from passing caprices of the
public, and uncorrupted by vulgar fashions. There is a present and
growing movement toward naturalistic pantomime--a mode combining with
popularity enough intrinsic good to occasion anxiety lest the classic
ballet perish under its momentum. In reply to which let it be emphasised
at this point that the old schools never have failed to incorporate the
good of whatever has offered; whereas that which was not of intrinsic
value always has passed away through its own lack of æsthetic soundness.
The Russian academy bases its technique on the French-Italian, and
insists on it rigourously as a groundwork; Madame Pavlowa’s practice is
conducted
[Illustration: CLASSIC BALLET POSITIONS
Mlle. Louise La Gai
Typical moments in a _renversé_ (1, 2, 3, 4, 5)--Starting a _developpé_
(6)--Progress of a _Rond de jambe_ (7, 8, 9)--(_Continued_)]
[Illustration: CLASSIC BALLET POSITIONS (_Continued_)
_Rond de jambe_ (10)--_Jeté tour_ (11)--_Pas de bourrée_
(12)--Preparation for a _Pirouette_ (13)--Position _sur la pointe_
(14)--A _fouetté tour_, inward (15)--A _cabriole à derrière_
(16)--Descent from an _entrechat_ (17)--An _arabesque_ (18)
To face page 80
]
daily under the eye of her Italian maestro, Ceccetti. Lydia Lopoukowa,
Alexander Volinine--perfect, both, in academic form; their romantic
pantomime is an addition, _not a corruption_. These are among the great
artistic intelligences in the new Russian movement. Meantime arises a
horde of beings possessed of “soul,” “God-given individuality,” “natural
and unhampered grace,” boasting of their self-evident innocence of all
instruction. These last constitute the tidal wave that excites
alarmists, on behalf of the classic ballet!
No less subject to rule and form than steps and their elements is
choreographic composition. Steps are phrased and phrases repeated,
exactly as in music. By the same formality of construction, each
movement of the composition is dominated by a fixed theme. Suppose an
entrance is in the coquettish mood: it is not unlikely that the
ballet-master will elect to interpret that mood by whirls--in other
words, the horizontal circle. The girl may approach the man in a wide
_piqué tour_ (a stage-covering circle, the dancer _picking_ her steps
with emphasised daintiness), elude his grasp by means of a series of
rapid _pas de bourrée_ turns, and perhaps finally spin into his arms at
the finish of a _pirouette_. Everything is kept in turns, and in little
vivacious steps; no great elevation, no open or sweeping movements;
nothing of the glorious, everything to secure daintiness. Again, the
same motive might be rendered in quite another way, namely, by short
advances, retreats and steps to the side. The passage might start with a
series of _relevés_--quick, sharp rises to the toe, the free foot
crossing to pose in front of the ankle of the supporting foot, after
describing (each step) a _petit battement en avant_; short, crisp,
dainty movements, all. In this group might appropriately be included
_pas de bourrée dessus-dessous_ (i. e., in front and behind);
_glissades_; _petits battements_; and the devilish-looking little
_pas-de-chat_. In the same _enchainement_ might easily be grouped the
_entrechat_. All these steps may unite in a similarity of action: slight
elevation, and a short, saucy movement in which the horizontal direction
predominates.
If the mood to be expressed were the triumphant, its interpretation
might begin with a series of _pas de cheval_. With this the _balloné_
and a _rond de jambe_ finishing _en arabesque_ would unite coherently,
their movements all being based on the general form of an arch.
To multiply instances of arrangement by theme is needless. A
ballet-master would admit a greater variety of steps together in
sequence than the foregoing paragraphs indicate; whirling dervishes
produce an effect by turns alone. The instances are given with view only
to emphasising the principle of theme unity. What is not obvious to him
who never has seen the horrible example of lack of observance of this
principle is, that it is not an arbitrary convention, but a fundamental
necessity. It is no uncommon thing to see good execution completely
wasted in a helter-skelter throwing together of steps that lead to
nothing. Cumulative development--with adornment but not
digression--along a certain line, will coax the spectator into a mood of
full sympathy with the performance. But a series of unrelated turns,
jumps sidewise and up in the air, _entrechats_ and kicks, bears about
the same relation to choreographic argument as a cat’s antics on the
keyboard of a piano does to the work of a musician.
It will of course be understood that the ballet-master’s problem is
complicated by requirements and limitations not even touched upon in
this work. Conformity to his accompanying music, for instance, is alone
a matter of careful study. In former generations, before the present
relative importance of music, the musical composer followed the scenario
of the ballet, which was composed first and independently.
Nowadays--owing to causes as to which speculation is free--the procedure
is reversed. The ballet-master must not only follow phrasing as it is
written; he must move his people about the stage in felicitous group
evolutions, basing their steps on a fixed number of musical bars and
beats. This requirement disposed of, he should interpret the music’s
changing moods with appropriate steps. Taking as an example a bit of the
Ballet of the Hours in _Gioconda_: the music of the hours before dawn is
largo and dreamy, breaking into a sparkling allegro as the light comes,
increasing in speed and strength until a forte tells of the full-fledged
new day. There are steps and combinations to render these motives with
the utmost expressiveness. Failure to employ them does not represent
lack of competence on the part of the director, so often as it does
inadequacy of the human material at his disposal. In America, at
present, the task of producing effects with people whose incapability he
must conceal is perhaps the most serious embarrassment the ballet-master
has to face.
The dancer’s supreme virtue is style. If, beginning as a naturally
graceful youngster, he has been diligent for from four to seven years in
ballet school, he will have it; some acquire it by study alone. With
practice from two to four hours every morning, and half an hour to an
hour before each performance, he is likely to keep it. What style is, is
not for words to define. To preserve mathematical precision in a series
of definitely prescribed movements, while executing those movements with
the flowing sweep of perfect relaxation; to move through the air like a
breeze-wafted leaf, and alight with a leaf’s airiness; to ennoble the
violence of a savage with a demi-god’s dignity; to combine woman’s
seductiveness with the illusiveness of a spirit--these things are not
style, but the kind of thing that style makes possible, the magic
results from the perfect co-ordination of many forces, both æsthetic and
mechanical. Some of the latter, as to theory, are readily enough
understood.
Of the ballet dancer’s ever-surprising defiance of the law of gravity,
the more obvious means are the _plié_, to soften a descent, and a manner
of picking up the weight so quickly that the body seems buoyant. Of
perhaps no less value, though not so obvious, is the straight knee. To
the eye it gives a sensation of sure architectural support--doubtless
through the suggestion of a column. The mechanical importance of the
straight supporting knee is no less than the æsthetic, since a firm
foundation is essential to perfect control of body, arms and head. When
the knee “slumps,” the usual consequence is a softened back and a
collapsed chest. The muscles of the body “let down,” the fine,
hypersensitive control of head and arms is gone. Crisp movement being
impossible to them without a sound, springy body as a base to work on,
the work becomes monotonous and soggy.
The theory of a straight supporting axis applies also to the foot as
soon as it rises _sur la pointe_. The foot of Madame Pavlowa _en
arabesque_ (see reproduction of her photograph) illustrates the
principle. Mechanically, there is definite advantage in an absolutely
vertical support; while the spectator’s visual impression asserts
without hesitation that the figure above the foot is without weight
whatever. The superb line of the ankle, continuous in sweep over the
instep, is not the least of the wonders of what, if one were writing in
Spanish, one could without extravagance refer to as “that little foot of
gold.”
It should not in the least modify admiration of this superlative bit of
technique to dispel the not uncommon belief that rising on the toes is a
cause of physical torment, a feat requiring extraordinary strength, or
in itself an achievement to insist upon. Quite the contrary. Like every
other position in the dance, any half-trained performer or student can
get it, all except the quality. As soon as a pupil has acquired the
equilibrium that ought to precede toe-work, the necessary muscular
development has taken care of itself, as a general rule; and she takes
position on the point without special effort. Help is given the foot by
the hard-toe slipper, combining as it does the support of a well-fitted
shoe with a square, blunt toe. The latter, though of small area,
furnishes some base to stand on. Stiffening in the fore-part of the shoe
protects the toes against bruising in the descent from leaps.
Position on the point justly claims attention as an acrobatic wonder,
when it is taken barefooted. And a dancer who, barefooted, can perform
steps on the point, supporting herself easily with one foot off the
floor, is simply hyper-normal in strength of ankles, feet, and legs.
Miss Bessie Clayton is such a one, and very likely the only one. It is a
feat whose absence from formal dancing is not felt, though its use would
be effective in some of the re-creations of Greek work. There is
evidence that the early Greeks practiced it, as before noted. In our
own times, there is only one instance, among the stories ever heard by
the authors, of barefoot work on the point being done in public; and
that performance, oddly enough, took place in precedent-worshipping
Spain. The occasion was one of those competitions that Spaniards love to
arrange when two or more good dancers happen to play the same town at
the same time. Tremendous affairs; not only does rivalry approach the
line of physical hostilities among the spectators, but the competition
draws out feats of special virtuosity that the dancers have practiced
secretly, in anticipation of such contingencies. La Gitanita (the Little
Gipsy), one of the competitors in the event referred to, had, for some
years, put in a patient half-hour a day on the ends of her bare toes,
without the knowledge of any but the members of her family. When,
therefore, at the coming of her turn in the competition, she threw her
shoes to the audience, and her stockings behind a wing, and danced a
_copla_ of _las Sevillanas_ on the point, the contest was settled. Most
of the spectators never had heard even of the existence of such a thing
as toe-work, because it does not exist in Spanish dancing. The
experience to them was like witnessing a miracle; so it happens that La
Gitanita, many years dead, is still talked of when Spanish conversation
turns to incredible feats of dancing.
With such rare exceptions as the above, however, the person who is happy
in seeing difficulties overcome is best repaid by watching the manner
instead of the matter. There is hardly a step but can be floundered
through, if real execution be disregarded. The difficulties that take
years to master, that keep the front rank thin, are those of nobility,
ease and precision of action. Naturally, it is harder to preserve these
qualities through a _renversé_ than in a _pas de Basque_; but there is
no merit in exhibiting a _renversé_ badly done. The latter is a
pertinent instance of things difficult to do well. A _fouetté tour_
“inward” is not safely attempted by any but the most skilful; nor is
either a _fouetté_ or a _rond de jambe_, finishing in _arabesque_. To
keep the movement continuous, imperceptibly slowing it down as the
_arabesque_ settles into its final pose, requires ability of a rare
grade.
As the little alternating steps furnish the means of regaining
equilibrium after a big _pas_ or _tour_, it follows that their
elimination from an _enchainement_ represents a tour de force. This is
especially true if the big steps be taken at a slow tempo (as an
_adagio_, so called); and difficulties are compounded if the artist
performs the entire _adagio_ on the point. Few there are in any
generation who can attempt such a flight.
But there are many qualities justly to be demanded of any artist who
steps before an audience. Crisp, straight-line movements should be
cleanly differentiated from the soft and flowing. An _entrechat_ not as
sharp-cut as a diamond represents incompetent or slovenly workmanship.
The same applies to other steps of the staccato character--as
_battements_, _brisés_, _pirouettes sur le cou-de-pied_. Each dancer
rightly has his own individuality; and the movements of one will be
dominated by a liquid quality, while another’s will be brilliant, or
“snappy.” But a dancer who is truly an artist has, within his scope, a
good contrast between the several types of movement. Lack of such
contrast may cause a sense of monotony even in very skilful work.
Elevation also is important in preserving a sense of variety. Not only
_plié_ and rise are made to serve; raisings of the arms add immensely
to the sense of vertical uplift when height is sought.
A certain conformity to geometrical exactness is necessary to the
satisfaction of the spectator’s eye, and is observed by all but the
incompetent. Not that movement should be rigid--very much to the
contrary. “Geometry” is a sinister word; interpreted in a sense in which
it is not meant, it would be misleading. An example is sometimes clearer
than attempted definitions or descriptions.
If, having given an order for a grandfather’s clock, the recipient found
on delivery that it did not stand quite straight, he would be annoyed.
Suppose then that further observation revealed that the face of the
clock was not in the middle, that the centre of the circle described by
the hands was not the centre of the face, that the face was no more than
an indeterminate approximation of a circle, and that the numerals were
placed at random intervals; the eye of the clock’s owner would be
offended. Various æsthetic and psychological arguments might be applied
to the justification of his feeling, but they are not needed. The
futility of near-circles, approximate right angles and wobbly lines is
felt instinctively. Yet the eye rejoices in the “free-hand” sweep of
line correct in placement, though not subjected to the restrictions of
straight-edge and compass. Asking for acceptance in such sense of the
terms “geometrical” and “precision,” we may return to our discussion of
the ballet.
The decorative iniquity of the hypothetical clock attaches to all
dancing that fails to give to precision the most rigourous
consideration. The imaginary circle described in a _pirouette_ for
example, is divided into halves and quarters. Let us suppose the
_pirouette_ to end in _arabesque_, stopping on the half-circle, bringing
the dancer in profile to the audience: a very few degrees off the
half-circle are, from the ballet-master’s point of view, about of a kind
with a few centimetres separating the misplaced clock hands from their
proper situation in the centre of the dial. The _petit rond de jambe_
has its imaginary quarter of the great circle in which to play, and
which it must fill. In a _fouetté_, the sweep of the foot starts at the
quarter-circle (marked by an imaginary lateral plane through the
dancer’s body), and reaches back just to the half-circle (defined by a
similar plane, drawn longitudinally). The lateral elevations of the legs
are likewise subject to law, the imaginary vertical circle described by
the leg as radius being divided into eights, to allow the leg to use the
angle of forty-five degrees; experience shows that this diagonal, half a
right angle, is pleasing to the eye and not disturbing to the senses.
The hands and forearms are turned in such a way as to eliminate elbows,
the coincidence of a contour of the arm with an arc of a big (imaginary)
circle being always sought.
The convention of “toeing out” has as an object the showing of ankles
and legs to the best advantage. On the flat foot the advantage is not so
apparent; but experiment shows that pointing out and down greatly helps
the appearance of a foot in the air. The supporting foot and leg also
show the benefit of the device as soon as the dancer rises to the ball
of the foot or the point. Moreover, it is obvious that the pointing of a
supporting foot forward would necessitate changes from the classic form
of many steps.
Recent years have brought out a volume of protest to the effect that
the classic ballet’s restriction of movement too severely limits
expression. The protest is right or wrong according to point of view,
and point of view is a matter of historical period. The French school
comes to us from a time when men kissed hands and drew swords in exact
accordance with accepted forms, and the favoured house-decoration was a
tapestry designed on lines purely architectural. The present is a moment
of much concern about freedom of the individual, and its expression.
Curiosity is at boiling-point. Narrative is sought. We want something to
happen, all the time. And those who fail to see the actual occurrence
want the story of it to be graphic. Moving pictures are very satisfying
to the majority. Acres of popular pictures are painted in boisterous
disregard of order or harmony of line and form. It would be very
pleasant for those who enjoy optical beauty, if public taste required
beauty as a first requisite for popularity. Nevertheless, popular
pictures as they are do no particular harm, probably, either to those
who like them or to those who do not.
But, if the world’s great and beautiful mural decorations were suddenly
painted over with frenzied or sentimental illustrations, to “modernise”
them, it would be a different matter. That little public to whom beauty
is as a necessary sustenance--by coincidence the same public that
includes the leaders of thought in each generation--would have a good
deal to say in the line of objection to such desecration. Now, the
ballet is essentially a mural decoration, potentially very great in
power to exalt. If a large element should have its way, the next few
years would see that decoration painted over with a huge choreographic
story-picture, sentimental or frenzied, realistic; and beauty be hanged.
This anarchistic mania is in no wise a doctrine of the Russians. But
their undiscerning admirers, seeing in their work only the lines of
departure from old-established formulæ, shout to heaven that any
restraint of individual caprice is wrong. Innocent of suspicion that
such things as æsthetic principles exist, they force their expression of
“individuality” to the limit of their invention. And some of them
certainly are inventive.
Fortunately the great dancer is great largely because of his perception
of the value of order and form. The best of the Russians are great
dancers; great artists in the full sense of the word. They are the ones
who will profoundly influence the æsthetic thought of the present
generation, and their influence will be sound and good. Opposing it will
be many a “hit” by skilful characters, and a dangerous numerical force
among the public. It is easily possible that the latter influence may
prevail. The grand ballet is still an experiment in the America of this
generation. It was here thirty years ago, and fell into the hands of
Philistines, who shaped it into the silly thing they thought they
wanted, and then were forced to abandon it because it was silly.
Than the present, there never was a more important crisis in the cause
of choreographic good taste. The outcome depends upon the manner and
degree in which those who stand for good taste assert themselves during
the next few years.