THE NATURALISTIC SCHOOL OF DANCING
The ‘return to nature’; Isadora Duncan--Duncan’s influence: Maud
Allan; Duncan’s German followers--Modern music and the dance; the
Russian naturalists; Glière’s ‘Chrisis’--Pictorial nationalism:
Ruth St. Denis--Modern Spanish dancers; ramifications of the
naturalistic idea.
I
During the last part of the past and the beginning of the present
century, when the outside world was ignorant of the existence of the
Russian ballet, circles of more serious-minded students of art began to
voice protest against the cult of skirt and fire dancers, jongleurs and
kickers, and the time was ripe for any movement that would bring relief
from the prevailing deterioration of such a noble art as dancing. Even
the general public grew bored of acrobatic performances and as during
every period of decadence ‘there were a few teachers who consistently
resolved to impart to their pupils only what was good and beautiful
in dancing, whose voices, feeble as they sounded, were nevertheless
strong enough to carry weight and rescue their art from the deplorable
condition into which it had for the time fallen,’ as a dancing critic
of that time aptly writes. One of the most ardent advocates of a new
classic art of dancing during this time was Mrs. Richard Hovey. In
all her teaching and preaching Mrs. Hovey based the principles of the
prospective style upon the plastic art of the ancient Greeks. She made
a vigorous propaganda for this in New York, Boston and California.
Whether directly or indirectly Miss Isadora Duncan, who had been
interested in initiating a reform of human life in its least details
of costume, of hygiene and of morals, felt the impulse of Mrs. Hovey’s
propaganda and joined the worthy movement.
The fundamental principle of Mrs. Hovey’s propaganda was the return
to nature. According to the theory of this new movement, dancing was
declared an expression of nature. Water, wind, birds and all forces
of nature are subject to a law of rhythm and gravity. Not the tricky,
broken lines, spinning whirls and toe gymnastics, but soft, curved
undulations of nature, are close to Mother Earth. Thus also man in
his normal life and savage state, moved rather in slow curves than in
quick broken lines. This, briefly, was the principal argument of the
few reformers who inspired Miss Duncan. Already Noverre and Petipa had
emphasized the fact that ancient Greek sculpture and Greek designs gave
the best ideas of graceful lines and pleasing human forms. But the
votaries of the new school explained that in a return to the natural
gesture of human life Greek art was the only logical criterion. Miss
Duncan in her essay, ‘The Dance,’ says:
‘To seek in nature the fairest forms and to find the movement which
expresses the soul of these forms--this is the art of the dancer. It is
from nature alone that the dancer must draw his inspirations, in the
same manner as the sculptor, with whom he has so many affinities. Rodin
has said: “To produce good sculpture it is not necessary to copy the
works of antiquity; it is necessary first of all to regard the works of
nature, and to see in those of the classics only the method by which
they have interpreted nature.” Rodin is right; and in my art I have
by no means copied, as has been supposed, the figures of Greek vases,
friezes and paintings. From them I have learned to regard nature, and
when certain of my movements recall the gestures that are seen in works
of art, it is only because, like them, they are drawn from the grand
natural source.
‘My inspiration has been drawn from trees, from waves, from clouds,
from the sympathies that exist between passion and the storm, between
gentleness and the soft breeze, and the like, and I always endeavor to
put into my movements a little of that divine continuity which gives to
the whole of nature its beauty and its life.’
Thus Miss Duncan started her career by interpreting natural qualities
by means of natural movements. ‘I have closely studied the figured
documents of all ages and of all the great masters, but I have never
seen in them any representations of human beings walking on the
extremity of the toes or raising the leg higher than the head. These
ugly and false positions in no way express that state of unconscious
Dionysiac delirium which is necessary to the dancer. Moreover,
movements, just like harmonies in music, are not invented; they are
discovered,’ writes Miss Duncan. To her the only mode of dancing is
barefoot. According to her ‘the dancer must choose above all the
movements which express the strength, the health, the grace, the
nobility, the languor or the gravity of living things.’ Gravity to Miss
Duncan is natural and right. A ballet dancer, a Pavlova, Nijinsky and
Karsavina, eager to defy the laws of gravity, is to her a freak.
Prince Serge Volkhonsky, who has been a conspicuous figure in the
Russian dance reform-movement, writes of Miss Duncan’s school in
comparison with that of Jacques-Dalcroze: ‘Her dance is a result
of personal temperament, his movements are the result of music;
she draws from herself, he draws from rhythm; her psychological
basis is subjective; his rhythmical basis is objective; and, in
order to characterize her in a few words, I may say Isadora is the
dancing “ego.” This subjective psychological basis of Isadora’s
art I find clearly emphasized by Mr. Levinsohn’s words: “The
images or moods (_Stimmungen_) created in our mind by the rational
element--music--cannot be identical with every one, and therefore
cannot be compulsory. Just in that dissimilitude of moods and
uncompulsoriness of images resides the best criterion for the
appreciation of Isadora Duncan as a founder of a system. Her dance
is precisely not a system, cannot found what is called a ‘school’;
it needs another similar ‘ego’ to repeat her. And according to this
it seems quite incomprehensible that some people should see in Miss
Duncan’s art ‘a possibility for all of us being beautiful.’ No, not at
all for all of us; for not every temperament, while embodying ‘images
or moods’ called forth by music, will necessarily create something
beautiful; one cannot raise the exceptional into rule. In order to be
certain of creating something beautiful, no matter whether in the moral
or the æsthetical domain, it is not in ourselves that we shall find
the law, but in subjecting ourselves to another principle which lives
outside of ourselves. For the plastic (choreographic), this principle
is Music. It is not instinct expressing itself under the influence
of music--which with every man is different, and only in few chosen
natures beautiful in itself--but the rhythm of music, which in every
given composition is an unchangeable element subjecting our ‘ego.’
This is the basis of living plastic art. And in this respect Isadora’s
art satisfies the double exigencies of the visible and the audible art
as little as the ballet. Her arms are certainly more rhythmical than
her legs, but as a whole we cannot call her rhythmical in the strict
sense of the word, and this appears especially in the slow movements:
her walk, so to speak, does not keep step with music; she often steps
on the weak part of the bar and often between the notes. In general
it is in the examples of slow tempo that the insufficiency of the
principle may be observed. The slower a tempo the more she ‘mimics,’
and the farther, therefore, she strays from the music. If we look at
the impression on the spectators we shall see that all in the paces of
the quick tempos the movement must enter into closer connection with
the music; in cases of very minute divisions of the bar the simple
coincidence of the step with the first ‘heavy’ part already produces a
repeated design which makes ear and eye meet in one common perception.
If the representatives of that particular kind of dance were to realize
this they would endeavor to introduce into slow tempos the rhythmical
element instead of the mimic, which leads them out of the music and
converts the dance into a sort of acting during the music, a sort of
plastic melo-declamation.”’
These critics have pointed out the subjective nature of Miss Duncan’s
dance and her impatience of rules and formal technique. They believe
that because of these two qualities of her art it cannot be repeated,
except by ‘another similar ego.’ But as if in direct answer to these
charges come Miss Duncan’s pupils. They are by no means highly selected
material or ‘similar egos,’ but each (among the more mature pupils)
is a beautiful and individual dancer. To each she has transmitted her
spirit; in each she has preserved the native personality. They are
the best evidence thus far obtained of the truth of Miss Duncan’s
dictum of the ‘possibility for all of us being beautiful.’ Moreover we
must not suppose that Miss Duncan’s contempt for _formal_ technique
is a contempt for technical ability. She herself is a marvellously
plastic and exact dancer, and she demands, ultimately, no less of
her pupils. The limited range of her technique, so often complained
of, is the deliberate result of her belief that the only movements
proper to the dance are the _natural_ movements of the human body.
She stakes the success of her art upon the proposition that these
movements alone are capable of the highest absolute and interpretive
beauty. As to the truth of this proposition each observer must judge
for himself from the results. Again, Miss Duncan does not always ‘dance
the music’ literally, note for note, according to the theory of the
Jacques-Dalcroze system. Her interpretation is frankly emotional and
subjective, but it does not pretend to transcend the music.
In further justice to her efforts we should consider Isadora Duncan
as much a prophet of a new movement, as a dancer of a new school. Her
influence has been more far-reaching in Russia than anywhere else.
She practically brought about a serious revolution among the Russian
dancers, of whom we shall speak in another chapter. She influenced
the art of dancing in Germany, France, Italy and England. She was the
striking contrast to all the deteriorated stage dances of the early
twentieth century in America. She has given a powerful impulse to all
dance reforms by counteracting the academic and time-worn views. She
is the indirect motive of the Diaghileff-Fokine break with the old
Russian ballet and their striving for new rules and ideas in the art
of dancing. To her is due the gradual increase of refined taste and
higher respect for the stage dance. Personally we have found that her
dances failed to tell the phonetic story of the music. Her selection
of the compositions of Gluck, Schubert, Chopin and Beethoven has not
been uniformly successful, since most of them were never meant by the
composer to be danced. Compositions of this kind lack the necessary
choreographic episodes and often even the plastic symbols. No genius,
we believe, could visualize the slow cadences and solemn images of any
symphonic music of those German classics, whose works have been the
choice of Miss Duncan. With a few exceptions, such as the _Moments
Musicals_ and some other pieces, we have never been able to grasp
the meaning of the phonetoplastic images of Isadora Duncan’s dances.
[Illustration: Duncan]
II
It was only natural that Miss Duncan’s laureated appearances in various
European cities quickly found followers and imitators. The best known
exponent of Duncan’s naturalism has been Miss Maud Allan, a talented
Canadian girl, whose dancing in England has made her a special favorite
of the London audiences, before whom she first appeared in 1908. How
favorably she was received by the English audiences is evident from
the fact that the late King Edward invited her to dance for him at
Marienbad. Like Miss Duncan, Maud Allan has danced mostly barefoot, her
body slightly clothed in a loose Greek drapery. The most sensational
in Miss Allan’s repertoire has been the ‘Vision of Salome,’ compiled
from passages from Richard Strauss’ opera, in which she has tried to
give the impression of the ghastly Biblical tragedy by means of plastic
pantomime and dancing. Among her artistically successful dances has
been the Grieg _Peer Gynt_ suite, of which the London critics speak
as of ‘a beautiful art of transposition.’ ‘The faithfulness with
which her movements follow the moods of the composer is probably only
fully realized by those who are musicians as well as connoisseurs of
dance. Her translation of music has not seldom the rare quality of
translations of being finer than the original, and there are not a few
who, when they hear again, unaccompanied, the music which her dancing
has ennobled, will be conscious of a sense of incompleteness and loss,’
writes an English dance authority of her art.
Isadora Duncan’s naturalism has probably made the most powerful direct
impression upon German aspirants, first, through the school of dancing
of Isadora’s sister, Elisabeth, and second, through the pretended
appeal to the moods by means of classic ideals, and yet requiring
comparatively little technique. Assiduously as a German student will
practice in order to acquire the most perfect technique for being
an artist, musician, singer or architect, he lacks the painstaking
persistency of a Russian, Hungarian, Bohemian or Spaniard in acquiring
a thorough technique for his dance. He is inclined to interpret music
by means of the most easily acquired technique, such as seemingly the
naturalistic school requires. For this very reason, Miss Duncan has
been the greatest dance genius for the Germans, as that is so clearly
to be seen in the excellent work of Brandenburg, _Der moderne Tanz_.
This book from the beginning to the end, written in a fine poetic
prose, is a eulogy of Duncan’s naturalism, and an elaborate display
of the minutest pretty moves of the German exponents of the movement.
Among the praised geniuses of Brandenburg are the sisters Wiesenthal,
who attracted widespread attention in some of Max Reinhardt’s
productions.
The sisters Wiesenthal, Elsa and Grete, were received with unparalleled
enthusiasm at home and in consequence made a tour abroad, on which
occasion one of them danced in New York. How little she impressed the
New York audience, can be judged from what one of the most favorable
critics wrote of her as having ‘a pretty fluttering, tottering
marionette manner of her own.’ Our impression is that the sisters
Wiesenthal proved most successful in the quaint, naïve and simple
ensemble performances which they gave in Germany. They displayed
some excellent _ritartandos_ and a few successful _adagio_ figures.
One could see that their steps and arm twists were not a result of
systematic studies but of spontaneous impulses, since in repetitions of
the music there was no sign of a well trained art, the wing-like arms
of the first phrase being arabesque-like in the repetition, etc. They
showed that they possessed a poetic conception of the dance, but failed
to grasp and express its intrinsic meaning. They were rather poets
than dancers, rather actresses than designers in the choreographic
sense. Their acting often interfered with dancing and brought about an
unpleasant disharmony with the musical rhythm. They may have danced
better on other occasions, but what a number of impartial connoisseurs
of the dance saw of them stamps them as talented dilettantes rather
than accomplished artists of a school.
A girl who enjoyed a great reputation in Vienna, Munich and in other
German cities in the first decade of this century, but of whom was
heard nothing later, was Miss Gertrude Barrison, an Anglo-Viennese.
Her art was more clever and more in style with the principles of the
naturalistic than that of the sisters Wiesenthal. She won the ear of
Austria for the new message. With a certain assurance in the conviction
of her individuality, Miss Barrison treated her art with freedom
and loftiness. She enforced her personality more than her art upon
the spectators, and this was, to a great extent, the secret of her
phenomenal success.
The best of all the German dancers of this century thus far has been
Rita Sacchetto, a pretty Bavarian girl, who made her début in Munich,
and was at once recognized as an artist of much talent. Though the
Berlin critics did not receive her with the enthusiasm that they had
shown to the Wiesenthals, she was by far the biggest artist of all.
Her slighter recognition was possibly due to her lighter style of work
and an unfavorable repertoire, lacking in music that was of timely
importance. This withholding of recognition has always been peculiar
to Berlin. Tired out by hundreds of aspiring virtuosi and artists of
every description, an average Berlin critic, like one of New York,
grows at the end of a season nervous in the presence of the vast
majority of mediocrities and press-agented celebrities, so that he is
likely to ignore or tear down the serious beginner, if her performance
coincides with his ‘blue’ moods. This is what probably happened to
Miss Sacchetto. The connoisseurs and authorities of other countries
who have seen her dances speak of them in highest terms as pretty and
exceedingly graceful exhibitions of poetic youthful soul. What has
become of Miss Sacchetto lately the writer has been unable to learn.
III
Though none of the above mentioned dancers of Germany has pretended
to be a follower of Miss Duncan, yet all belong to the new movement
that was brought into being by her persistent efforts. They all defy
the principle of the classic ballet, they all pretend to interpret
music in their ‘plastic art,’ as they have preferred to term the
dance. Traditionally the German music has been either inclined to
classic abstraction, or to strictly operatic lines. The spectacular
ballet of Richard Strauss, ‘The Legend of Joseph,’ belongs more to
pantomimic pageantries than a class of actual dance dramas, of which
we shall speak in another chapter. The music of a foreign school and
race is always lacking in that natural stimulating vigor that it
gives to those who are absolutely at home with racial peculiarities
choreographically. In this the Russians have been lately more fortunate
than other nations. A great number of talented young Russian composers
have written an immense amount of admirable dance music, ballets and
instrumental compositions that could be danced. They have an outspoken
rhythmic character, which is the first requirement of the dance. In
this the recent German composers have remained behind the Russians.
The compositions of Richard Strauss, Reger, Schönberg and the other
distinguished musical masters of modern Germany offer nothing that
would inspire a new school of the art of dancing. In the first place
they lack the instinct for rhythm, and in the second, they lack the
plastic sense so essential for the dance. This circumstance has been
most detrimental to those of the young German dancers who attempted to
follow the naturalistic movement.
How much better than the German Duncanites have been those of
Scandinavia, Finland and France in this direction is difficult to say
authentically, though they have had the advantage over the Germans, of
having at their disposal the works of some of the most talented young
composers of dance music. Grieg, Lange-Müller, Svendsen and many others
have written music with strong rhythmic and choreographic images. But
superior to all the Scandinavian composers, in the modern dance music
or music that could be danced, are the Finns: Sibelius, Jaernefelt,
Melartin, Merikanto and Toiwo Kuula. Many of Sibelius’s smaller
instrumental compositions offer excellent themes and music for dancing.
A few of them are real masterpieces of their kind. But the Finns have
shown up to this time little interest for the modern dance movements.
The Danes, Swedes and Norwegians have been more affected by the new
ideas that are connected with the stage, though none of them has shown
any marked achievement that would be known in wider circles. Ida
Santum, a young Scandinavian girl in New York, has given evidence of
some graceful plastic forms and idealized folk-dances. Thus far she has
not shown anything strikingly appealing to the audiences. Aino Akté’s
Salome Dances are purely operatic and have no bearing upon our subject.
Among English and American girls who have followed the footsteps
of Miss Duncan are Gwendoline Valentine, Lady Constance
Stewart-Richardson, Beatrice Irvin, and a number of others, but the
writer has been unable to gather any sufficient data for critical
arguments.
Undoubtedly the most talented dancer of the naturalistic school whom we
have known among the Russians is Mlle. Savinskaya of Moscow. In power
of expressing depth and subtlety of dramatic emotions Savinskaya is
supreme. She is an actress no less than a dancer. Her conception of
naturalistic dancing is so deeply rooted in her soul and temperament
that it often acts against the plastic rules and grace, often displayed
by the dancers for the sake of pleasing effects. Miss Duncan herself
strives to create moods by means of classic poses, but Savinskaya’s
ideal is to express the plastic forms of music in her art. She is
romantically dramatic, more a tragedian than anything else. Her dance
in the graphically fascinating ballet _Chrisis_ by Reinhold Glière, in
Moscow, revealed her as an artist of the first rank, and perhaps the
first thoroughly trained Duncanite whose technique and dramatic talent
rival with any _ballerina_, of the new school or the old.
Probably the lack of suitable music has been thus far the greatest
obstacle in the way of the naturalistic dancers, though they pretend to
find their ideals in the eighteenth and nineteenth century’s classic
compositions. No doubt some of the old music can be aptly danced, such
as the light instrumental works of Grieg, Mozart, Chopin and Schumann,
but the proper music has yet to be composed. The phonetic thinking of
past music was involved, hazy in closed episodes and often disconnected
in structural form. There is one single theme of a poem in a whole
symphony. To illustrate this plastically is a physical impossibility.
Maud Allan’s and Isadora Duncan’s attempts to dance symphonies of
Beethoven and other classic idealists have been miserable failures.
Those who pretend to see in such dances any beauty and idea, are
ignorant of musical and choreographic principles.
To our knowledge Reinhold Glière, the genial young Russian composer and
director of the Kieff Symphony Society, is the first successful musical
artist in the field of naturalistic ballets. His ballet _Chrisis_,
based on an Egyptian story by Pierre Louis, is a rare masterpiece in
its line.
Though built on the style of the conventional ballets, its music is
meant for naturalistic interpretation and lacks all the _pirouette_,
_chassée_, and other semi-acrobatic ballet music forms. Like the
principles laid down by Delsarte and his followers, Glière’s music
‘moves with the regular rhythm, the freedom, the equipoise, of nature
itself.’ It has for the most part a slow ancient Egyptian measure,
breathing the air of the pleasant primitive era. It suggests the even
swing of the oar, the circular sweep of the sling, the rhythmic roar
of the river, and all such images that existed before our boasted
civilization. It gives a chance for the dancer of the naturalistic
school to display pretty poses, primitive gestures and ‘sound’ steps.
Like all Glière’s compositions this is exceedingly lyric, full of
charming old melodies and curved movements that occasionally call to
mind Schumann, Schubert and Chopin. The ballet begins with Chrisis in
the majestic valley of the Nile spinning cotton on a spinning-wheel,
which she stops when a soft music, coming from a far-away temple,
comes to her ears. It is the music of the morning-prayer. She prays,
dancing to the trees and the clouds. At this time Kise, another little
maiden, is passing with food for her parents and _Chrisis_ calls her.
They dance together and spin for a while. There is in the background
a sacred tree. _Chrisis_ approaches it in slow dance and utters her
secret wish. During this time Kise meets on the river shore a blind
musician carrying a lyre. He plays a gay dance to the girls, to which
they dance so exquisitely that phantom-like nymphs and fawns emerge
from the river, and stop to watch. Finally a shepherd, who has been
looking on from the top of the hill, becomes interested in the dance
and makes friends with the girls. There ensues a passionate love scene
and dramatic climax for the first act, _Chrisis_ going into a convent.
The second act takes place in an ancient convent, _Chrisis_ as a
dancing priestess. The last act takes place with _Chrisis_ as a courtly
lady with every luxury around her. It is a magnificent piece of work
musically and choreographically, and should find widespread appeal.
We may count as belonging to the naturalistic school of dancing the
exponents of idealized and imitative national dances, though they
do not belong among the Duncanites. Particularly we should mention
Ruth St. Denis, who is widely known through her skilled imitation and
idealization of the Oriental dances. As Isadora Duncan sought by the
ancient Greeks the ideal of her ‘natural’ dances, so Ruth St. Denis
attempted to find choreographic beauties in the art of the East. In
this she has been strikingly successful. Her Japanese dances can
be considered as real gems of the Orient in which she has made the
impression as if an exotic old print of the empire of the Mikado became
alive by a miracle, though it was in the Indian sacred dances that she
made her reputation. This is what a dance critic writes of her:
‘Clad in a dress of vivid green spangled with gold, her wrists
and ankles encased in clattering silver bands, surrounded by the
swirling curves of a gauze veil, the dancer passed from the first
slow languorous movements into a vertiginous whirl of passionate
delirium. Alluring in every gesture, for once she threw asceticism
to the winds, and yet she succeeded in maintaining throughout that
difficult distinction between the voluptuous and the lascivious. The
mystic Dance of the Five Senses was a more artificial performance and
only in one passage kindled into the passion of the Nautch. As the
goddess Radha, she is dimly seen seated cross-legged behind the fretted
doors of her shrine. The priests of the temple beat gongs before the
idol and lay their offerings at her feet. Then the doors open, and
Radha descends from her pedestal to suffer the temptation of the five
senses. The fascination of each sense, suggested by a concrete object,
is shown forth in the series of dances. Jewels represent the desire
of the sight, of the hearing the music of bells, of the smell of the
scent of flower, of the taste of wine, and the sense of touch is fired
by a kiss. Her dancing was inspired by that intensity of sensuous
delight which is refined to its farthest limit probably only in the
women of the East. She rightly chose to illustrate the delicacy of the
perceptions not by abandon but by restraint. The dance of touch, in
which every bend of the arms and the body described the yearning for
the unattainable, was more freely imaginative in treatment. And in the
dance of taste there was one triumphant passage, when, having drained
the wine-cup to the dregs, she burst into a Dionysiac Nautch, which
raged ever more wildly until she fell prostrate under the maddening
influence of the good wine. Then by the expression of limbs and
features showing that the gratification of the senses leads to remorse
and despair, and that only in renunciation can the soul realize the
attainment of peace, she returns to her shrine and the doors close upon
the seated image, resigned and motionless. So she affirmed in choice
and explicit gesture the creed of Buddha.’
Very strange yet effective are the dances of Ruth St. Denis in which
she exhibits the marvellous twining and twisting art of her arms,
which act as if they had been some ghastly snakes. Her arms possess
an unusual elasticity and sinuous motion which cannot be seen better
displayed by real Oriental dancers. The hands, carrying on the first
and fourth finger two huge emerald rings, give the impression of
gleaming serpents’ eyes. Miss St. Denis is apparently a better musician
than Miss Duncan, while in her poetic sense and in the sense of beauty
she remains behind. However, as a musician she is excellent, and always
acts in perfect rhythm with the composition. But unfortunately all
her dance music is just as little Oriental as Miss Duncan’s is Greek.
Ruth St. Denis seemingly is ignorant of the numerous Russian Oriental
compositions which would suit her art a thousand times better than the
works of the Occidental classics. In justice to her efforts it must
be said that she is a thorough artist in spite of the fact that she
has never studied her dances in the East. Her slender tall figure and
semi-Oriental expression give her the semblance of an Indian Bayadere.
It has always impressed us that she minimizes her art by affected
manners and an air that lacks sincerity. We believe her to have very
great talent, but for some reason or other, she has failed to display
it fully.
IV
The modern Spanish dances as performed by Rosario Guerrero, La Otero
and La Carmencita, are in fact a perfected type of Spanish folk-dances.
The Kinneys write of them as follows: ‘So gracious, so stately, so rich
in light and shade is the _Sevillanas_, that it alone gives play to
all the qualities needed to make a great artist. When, a few summers
ago, Rosario Guerrero charmed New York with her pantomime of “The Rose
and the Dagger,” it was the first two _coplas_ of this movement-poem
that charmed the dagger away from the bandit. The same steps glorified
Carmencita in her day and Otero, now popular as a singer in
the opera in Paris. All three of these goddesses read into their
interpretation a powerful idea of majesty, which left it none the less
seductive.’ It is clear that none but a Spaniard could perform the more
or less perfected folk-dances of the country. It requires a physique
with born talent and traditions to give the dance its proper fire and
brutal elegance.
[Illustration: Maud Allan
_After a painting by Otto Marcus_]
Havelock Ellis gives a graphic picture of the Spanish dance. ‘One
of the characteristics of Spanish dancing,’ he writes, ‘lies in
its accompaniments, and particularly in the fact that under proper
conditions all the spectators are themselves performers. In flamenco
dancing, among an audience of the people, every one takes a part by
rhythmic clapping and stamping, and by the occasional prolonged “oles”
and other cries by which the dancer is encouraged or applauded. Thus
the dance is not the spectacle for the amusement of a languid and
passive public, as with us. It is rather the visible embodiment of an
emotion in which every spectator himself takes an active and helpful
part; it is, as it were, a vision evoked by the spectators themselves
and upborne on the continuous waves of rhythmical sound which they
generate. Thus it is that at the end of a dance an absolute silence
often falls, with no sound of applause; the relation of performer and
public has ceased to exist. So personal is this dancing that it may be
said that an animate association with the spectators is necessary for
its full manifestation. The finest Spanish dancing is at once killed or
degraded by the presence of an indifferent or unsympathetic public, and
that is probably why it cannot be transplanted but remains local.’
The naturalistic school of dancing is by no means an invention of
Isadora Duncan, though she has been one of its most persistent
preachers. The true psychological origin belongs to Delsarte, whose
method of poetic plasticism inspired Mrs. Hovey to give lessons and
lectures on the subject. It branched out like a tree. Every country
was interested in the new idea in its own way. America, having no
æsthetic traditions whatsoever, found the pioneers in Isadora Duncan
and Ruth St. Denis; Germany found hers in the sisters Wiesenthal, Miss
Rita Sacchetto and others; France, in Mme. Olga Desmond; Spain, in
the refined and talented folk-dancers; Russia, in the rise of a new
ballet, and so on. Like a magic message, the idea filled the air and
was inhaled by special minds. There was a strong argument in favor
of its development, and that argument was the spiritual yeast that
set the world into a ferment. The more it was opposed and fought the
more it spread and grew. The naturalistic dance has been thus far
more an awakening than a mature art. As such it is apt to be crude
and imperfect. There is no reason to fear that a fate like that which
befell the Skirt Dance may overtake the ‘classical’ dancing of the
naturalistic school. It has accomplished a great service in bringing
the audiences to realize that the argument of natural plasticism is
based on philosophical truth. Soon the ranks of those who believe
that ‘natural’ dancing is that which requires the least technique
will decrease in favor of those serious minded artists, who seek the
solution in technique plus talent. ‘The theory that a dancer can ignore
with impunity the restrictions of technique, that she is bound to
please if only she is natural and happy and allows herself to follow
the momentary inspiration of the music and dances with the same gleeful
spontaneity as a child dancing to a barrel-organ is a doctrine as
seductive as it is fatal.’ The future solution of the movement lies
in perfection of the technique and in grasping the deeper depths of
musical relation to the art of dancing.
‘The chief value of reaction resides in its negative destructive
element,’ says Prince Volkhonsky. ‘If, for instance, we had never seen
the old ballet, with its stereotyped character, I do not think that the
appearance of Isadora Duncan would have called forth such enthusiasm.
In Isadora we greeted the deliverance. Yet in order to appreciate
liberty we must have felt the chains. She liberated, and her followers
seek to exploit that liberty.’