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Sound Moves
An International Conference on Music
and Dance
2005
PROCEEDINGS
Proceedings of
Sound Moves:
An International Conference on Music and Dance
Roehampton University
Roehampton Lane
London
England
5th & 6th November 2005
Co-chairs
Stephanie Jordan (Roehampton University)
Simon Morrison (Princeton University)
Conference committee
Toby Bennett
Helena Hammond
Barley Norton
Jane Pritchard
Erica Stanton
International advisors
Inger Damsholt
Marta Robertson
Marian Smith
Collaborating organisations and sponsors
The Radcliffe Trust
The Society for Dance Research
The British Academy
Chester Music
Princeton University
Roehampton University
Proceedings compiled by
Toby Bennett
Electronic copies of these proceedings are available for download at
http://www.roehampton.ac.uk/soundMoves
Produced 10/02/2006 12:50
Contents
Preface...........................................................................................................................................................1
Albright, Daniel: Golden Calves: The Role of Dance in Opera .............................................................3
Bannerman, Alastair: Connecting Spaces – Motion-capture, Dance, Sound. (formerly
Dancing Sound – Sounding Dance) ................................................................................................15
Buckland, Theresa Jill: The Musical Life of a Late Victorian Dancing Master From
Familiar Melody to Alien Jazz ..........................................................................................................20
Duerden, Rachel: Dancing in the imagined space of music....................................................................26
Eliot , Karen: Asserting the Rhythms: Moving Music in Student Performances of Merce
Cunningham’s “Inlets 2” ...................................................................................................................34
Fogelsanger , Allen: On the Edges of Music: Trisha Brown’s Set and Reset and Twelve Ton
Rose........................................................................................................................................................39
Frymoyer, Johanna: Ballet as the Subject’s Speech: Defining Classical Gesture in
Prokofiev’s Romeo and Juliet................................................................................................................47
Genné, Beth and Christian Matjias: Collaborating in the Melting Pot: George Balanchine,
Vernon Duke and George Gershwin ..............................................................................................53
Goff, Moira: Trumpets and Flutes: Music and Dance in John Weaver’s The Loves of Mars
and Venus..............................................................................................................................................62
Greenhead, Karin and Selma Odom: Dalcroze Eurhythmics in the Professional Training of
Dancers and Musicians ......................................................................................................................70
Heisler, Wayne Jr.: The Art(isticity) of Music and Dance in Schlagobers by Richard Strauss
and Heinrich Kröller..........................................................................................................................75
Jewett, Jamie: REST/LESS: Performing Interactivity in Dance, Music and Text..............................89
Lazier, Rebecca: Making Schoenberg Dance......................................................................................... 103
Lopez y Royo, Alessandra: The Prince of the Pagodas, Gong and Tabuh-Tabuhan: Balinese music
and dance, classical ballet and Euro-American composers and choreographers.................. 111
Main, Lesley: A musical exploration of Doris Humphrey’s Passacaglia, with reference to
how musical interpretation can influence directorial interpretation and performance
of a dance work................................................................................................................................ 118
Meglin, Joellen A. et al.: Music of the Body: Modern Minuets and Passepieds far from
Passé .................................................................................................................................................. 125
Minors, Helen Julia: Paul Dukas’s La Péri as Interpreted by Two Balletic Collaborators .............. 142
Murakami, Kyoko: Lost Lyricism: The Change in Ballet Class Accompaniment............................ 152
Nunes, April: The Intersubjective Nature of the Symbiotic Relationship between Sound
and Movement in Improvisation................................................................................................... 160
Okamoto, Kimiko: From Autonomy to Conformity: The Metrical Relationship between
Music and Dance in Early Eighteenth-Century France............................................................. 162
Sayers, Lesley-Anne and Simon Morrison: Sound Space: Dialogues of Music and Design in
Prokofiev’s Pas d’Acier (1925)....................................................................................................... 168
Smith, Marian: Counts and Beats: Moments in the Dialogue between Music and Dance............ 176
Sundaram, Chitra and Ni Madé Pujawati: Hopes, Maps and Habits: A cross-form inquiry
into Dance-Music Contracts in selected formal Indian and Indonesian dance
traditions ........................................................................................................................................... 187
Toenjes, John: Composing for Interactive Dance: Paradigms for Perception.................................. 190
Verstraete, Pieter: Interfacing Dance. Choreographing (by) gestural controls. ................................ 197
Abstracts and Biographies..................................................................................................................... 204
Sound Moves Conference 2005 – Proceedings
Preface
Preface
Interdisciplinarity is a key concept in contemporary scholarship and professional practice,
but music and dance, one of the longest established and most frequently discussed
manifestations of the principle of media collaboration, is nonetheless one of the least
explored in detail. So what do choreographers look for in music and composers in
choreography? And how do dancers embody sound and musicians reflect movement in
their performances? What kinds of choreomusical relationships exist and how do we talk
about them? How similar or different are physical and acoustic gestures?
Strong signals from both scholars and the profession prompted Sound Moves, a
conference intended to generate new thinking about music and dance and encourage a
sharing of the languages of the two disciplines. The increasing number of scholars
researching music-dance relationships and the vitality and novelty of their published
findings also called for conference celebration and debate. Roehampton University’s
Centre for Dance Research, the internationally recognised centre for choreomusical
studies, and Princeton University’s Music Department, with its celebrated record of
international research, joined forces to take this project forward in collaboration with
Britain’s Society for Dance Research.
Not so long ago, talk about music and dance seemed stuck in an anthropomorphistic
groove: the two arts were partners behaving well, behaving badly, or even behaving as
though at war with one another. Then there were the romantic metaphors. The
American modern dance choreographer Doris Humphrey put forward the concept of a
‘happy marriage in which two people go hand in hand, but [she mixes metaphors
wonderfully] are not identical twins’.1 Stravinsky preferred the paradoxical metaphor of a
‘struggle between music and choreography’2 bringing about harmony and synthesis. Or
there was ‘absolutism,’ reference to some heavenly ‘musicality’, a magical property
supposedly innate to the best choreographers and dancers. But no one can say what this
property really is. And is it actually one thing? Sometimes rules would be proposed about
the right or wrong way for music and dance to engage, again rarely grounded in specifics.
Presenters at Sound Moves did not talk in these terms. Believing that music and dance
could be equally important to our theatrical experience, they dismantled absolutes, rules,
and any notion of a sanctified relationship. They speculated that what we hear subverts
and plays games with what we see, and vice versa. They questioned what has happened
and contemplated what might happen when music and dance meet, in the spirit of debate
between these media, eloquent collisions, lively cacophony, perhaps an expressive stress,
ironies, punning, even fun.
Sound Moves involved dance and music historians and theorists, choreographers and
composers, professional dancers and musicians, teachers and students. Alongside an
international community from within the UK, we were pleased to welcome visitors from
thirteen different countries. The conference comprised performances, lecturedemonstrations, and papers on a wide range of topics – historical representations from
Renaissance to the present day, popular culture and high art forms, ballet and
contemporary dance, interactive settings, performance training and cultural hybrids. It
also introduced a number of interdisciplinary theoretical perspectives – such as structural
analysis, semiotics, intertextual and gender theory, as well as the idea of viewing work as
meta-discourse on dance and music.
1
Preface
We maintained the holistic Roehampton tradition of incorporating a vibrant body of live
music and dance – the professional presence within academia – talking, after all, about
performance as ‘act’ rather than ‘text,’ and about training, process and preparation for
performance as well as performance itself. And thus the conference included a lecturedemonstration by the Richard Alston Dance Company, featuring Alston’s Shimmer
(Ravel); an interview with Shobana Jeyasingh and the composer Jürgen Simpson; and
finally a demonstration of the Nijinska/Stravinsky Les Noces by the Royal Ballet, with
Monica Mason and Christopher Newton, prefaced by discussion of the score by the
musicologist Margarita Mazo.
We thank our collaborating organisations and sponsors who made this conference
possible: The Radcliffe Trust, The Society for Dance Research, The British Academy and
Chester Music, as well as our own institutions, Princeton and Roehampton Universities.
We are also especially grateful to our conference committee for their generosity – Toby
Bennett, Helena Hammond, Barley Norton, Jane Pritchard, Erica Stanton – and of our
international advisors, Inger Damsholt, Marian Smith and Marta Robertson.
All presenters have been invited to contribute to these conference proceedings. (A
complete list of the presenters is provided in the appendix.) There has been some
standardization of the format for the papers, but the content is otherwise unchanged
from that provided by the authors. The spring 2006 issue (volume 24, number 1) of
Opera Quarterly will be devoted to selected, developed essays from Sound Moves.
Stephanie Jordan
Simon Morrison
Co-chairs, Sound Moves
December 2005
References
1
Doris Humphrey, The Art of Making Dances (New York: Grove Press, 1959), p. 164.
2 Stravinsky quoted by Jonathan Cott, ‘Two Talks with George Balanchine’ (1982), in Portrait of
Mr. B (New York: Viking Press, 1984), p. 143.
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Golden Calves: The Role of Dance in Opera
Daniel Albright
Copyright, 2005 Daniel Albright
Imagine a performance of Swan Lake in which Odette waves her arms up and down and
runs in circles while a puzzled Prince Siegfried looks on, scratching his head; eventually
the exasperated ballerina simply stops, turns to him, and says, Don’t you get it?–I’m
supposed to be a swan! There are few rules in any art form more stringent than the rule
in classical ballet that dancers can’t talk. Long ago I saw at Covent Garden a
performance of Kenneth MacMillan’s ballet Das Lied von der Erde, in which Anthony
Dowell made a megaphone of his hands in front of his wide-open mouth, as if he were
going to shout something; as it turned out it was only a mime of a scream, but the strong
implication of taboo-breaking makes that one of the most memorable moments in the
whole genre of ballet, comparable to the end of Balanchine’s Sonnambula, when the
woman picks up the man and carries him offstage.
But if speech and song are forbidden to dancers, dance is perfectly acceptable for
operatic singers, even in the case of singers constitutionally unable to dance. A happy
soprano surprised by an expensive present from her lover might skip with joy; a cunning
mezzo might raise her skirt and clack her castanets; a dying basso in his dragon suit might
even get a little choreography for his final spasms. Often in opera the dancing is quite
unobtrusively integrated into the drama, as in the ballroom scenes in La traviata and
Eugene Onegin. But what interests me today is the other kind of operatic ballet, in which
there is a certain strain or even fracture about the co-presence of dancing and singing; in
which the conventions of opera and the conventions of ballet jostle uncomfortably; in
which the composer may have been forced to provide a ballet against his will; in which
there is little sense of Gesamtkunstwerk but a strong sense of Zerschellenkunstwerk.
The great master of the inconsequential ballet was of course Meyerbeer, who thought it a
fine thing to provide, in Le prophète (1849), a little relief for the bloodthirsty, war-torn
Anabaptists in the form of a delicious ballet in which provisions-sellers on ice-skaters,
simulated with that newfangled contrivance the roller skate, take a break from their
capitalist enterprise by dancing. Wagner considered that a Meyerbeer opera was a series
of effects without causes, “a monstrous, piebald, historico-romantic, diabolico-religious,
fanatico-libidinous, sacro-frivolous, mysterio-criminal, autolyco-sentimental dramatic
hotchpotch” (Richard Wagner, Wagner on Music and Drama, ed. Albert Goldman and
Evert Sprinchorn, tr. H. Ashton Ellis (New York: Da Capo Press, 1964), p. 117)–you
might get the impression that Wagner disapproved–but you have only to hear Wagner’s
words to understand that Meyerbeer’s time has come: no pithier description of the
Postmodern sensibility exists. Rauschenberg’s goat plugged into an automobile tire,
Serrano’s Piss Christ, Schnittke’s Dr. Faustus, the whole canon of Damien Hirst–what are
these but more recent manifestations of the piebald, diabolico-religious, sacro-frivolous,
mysterio-criminal? Maybe the patron saint of our age is Giacomo Meyerbeer.
We can take Le prophète as a sort of limit-point of unrelatedness between a ballet and the
opera in which it is included. At this degree of delamination there can be no critique of
one medium by another: at one moment you’re watching an opera, at the next a ballet,
and you forget all about the first when watching the second. But few composers
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possessed Meyerbeer’s godlike indifference to dramatic propriety: typically some relation,
however tenuous, can be found between opera and ballet; and in the relation there is
often something disturbing, challenging–something that calls into question our usual ease
at accepting the conventions of either ballet or opera.
I think I should try to categorize the sorts of relations a ballet might have to its
surrounding opera. But before I do that, I have to speak a little on the general problem
in which one artistic medium is asked to support or to do the work of another artistic
medium–this is one of the most important problems that a student of the comparative
arts faces.
A work of art that plays at the boundaries of its medium may try to usurp another
medium’s content, or its technique. The first case is usually the less interesting. For
example, Liszt wrote a tone poem, Hunnenschlacht (1857), which depicts a large fresco, by
Kaulbach, of the battle between the Huns and the Romans; so this is a case of musical
ekphrasis, in which the composer is trying to translate a painting into sound. But as far
as I can tell, Liszt would have written exactly the same work if he’d been thinking, not
about the painting of the battle, but about the battle itself; there’s nothing pictorial in
Liszt’s handling of the usual noise-trajectory of battle, familiar from so many
instrumental pieces by Biber, Byrd, Kuhnau, Beethoven, and others. Liszt is more
interesting when he fools around on the boundaries between speech and music, as in his
piano piece Il penseroso, based on both a statue by Michelangelo, La notte, and the poem
that Michelangelo wrote as the statue’s inscription. Again Liszt attempts some imitation
of the content: the piece is subdued, veiled, almost immobile, restless within extremely
narrow limits. But here Liszt imitates not just the content of his model, but also the
form: he exactly follows the prosody of Michelangelo’s verse in rhythm and phraseshape–here music attempts to translate the very speechlikeness of speech, the inner lilt of
the poem. To take another example, Stravinsky said that the subject of his ballet Apollo
was versification–and indeed the ballet can be heard as the apotheosis of the iambic foot.
It is possible to go still further in usurping the technical aspects of an alien medium.
When Gloria Coates decided to write a symphonic piece based on Van Gogh’s The
Quinces–the piece is called The Quinces’ Quandary (1995)–she faced a difficult problem in
ekphrasis. The content resisted any ordinary strategy for musicalizing: even Richard
Strauss might have had trouble in writing a quince-flavored, as opposed to an apple- or
pear-flavored symphonic movement. The concept of a cornucopia might lend itself to
translation into music: some sort of ramifying structure, such as those in Dutilleux’s
L’arbre des songes and the chain pieces of Lutosławski. But what Coates chose to imitate
was not the notion of quince but the notion of impasto: the thick smear of pigment is
imaged by overlapping glissandi. As Coates remarked,
[The Quinces is] not really a still life inasmuch as all the objects were in
motion. Van Gogh painted it during the last year of his llife … I felt
something of his own fears and disappointments … and the quinces
were beginning to move, one was already falling … The form which I
selected corresponded to the movement of my eye across the canvas
from the upper left to the lower right with the falling fruit. The
brushstrokes were like my own glissandi … but in another medium,
creating musical forms similar to those on the canvas.
Cited by Detlef Gojowy in cpo cd 999 590-2, pp. 9-10
Everything I’ve said about the arts in relation to one another is perfectly familiar to all of
you; but sometimes it’s good to put obvious things clearly on the table.
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Now, back to the case of dance vs. opera. A ballet may have many sorts of relations to
the opera in which it finds itself: the ballet can try to advance the opera’s action; or the
ballet can complement the opera’s action; or the ballet can offer relief from the opera’s
action. In theory the ballet could even resist the opera’s action, but direct instances of
this are hard to come by–maybe the ballet-chanté The Seven Deadly Sins, by Weill and
Brecht, where the dancer half of Anna continually rejects the good-in-quotation-marks
advice offered by the singer half of Anna, but here the ballet isn’t so much contained
within an opera as secreting an opera around itself. But perhaps in another sense every
opera ballet resists, to some degree, its opera, though this will take some demonstrating.
First let’s take the case of the obedient ballet–the ballet that wants to help its opera
accomplish its mission. How can a dance hope to do the work of opera? According to
the general model described above, a ballet could try to imitate an opera’s content, or it
could try to imitate its form or technique. A ballet can imitate an opera’s content by
becoming pantomime. Jean-Baptiste Dubos, writing in 1719, credited Lully with
introducing imitative dance into opera–in former times (he says) everyone, whether
shepherdess or cyclopes, danced the same steps as everyone else, but after Lully’s
innovations dances became specific in character and action. In fact, he says that Lully
had to choreograph a number of imitative dances himself:
Lulli … commença de composer pour les ballets de ces airs qu' on
appelle des airs de vitesse. Comme les danseurs qui executoient les
ballets composez sur ces airs, étoient obligez à se mouvoir avec plus de
vitesse et plus d' action que les danseurs ne l' avoient fait jusqu' alors,
bien des personnes dirent qu' on corrompoit le bon goût de la danse, et
qu' on alloit en faire un baladinage . Les danseurs eux-mêmes n'entrerent
qu' avec peine dans l' esprit des nouveaux airs, et souvent il arriva que
Lulli fut obligé de composer lui-même les entrées qu' il vouloit faire
danser sur les airs dont je parle.… Comme les compositeurs de ballet
dont Lulli se servoit, ne se perfectionnoient pas aussi vîte que lui, il fut
obligé souvent de composer encore lui-même le ballet des airs d' un
caractere marqué. Lulli, six mois avant que de mourir fit lui-même le
ballet de l' air sur lequel il vouloit faire danser les ciclopes de la suite de
Poliphême.
Réflexions critiques sur la poésie et la peinture [Paris: Mariette, 1719; 1733], 3.169-171
Lully … began to compose for his ballets airs that could be called airs de
vitesse. Since the dancers who executed the steps devised for these airs
were obliged to move more nimbly and busily than dancers had
formerly done, many people said that dancing had become tasteless and
clownish. The dancers themselves had difficulty entering into the spirit
of these new airs, and it often happened that Lully was obliged to devise
the steps that he desired to be danced … As Lully’s choreographers did
not improve quickly enough, he was often obliged to choreograph
himself the airs with a determined character. Six months before his
death Lully himself made the ballet for the cyclopes in Polyphemus’s
retinue
in Acis et Galatée
As Ken Pierce and Jennifer Thorp have shown (“The Dances in Lully’s Persée,” Journal of
Seventeenth-Century Music, vol. 10, no. 1 [2004]), many of Lully’s “imitative” dances
(wrestling matches, bestowals of gifts, forging metal on anvils) were combinations of
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ordinary dance-steps and pantomime; but the movement toward action, plot
advancement, by means of dance was clear.
It is clear from the abbé Dubos that the mimetic elements of dance offended some of
Lully’s spectators. Pantomime, of course, has a long if not too distinguished history of
its own; Polyhymnia has generally been considered one of the weaker sisters among the
Muses. It has a certain charade-like, effortful quality, tending to overcompensate for its
muteness: Marian Smith, in her remarkable book on the ballet during the time of Giselle,
has described how certain Parisian dance-performances tried every conceivable means to
find surrogates for language: “composers, choreographers, and designers at the Opéra
introduced words into ballet performances in every way but actually having performers
intone them” (Marian Smith, Ballet and Opera in the Age of Giselle (Princeton: Princeton
University Press, 2000), p. 97)–these ways included on-stage placards and orchestral
quotations of familiar tunes whose lyrics were relevant to the action. Still, it would seem
that pantomime, with its pointed, specific action, ought to be the norm for operatic
ballet–but in fact it isn’t too common: perhaps the Hecate pantomime that Verdi added
to the 1865 Paris Macbeth, and the murder pantomime in Hindemith’s Cardillac, are the
most impressive examples. I think I understand why: the ballet dancer generally has no
role in the drama outside the ballet; and a group of singers are rarely put to good use by
being asked to dance their way into meaningful action–so a dramatic ballet is likely to be
at best a meta-drama. This explains why Hecate works so well in a pantomime ballet:
she belongs to a higher theatre than the one shown on stage. During her dumb show,
Hecate announces the arrival of Macbeth and orders the witches to answer his questions;
she instructs the spirits of the air to revive him if he faints; she ordains that Macbeth’s
destruction shall happen immediately. In short, she predicts exactly what will occur, and
takes account of every contingency: whereas the Macbeths can anticipate nothing
properly, clairvoyant Hecate can anticipate everything properly; there is no thickened
light to befog her eyesight. During this ballet we are lifted out of the world of opera into
some controlling, string-pulling upper domain of foreordination.
There may be still another, more hidden reason for the scarcity of pantomime in opera:
pantomime destroys musical continuity. Marian Smith cites a number of Parisian critics
from the 1830s and 1840s:
Ballet music has a particular character: it is more accented, more parlante,
more expressive than opera music, because it is not destined only to
accompany and enhance the words of the librettist, but to be itself the
entire libretto.
Generally, one does not ask for music from a ballet-pantomime
composer, but for an orchestra that is the translation, the commentary
of the text that one would not otherwise be able to understand.
Pp. 5-6
A ballet-pantomime score, then, isn’t music: it’s just a transposition of words and story
into wordless sound. If a sylphide flaps her wings, the composer will oblige with a dainty
flutter of thirty-second-notes (p. 8). The music’s spine is broken as it’s wrestled into the
shape of the drama. Pantomime ballet, then, by fighting against musical consequence,
tends to resist placement in opera–this is the first of the forms of balletic resistance that
we’ll see today. Verdi tries to avoid discontinuity in the Hecate scene by writing a ballet
that’s a loose series of variations on a theme–a theme that begins with the same sort of
melodic figure found in the first bars of Lady’s La luce langue and Banco’s Come dal ciel.
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But despite Verdi’s superior skills, the ballet is a somewhat lurching affair, and Verdi
wrote it out of compulsion.
So balletic imitation of an opera’s content didn’t prove especially productive. Can ballet
succeed better by imitating an opera’s technique? What indeed would it mean for a
dance to imitate opera? Insofar as opera means virtuoso vocal display, a dance can
provide a simulacrum by the simple means of virtuoso legwork. As a teenager in Chicago
I first experienced music-theatre with a performance of Prince Igor, in which the recent
defector Rudolf Nureyev danced the Polovtsian dances: he leaped so high and bent his
back so far that, at least in my unreliable memory, the back of his fingertips nearly
touched his heels. This remains my only experience in which the quality of the dancing
matched the quality of the singing (I mean, in a good way).
But insofar as opera means not show-off singing but the regulation and expression of
human action by music, a ballet that tries to do the work of opera must attempt other
strategies. If Gloria Coates attempted to imitate the thickness and spread of Van Gogh’s
paint, a ballet composer might attempt to embody the way in which music controls
action–the sheer fatedness of plot by rhythm. In this sense the slave is the ideal subject
for an opera ballet–and indeed there are some fine slave dances in opera, such as the
dance of the Persian slaves in Musorgsky’s Khovanshchina, and the slave dance in the
fourth act of Berlioz’s Les troyens. At the end of the latter the Nubian women perform a
tom-tom-like dance while the chorus sings wild nonsense syllables; and soon Ascanius,
semblable à Cupidon, will take the wedding ring from Dido’s finger to promote her love of
Aeneas. The slave ballet, like the sex pantomime during the royal hunt and storm,
enforces the notion that we are all slaves of Eros, and that music incarnates the rhythm
of our sexual lives.
Music is the preeminent art of time. It is true, as Lessing says, that literature is also a
species of nacheinander, sequential rather than spatial, but literary time is unpredictable and
adventitious–who knows how long it takes to read “Ode to a Nightingale,” let alone War
and Peace?–whereas musical time is usually determined, precise. A number of famous
opera ballets take time itself as their subject matter, most notably the four seasons ballet
in Verdi’s Les vêpres siciliennes and the dance of the hours in Ponchielli’s La gioconda.
Ponchielli’s music has an unforgettable off-kilter tick to it, as if an arrogant metronome
had decided to assert its own will. The clock and the wobbling revolutions of the earth
about the sun are in charge of things; such time-ballets are in effect obeisances to the
force of destiny, illuminations of the time-canvas on which all dramas, fictitious and real,
are inscribed. Time’s impasto is thrust forward by the dance.
So far we’ve seen two possible functions for ballet in opera: first, to provide relief from
the stress of plot–the more meaningless, irrelevant, the greater the relief; second, to
translate something of the experience of opera into the medium of dance. But there are
others. A third function might be to complement opera, to complete the drama by doing
things that opera cannot do.
Often this entails display of the body. The premise of opera is that nakedness is
transposed from the skin to the larynx: vulnerability, modesty, wild abandon, are all reseated in throat; all sex is oral sex. (Wayne Koestenbaum is good on this theme.) But
from the beginning of the operatic genre it has been understood that an audience might
enjoy seeing a copulation that was more vivid, less metaphorical, than two voices in
parallel thirds. Monteverdi’s Orfeo ends with a dance called a moresca, a Moorish dance;
I’ve been unable to discover just how decorous or obscene an early seventeenth-century
moresca might be, but if it’s anything like the vocal moresche that Lassus was writing
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twenty-five years before, in 1581, it might be quite raunchy indeed: “‘Who’s going
cocorico?’ ‘It’s me, unhappy wretched me, Lucia! Don’t you hear your cock Martino
crowing?’ ‘Ah, you know where you can shove your song, you pigful of shit! I was asleep
and you woke me up! Go to hell, I don’t love you any more, you slept all night and
didn’t fuck me once!’” This is jazz music, as the late sixteenth century understood it–in
fact as I myself understand it. Not only Orfeo (1607) but Gagliano’s Dafne (1608) and
Peri’s Euridice (1600) end with dances of remarkable rhythmic intensity; and the catchy
final dance scene that Cavalieri wrote for the deluxe proto-opera La pellegrina (1589)
became one of the hit tunes of the age. Nietzsche considered that the pallid shepherds
of early opera, intoning their blanched recitativi, were sad thin caricatures of the
Dionysiac actors of Greek tragedy; but I think that opera, like Greek tragedy itself, was
born as a genre intimate with sex dance. As Wendy Heller has shown (Cambridge Opera
Journal, 15, 3, 284 [2003]), by the time of Cavalli’s La Venere gelosa (1643), the librettist
Bartolini was consciously basing the dramatic action on the dances of the old Dionysiac
festivals–and Priapus was near at hand.
In later opera, as in Massenet’s Thaïs and Saint-Saëns’s Samson et Dalila, a prostitute
heroine would be surrounded with dancers to act as her vicarious flesh; and sometimes,
as in many performances of Strauss’s Salome, a dancer would literally take the role of the
soprano and teasingly unveil the body that Isolde would have if she really were a sixteenyear-old girl. But–is all this carnality a good idea? The trick of opera–the displacement
of body into voice–is exposed as a trick whenever it has to compete with actual
nakedness; there is a necessary moment of focal readjustment, unease, when bacchanale
or striptease stops and opera resumes. Barbara Johnson once wrote, “the linguistic
‘noise’ of the act of translating, in not being meant or intended, comes close to the pure
linguisticness of language itself” (Barbara Johnson, Mother Tongues, p. 61); and I
sometimes feel that the operaticness of opera is felt most strongly at the moment just
after the dance stops, and we suddenly have to re-erect the whole corpus of convention
on which opera depends. In Salome Herod always feels slimy, but nowhere quite so
goggling, panting, outlandish, inhumanly lewd, a drooling mouth and a rolling tongue
standing in for a man, as when he sings his applause just after the dance of the seven
veils. Maybe we also feel the balleticity of ballet most strongly when dance interrupts
opera: aesthetic contortions of the body seem especially unnatural when we’re
accustomed to another sort of unnaturalness.
In a great many opera ballets the unnatural feel of dance in opera becomes a conscious
theme. This is another sort of complementarity: insofar as the stage picture of the opera
represents a norm, the ballet twists itself into the image of the abnormal, the distant, the
eerie. Even Verdi, no great lover of ballet or of exoticism, provided for Otello a ballet
that begins in full Orientalist fig, with Turkish slaves who, as Verdi explains, “dance
reluctantly and with bad grace because they are slaves. However … on hearing the
Canzone Araba they liven up gradually and end by dancing wildly” (Julian Budden, The
Operas of Giuseppe Verdi (New York: Oxford University Press, 1981), vol. 3, p. 401). Verdi
even asked Ricordi to send him furlanas, fandaroles, and Turkish and Greek-Cypriot
melodies to stimulate his imagination. In operas that were already set in obtrusively
unreal places, the desire for a still more exotic ballet could drive the scenarist to
remarkable extremes: my favorite example is Massenet’s Hérodiade, in which the search
for something that would feel strange to a first-century community in Judea led the
composer to write for dances for Gauls and Babylonians.
Wagner thought that opera should be a Gesamtkunstwerk, a total art work, in which every
element was perfectly integrated, cooperant to the dramatic telos. But in the operatic
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world that Wagner opposed, the world of Meyerbeerian grand opera, there was another
kind of totalizing impulse at work, though as far as I know there was no theorist to bring
its principles to light. According to this counter-model, an opera could be an image of
the whole experience of being human by piling up discrepant theatres in discrepant
media: by refusing to integrate ballet and opera, Meyerbeer and his cohort give
extraordinarily full perspectives by yoking together heterogeneous and jarring theatrical
modes. It is as if the opera plus the ballet plus the visual spectacle has to add up to the
whole universe. At the beginning of the third act of Les troyens, Berlioz devised a pageant
in which builders, sailors, workmen come forth to celebrate peace in Carthage; Queen
Dido pays homage to all the craftsmen that have created the city, just as Berlioz, in the
course of his five acts, pays homage to every sort of theatrical representation that makes
up grand opera–including the pantomime, the ballet, the march, the ghost apparition, the
national anthem, the battle scene, the musical storm, the huge voice of an oracle, the
harp-accompanied song recital, and some spectacles quite unusual in opera, such as the
wrestling match. Even Wagner was not immune to the charms of this other sort of
totalized artwork: in Die Meistersinger the apprentices dance amid a pageant of tailors
bleating like goats, bakers battening in the lower registers, the whole trade guild structure
of Nuremburg. Drama critics often speak of World Theatre, in capital letters–the theatre
of Medieval morality plays and Goethe’s Faust, the theatre that spans the whole gamut of
earth, heaven, and hell; perhaps instead of grand opera we should speak of World Opera,
the opera that throws in the kitchen sink.
We’ve been examining ballet as the complement to opera; and the next step,
taxonomically speaking–maybe the last step–is to think of ballet as opera’s Other, an
alien medium representing all that opera can never attain. This is a Symbolist and
Modernist way of thinking about opera ballet: where opera leaves off, grows mute,
perhaps the mute art of dance can speak. The earliest trace of this attitude that I can find
occurs in 1843, if I try to put together two creative acts that were occurring in different
corners of Europe, each unknown to the other. The first is a passage from Kierkegaard’s
Either/Or:
The Middle Ages had much to say about a mountain not found on any
map, which is called the mountain of Venus. There the sensuous has its
home, there it has its own wild pleasures, for it is a kingdom, a state. In
this kingdom language has no place, nor sober-minded thought, nor the
toilsome business of reflection. There sound only the voice of
elemental passion, the play of appetites, the wild shouts of intoxication;
it exists solely for pleasure in eternal tumult. The first-born of this
kingdom is Don Juan. That it is the kingdom of sin is not yet affirmed,
for we confine ourselves to the moment at which this kingdom appears
in aesthetic indifference. Not until reflection enters does it appear as
the kingdom of sin, but by that time Don Juan is slain, the music is
silent …
Søren Kierkegaard, Either/Or, tr. David F. Swenson and Lillian Marvin Swenson
(Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1971), pp. 88-89
The second is the opera Tannhäuser, which Wagner was starting to compose as
Kierkegaard published these words. The official ballet, of course, wasn’t composed for
some fifteen years, but the 1845 version itself opens the first act with wildly dancing
Bacchantes and a strange languid murmurous song of the nymphs, as if only music’s
echo can speak in words. According to Kierkegaard’s critique of the unwritten opera,
the Venusberg is intricately voluptuous but wholly innocent; it is only sinful insofar as
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Elisabeth, or her phantom in memory, steps forth to provide some ethical coordinate
system according to which sexual license may be judged sinful. Maybe dance tends to
constitute a sort of orthogonal to the plane of opera, innocent in that the moral norms of
opera don’t apply; maybe any sort of wordless action tends to be an alterity in the
overwhelmingly vocal world of opera. For Kierkegaard the Venusberg is where language
has no place; the mons veneris looms above, before, or to the side of language. Dance is
another domain where language has no place: the dancing body is what Mallarmé calls a
corporeal scripture, a hieroglyph intense, fraught with sensuous meaning, beyond speech
or song:
. . . the dancing woman . . . is not a woman who dances . . . but a
metaphor summing up one of the elementary aspects of our form,
sword, cup, flower, etc., and . . . suggesting, through the wonder of
abridgements and leaps [élans], with a corporeal scripture what one
would need many paragraphs of dialogue as well as descriptive prose to
express . . . a poem disengaged from all the apparatus of writing.
“Ballets” 1886
Where there is no speech, no writing, there can be no moral judgment.
It is true that some operatic dances toy with vulgar tropes of sexual arousal: the castanets
of Carmen’s gypsy song and dance; the castanets and the buzzings of Spanish flies in
Wagner’s 1861 Venusberg ballet; the augmented-second scale in the Samson et Dalila
bacchanale, probably suggestive of snake charming and belly dancing; and any number of
slinky or sudden musical effects in the dance of the seven veils, correlative to the desired
visual effects–Strauss asked the Salome-dancer to assume poses derived from specific
illustrations of bacchantes, Japanese dancers, Egyptian women, bayadères, and even a
certain girl on p. 315 of Le Paradis de Mahomet (Derrick Puffett, Richard Strauss: Salome
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), p. 166). Excessive refinement of gesture
was evidently not a problem: Strauss imagined his Salome alternating between
“passionate wooing” and tearing off her veils “violently.” And yet, it frequently happens
that the dancing Salome seems quite self-involved, self-engrossed, indifferent to her
effect on Herod, less like an Asiatic sexpot than like the Hérodiade of Mallarmé:
The horror of my virginity
Delights me, and I would envelope me
In the terror of my tresses …
So rare a crystal is my dreaming heart,
And all about me lives but in mine own
Image, the idolatrous mirror of my pride,
Mirroring this Herodiade diamond-eyed.
Tr. Arthur Symons
In fact the more Salome seems to dance only for self-delight, the closer she comes to the
transcendental perversity of Wilde’s original play. The dancing Carmen too seems to be
playing a sort of abstract seduction-game with Don José–a game that she knows will have
fatal consequences, but a form of self-indulgence nonetheless. She maddens him because
he knows there are parts of her wholly beyond the reach of hand or phallus–she is a
oiseau rebelle always flying beyond anyone’s grasp. In Mérimée’s novel she tells José that
the surest way of guaranteeing that she’ll do something is to tell her that she’s not
permitted to do it; she is taboo incarnate. As such she’s most at home not in flexible
operatic musical discourse, but in diegetic strophic song and in dance–she likes the more
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eccentric regions of the opera stage. The dancer tends to inhabit some other plane of
being; all operatic dancing tends to be a dancing-away. Normal categories of dramatis
personae are suspended: in the act of dancing, Salome is at her most whorish and most
virginal at the same time.
In certain Modernist works this sense that dance is a portal into some other dimension,
crystalline and spectral, is remarkably strong. Albert Roussel’s Padmâvatî (1923), to a
libretto by the distinguished scholar of Asian music Louis Laloy, is an opera-ballet in two
acts: in the first act the Sultan of the Mogul army decides that he will spare the city of
Tchitor only if the King of Tchitor will give him his wife, the spectacularly beautiful
Padmâvatî; in the second act Padmâvatî stabs her husband to death for agreeing to this
scheme, and steps into a blazing pyre rather than break her vow of fidelity, even if it
means the destruction of everyone she knows and loves. In the first act the dancing is
about what you’d expect in an exotic opera-ballet: the slave-women of the King of
Tchitor perform routines that excite the Sultan to the point where he insists on seeing
unveiled the legendary Padmâvatî. But in the second act the dancers enact a supernatural
pantomime, in which the vampirish white daughters of Siva are drawn to the king’s
corpse, while the black daughters of Siva try to seize Padmâvatî; eventually Padmâvatî,
shuddering, performs a rite of exorcism as the priests sing the magic syllable Om, and the
dancers transform themselves into kindly spirits who escort Padmâvatî into the flames.
It is a dance about superseding all human desire, about entering nirvana. The most
striking piece in Roussel’s opera is an aria in the first act that a Brahmin sings in praise of
Padmâvatî:
Ses yeux sont les étoiles du ciel des immortels,
Elle glisse dans l’air comme un cygne sur l’eau immobile des lacs.
Les fleurs naissent de son sourire.
admâvatî est le rêve dont s’éveilla le créateur des mondes; son visage est
l’aurore du néant bienheureux.
Vers elle les désirs de l’univers s’élancent et meurent à sa vue.
Sa voix est le chant de l’oubli.
Her eyes are stars in the heaven of the gods,
She glides in the air like a swan on the still water of lakes.
Flowers are born from her smile.
Padmâvatî is the dream from which the creator of the worlds awoke; her
countenance is the dawn of blessed nothingness.
Toward her the desires of the universe rush, and die at her sight.
Her voice is the song of oblivion.
Her voice may be oblivion’s own voice, but it is dance that leads us into the pyre: by the
end we’ve left almost all singing behind and entered a pure domain of wordless, worldless
music and gesture. Roussel was an atheist, and the only composer I know who tried to
embody an atheistic philosophy in music drama, most notably his ballet The Spider’s Feast
(1913), in which human life is imaged as a sober and delicate dance of ephemerae. The
opera Padmâvatî is a self-superseding work, in which drama leaves off at the threshold of
apathy, aphasia, athambia, nothingness. A Brahmin, a real Brahmin named Mohini
Chatterjee, once told Yeats that “we ourselves are nothing but a mirror and that
deliverance consists in turning the mirror away [from the sensible world] so that it
reflects nothing” (W. B. Yeats and T. Sturge Moore: Their Correspondence 1901-37, ed. Ursula
Bridge (New York: Oxford University Press, 1953), p. 68). There are few works of art
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that provide this effect as strongly as Padmâvatî: the drama swivels away from
representation, turns its gaze backward into its eyesockets.
Roussel finished composing his opera in 1918, and it may be read as a response to the
Great War, which made earthly life especially worth forgetting. A few years later, in
1930, another composer with good reason for political disgust, Arnold Schoenberg,
started work on an another opera that explores the metaphysics of speech, song, and
dance: Moses und Aron. It is a long meditation on the commandment against graven
images: the hero, Moses, can (with one brief exception) only speak, not sing, for he feels
that any compromise with the beautiful, the rapt, the charming, is a movement toward
idolatry; song is the province of the eloquent Aron, who simplifies and falsifies Mosaic
truth in order to make it comprehensible to the crowd. The opera’s authentic action lies
in Moses’s inarticulate communion with the one and only, eternal, almighty, all-present,
invisible God–this is what is real; the whole plot concerning Aron and the other
characters–the miracle of the serpent, the miracle of the leprous hand, the building of the
Golden Calf, the presentation of the Tables of the Law–all these represent the low, the
fallen, the temporal, in short the Other. The opera takes place in eternity, in the endless
circumvolutions of the twelve-tone row, and stares downward at the sodden failure of
the human race to know truth and embody right conduct.
In this backwards opera, where the transcendental is the norm and the ciscendental–our
usual life–is the exotic, the whole semantics of opera is turned upside-down. We begin
with the Burning Bush, the voice of God, a delirious atonal interweave of speaking and
singing–Schoenberg’s God, like the Hebrew word Elohim, is a plural used as a singular;
and out of this tohu-bohu there eventually precipitates a firmament of themes, the
recognizable discourse of operatic drama. As we approach the great dance scene which
takes up most of the second act–the orgy around the Golden Calf–the tone-row starts to
fragment: a piece of the sixth transposition of the basic series, containing blatant fourths
and minor thirds, detaches itself and is obsessively repeated on the xylophone, as
butchers cut up live oxen and the Jews eat the bleeding chunks; soon the butchers start
to dance to this and other parodically tonal chunks of the butchered tone row. Just
before the main orgy begins, a tumult of sex, murder, and suicide, four naked virgin sing
a slow glassy hymn to the Golden Calf: they praise its cold chastity, its fruitlessness, and
ask the priests to give them their first and final rapture; the priests fondle the virgins, and
then, as the virgins hand them knives, stab them to death. The eeriness of this scene, and
of the whole bacchanale, is both like and unlike the other sorts of symbolic dance scenes
we’ve been studying today: like, in that exotic instrumentation, irregular rhythm, and
representations of unusual sexual practice provide a frisson of excitement; unlike, in that
the frisson seems to be God’s shudder at seeing human depravity, rather than a normal
audience oo-la-la response. Where serialism is divine, the comfortable sound of triads
becomes evil: Schoenberg inverts the normal structure of interpretation, as in Samson et
Dalila, where virtue is diatonic and vice is chromatic. The dance tempts us to enter that
bizarre place, ordinary Western life; the suggestions of jazz trumpet, unmistakable in the
dance of the butchers, remind us all the more strongly that, to Schoenberg, Berlin,
London, New York are all gigantic images of the Golden Calf. In his 1928 opera Von
heute auf morgen, Schoenberg’s characters dance in a living-room to music from a radio, the
ugliest, most garish caricature of popular music that Schoenberg could construct; and in
1949 Schoenberg, distressed at recent tendencies to squash together low music and high,
asked “Why not play a boogie-woogie when Wotan walks across a rainbow to Valhalla?”
(Schoenberg, Style and Idea: Selected Writings of Arnold Schoenberg, ed. Leonard Stein, tr. Leo
Black (Berkeley: University of California, 1984), p. 146). In a sense the dances in Moses
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und Aron are boogie-woogies played as Moses tries to walk up the mountain to God–a
sort of dance exactly opposite in tenor, yet curiously similar in function, to the dance that
impels Padmâvatî across the threshold to nirvana.
But there is one twentieth-century opera preeminent for its refusal to integrate ballet into
the rest of the musical discourse: Britten’s Death in Venice (1973). I noted before that in
Paris in the 1840s, the music that accompanied pantomimes wasn’t considered music–
just a series of disconnected gestural spasms in sound. In Britten’s opera Tadzio (the boy
who provokes intellectual rapture and disturbing sexual desire in the repressed artist-hero
Aschenbach) is played by a dancer who dances to the weird sonority of the gamelan, the
Javanese percussion band that is the anti-self of the Western orchestra: little melody, little
harmony, all rhythm. Aschenbach is himself an usual sort of character: his musical voice
is almost as speechlike as that of Schoenberg’s Moses, for he often sings in a talky pianoaccompanied recitative, as if he were performing a voice-over to his own life; he often
sounds like the Male Prologue in Britten’s The Rape of Lucretia, standing at the margin of
the stage and offering sober moral analysis of the events on stage. Song is the province
not of Aschenbach but of the tempters who conduct him toward Venice, toward
forbidden desire, toward hell; Britten carefully parcels out the components of music
theatre into different, somewhat hostile areas of the drama. In The Artwork of the Future
Wagner deplored the way in which Meyerbeerean opera had separated into three
immiscible elements, Poetry, Music, and Dance: “opera becomes the mutual compact of
the egoism of the three related arts” (p. 124); but Britten, like Schoenberg, uses this very
separation to aesthetic advantage. Here ballet not only seems to resist the opera in which
it finds itself, but also seems to resist the whole idea of opera: Tadzio exists on another
plane of reality, taking little notice of that fact that he’s surrounding by a bustle of
singers–in Yeats’s phrase, he is self-delighting, self-appeasing, self-affrighting.
Tadzio is less a lovely adolescent than the statue of a lovely adolescent, a Platonic form
of beauty itself, arrested in a vibraphone’s bronzy shimmer, as if shaped metal could
speak. Tadzio is an idol, a living violation of the second commandment, a golden calf.
The main musical figure that Britten uses to characterize Tadzio is an erratic descent
through a major seventh, from G sharp to A, and it is sometimes accompanied by a
chord consisting of G sharp-A sharp-C sharp-D–that is, a chord consisting of a squash
of the two semitonal areas (scale degrees 7-1 and 3-4) of the A major scale, the greatest
dissonances that the major scale can provide; the opposite or complement of a triad.
Here is hieroglyph, this sonority outside the normal workings of the harmonic system,
outside the usual semantic meaning of dissonance.
Describing the Apocalypsis oratorio by the imaginary composer Adrian Leverkühn, at the
end of chapter 34 of Thomas Mann's novel Dr. Faustus (1947), the narrator marvels that
the meanings of consonance and dissonance are reversed: hell is all parodically familiar
consonance, while heaven is depicted by “a piece of cosmic music of the spheres, icy,
clear, glass-transparent, acridly dissonant to be sure, and yet with a . . . charm of sound
inaccessibly-extraterrestrial and strange, filling the heart with longing without hope.”
This description seems pertinent both to certain features of Schoenberg’s Moses und Aron
and to Tadzio's celestial eeriness in Britten's Death in Venice: Tadzio’s figure is a kind of
music that excludes music-as-we-know-it, a kind of music that frustrates normal
procedures of interpretation as human feeling, as if Britten provided Tadzio with a device
inscribed in some lost or unknown musical language, without a Rosetta stone. Mann
hoped that Britten would write an operatic version of Dr. Faustus, but in a sense Britten's
operatic version of Mann’s Death in Venice does duty for Dr. Faustus as well. We may also
remember that one of the first recordings (1941) of the young Britten was as a pianist in
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Colin McPhee's Balinese Ceremonial Music, a transcription for two pianos of gamelan music,
the fruit of McPhee's extensive ethnomusicological research in Bali. It is impossible to
exaggerate the Otherness of Tadzio’s unconsciously seductive dance: it means nothing
except remoteness, the remoteness of Bali, or the planet Neptune, or that domain of
ideal forms to which, according to Plato, our backs are always turned. Like the dances in
Padmâvatî, it is a dance of annihilation, at once arousing desire and obliterating it.
I will end this brief tour of the ways in which opera and ballet resist one another by
asking a question: is there any opera so resistant to dance that a ballet would be
completely impossible? One would first look for such a thing in the world of German
opera, always more uneasy about frivolous entertainment than French or Italian opera;
and perhaps first at the operas of Wagner. Few Wagner operas have official dance
scenes, but, as it happens, almost all of them could profit from the attention of a
choreographer: rhine-maidens, flower-maidens, valkyries, wedding festivities in Brabant
or in the realm of the Gibichungs, charming masses of Norwegian girls, all require
patterned movement. An exception is Tristan und Isolde, which could take place on a
black stage, so little important are visibly moving bodies; here the trick of opera, the
transposition of the corporeal–skittishness, flush, embrace, orgasm–into pure voice,
seems to have found its ultimate triumph. And yet, the impossible thing, the Tristan
ballet, does exist, though Wagner didn’t write it. It is Emmanuel Chabrier’s Souvenirs de
Munich: Quadrille sur les thèmes favoris de “Tristan et Isolde” de Richard Wagner. Kurvenal’s
hearty tunes make perfect sense here; but to hear the melody of the Liebestod as a jaunty
dance is disconcerting–sacrilegious even, in certain frames of mind. But this is part of
the potential of the Leitmotiv, and Chabrier was right to realize it: just out of the range of
the ecstasy of voice, the orchestra convulsing in black fire, there lies a homely scene of
spiffy young folks and spry old folks dancing a quadrille. This quadrille has no business
on the operatic stage, but it serves as a reminder that every opera somewhere contains
the dance that resists it–that every opera, no matter how solemn, is, and ought to be, a
monstrous, piebald, historico-romantic, diabolico-religious, fanatico-libidinous, sacrofrivolous, mysterio-criminal, autolyco-sentimental dramatic hotchpotch.
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Connecting Spaces – Motion-capture, Dance,
Sound. (formerly Dancing Sound – Sounding
Dance)
Alastair Bannerman
Copyright 2005, Alastair Bannerman
My work over the recent years has begun to embrace the role of technology in creating
new relationships between movement and sound. Last year I undertook a project at
Laban, based on a system using motion-capture and real-time sound synthesis. In this
paper I will give an account of an earlier piece, my first exploration into these
technologies, created together with the dancer and choreographer Delphine Caron at
IRCAM, Paris, between May and October 2003. This work, entitled connected spaces, was
conceived as an interactive piece for one dancer, solo flute and live electronically
produced sound.
Composers, choreographers and visual artists†have been turning to emerging
technologies in order to explore new ways for art-disciplines to coexist since John Cage
and Merce Cunningham's experiments in the 60s. My own choice to explore it came as a
result of personal ideas I had at the time about the relation of sound to movement.
I will begin by presenting the background to my research and give a summary of the
initial aims of the project, followed by a brief outline of the technology used, a
description of the working process and finally an evaluation of the completed work,
addressing the issues raised by the experience of working on a project such as this.
1. Background to the work
My work as a composer has focused a lot on exploring the nature of sound, taking
sound-materials from their original contexts and creating networks of relationships
between them, forming a new context - or what the composer Trevor Wishart terms
'landscape'. (Wishart, 1996) Any sound has an essential characteristic we term its
morphology – its shape, and this morphology can be transferred or transmuted from one
set of sounds to another. This has profound implications for the type of landscapes that
can be created in the studio, enabling the composer to work with sound on an elaborate
metaphorical level.
In the past I have collaborated with choreographers; as a musician too, I have worked
with dance on a more day-to-day level as an accompanist for technique classes. Therefore
I have some experience of understanding the relation of musical accent and gesture to
movement. One question I asked myself was whether it would be possible to create a
system where the dynamic of any movement/sequence of movements could be analysed
and used to spontaneously generate a musical accompaniment. Starting with these general
speculations, I began considering how the relationship between sound and movement
could be viewed in the context of my work with the transmutation of sound
morphologies.
Most sounds, whatever their nature, can be related to an imagined or inferred cause: this
tendency is referred to by the composer and theorist Denis Smalley as source-bonding
(Smalley, 1997). In a work of electroacoustic music, this relation takes place on a number
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of different levels. Most works play with many of these levels: in my works so far, a
common trend is to take identifiable natural sources and transform them into the realm
of the less familiar. An example of this is the treatment of the human voice in my work in
th'air or th'earth, which uses text taken from Caliban’s speech in Shakespeare’s The Tempest:
the voice is blended in with more abstract, synthetic sounds which oppose, then gradually
absorb the voice, creating a poetic illustration of the text. For me, it has always been
important to use sounds which have an identifiable human element, be it vocal, or the
sound of the breath, or other human activity. However, since the ! mind is conditioned to
interpret any sound, however unfamiliar, and infer some type of origin for it, even
abstracted/ radically altered sounds can retain some link with a physical origin. Any
sound can be said to have an energy-motion trajectory (Smalley, ibid.): that is, from the
qualities of a sound we can infer the amount of energetic input that created it. This
perceived impetus can be imposed artificially by the composer as much as it can be taken
from the source's original cause. (An example of this is Ligeti's artikulation (1958), a work
with no naturally originating sounds, rather the composer gives the electronically
synthesized sounds vocal qualities so that the piece sounds like a type of conversation in
a made-up language).
I have always proceeded by abstracting the signature characteristics of 'real', identifiable
sound-sources and retaining these throughout. But what if the morphology of a sound,
its energy-motion trajectory were imposed from another source? Exploring this possibility
formed the starting point for connected spaces.
2. Technology
Using various technologies available for detailed analysis of movement, it is possible to
map any movement in time, measuring its speed, its direction and its breadth arriving at
the dynamic of a physical gesture. These measurements, fed into a computer system,
transform the sounds. In essence, the dynamic of the movement was to impose its
morphology on the sounds (Fig. 1).
Fig. 1
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We used a video-capture system called Eyes-web to capture the movement. The
advantage of this system is that it is non-invasive, the dancer needn't wear movementsensors for example. However, no system is transparent and the limitations of the videocapture had some implications for the choreography.
The version we used works by identifying the overall outline of a human silhouette, and
dividing that outline into blocks corresponding to individual points on the silhouette (Fig.
2).
Fig 2.
This produces a series of x-y coordinates for each point in the vertical plane. The analysis
is essentially 2-dimensional and subject to the conditions shown here. Therefore, whilst
face-on movements can be accurately measured, floor positions, or positions where any
point of the body is masked by another are less accurate. These inaccuracies contribute to
‘noise’, which can if not checked give very erroneous values. This already imposes on the
choreographer a need for a very clear, restricted style of movement. Other aspects of
production which might be of importance to the artist - costume and lighting in
particular, had to be subservient to considerations of the technology: the lighting had to
be carefully controlled to preserve contrast between the dancer and the background, and
the dancer had to leave the central area (where the analysis was active) for any changes in
lighting-settings.
Of course a choice can be made whether to make the inherent instability of the system a
feature of the work; indeed this was tried at the end of the piece where the lighting was
progressively dimmed; the breakdown in the relationship between the movement and
sound was rendered audible as increasing ‘chaos’ in the sound-response.
3. Working processes
The title of the work, connected spaces, refers to the symbiosis between the subjective
metaphorical space inhabited by sound, and the objective physical space in which the
dancer projects her movements. The dancer's movements impact on the soundworld:
they are projected within the parallel subjective sound-space.
For maximum effect, and in order to work within the technological limitations, the
choreographer was asked to aim for clarity of movement, avoiding floor positions and
other postures that might confuse the system, and to create dynamic, stylized contrasts in
her gestures: attack/ release, extend/ contract, activity/ stillness. This dialectical
opposition became a theme for the work itself.
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One of the pitfalls of a project of this kind is a failure to get beyond a straightforward
mimesis between the elements involved. Such an exercise may be interesting from a
technological aspect but leads to artistic redundancy. In order to fully explore the soundmetaphor as illuminated by movement, the relation between the dance and musical
elements was intended to be as multilayered as possible. It was decided to juxtapose
sections of non-interactivity with sections where the interaction took place. In the latter,
the degree of interaction varied from being very evident to being more ambiguous,
playing with the audience’s expectations.
Within the fully interactive parts the live sound was manipulated by the movement on
several levels:
Sounds were radically transformed both in their gestural articulation and their timbral
characteristics, that is, spectral structure, register and colour. A technique called granular
synthesis was used to change the morphology of the sound – the sound being broken
down into tiny grains, which are then remoulded in time by the movement dynamics.
This technique also allows for radical transformation of the sound’s texture and density.
A further musical parameter subject to being driven by the movement was the
spatialization, or projection of sound. Using algorithms which allowed the detailed
placing of a sound anywhere in the space, the sound could be made to ‘revolve’ as the
dancer moved, or appear more distant or present, depending on her type of movement.
The sound-material used was mainly flute recordings made by the soloist. These varied
from fragments of conventional playing to a range of extended techniques, working a lot
with the sound of the breath. The solo flute plays an initiatory role, the dancer
responding and simultaneously affecting the live-transformed sound. An arresting
example of this relationship can be seen in the first interactive section where a 'double
exposure' effect is achieved by having the passages played on the flute simultaneously
transformed by the system as the dancer moves: the passages are echoed and extended
through the dancer's body. Additionally, it was anticipated that the dancer would further
react to the sounds she herself generated, creating a positive feedback loop. (Fig 3.)
Fig 3. Musical-dramatic relationships
As with any collaboration across disciplines, there were issues to be resolved, principally
concerning the interdependence of dance and music. The necessity for a very close
working approach was evident. However, my technique as a composer was to engage
with the discrete sound-material on a detailed level without always knowing how it would
18
Bannerman
fit into the bigger picture, whereas the choreographer was accustomed to working from a
pre-existing score. It was difficult to articulate the final shape of the work to the
choreographer, especially when her input was required to fully realize it! This creative
paradox needed to be resolved before further progress could be made. A pragmatic
solution was to ‘storyboard’ the work, fleshing out an abstract narrative, which provided
a ‘text’ for the music and choreography.
A lot of work also had to be done on making the system responsive in the right way,
leading to hours spent reprogramming. At the same time the choreographer would
subsequently modify her movements to work better with the system. With the gradual
solution of the various creative and technical issues, the work started to take shape.
4. Evaluation, conclusions
In any work there may be a gap between intention and realization, more so when the use
of new technologies play a key role. To what extent was the integrity of the work
compromised by the difficulties in the working process? The interdependence of dance
and music may have required the adoption of a more open flexible approach than was
attempted here. As it was, the combination of set choreography with set sections of
music alongside the spontaneous interactions between movement and sound resulted in a
possibly contradictory work. A further issue to be considered is the impact of this
movement/ dance relationship: how evident was the link between the two? Was it clear
enough without being too obvious? Those who knew what was being attempted were
divided in this: some felt it was not that apparent, others felt the relationship strongly.
It is important that artistic collaborators are focused on a common goal at the outset.
Because of the exigencies of the situation - time and space constraints, the complexity of
the technology involved and the personnel required to set up the system, the composer
and choreographer worked too much in isolation in the early and middle stages of the
project. If the collaborators cannot consistently share in the creative process, then at least
constant communication is essential.
For the future, there are a range of creative approaches to this interactivity between
dance and music to be borne in mind, maybe involving elements of live improvisation,
and maybe taking more account of the unpredictable nature of these projects. Advances
in technology are opening up more possibilities all the time, and there is much rich new
territory being explored now, and remains to be.
Bibliography
Camurri A., De Poli G., Leman M., Volpe G. (2005). Toward Communicating
Expressiveness and Affect in Multimodal Interactive Systems for Performing Arts
and Cultural Applications. IEEE Multimedia, Vol.12, No.1, Jan 2005.
Smalley, D. (1997). Spectromorphology: Explaining Sound-Shapes.
Organised Sound, 2(2), pp.107-126. Cambridge University Press.
Volpe, G. (2005) (Ed.) Special Issue on Expressive Gesture in Performing Arts and New
Media. Journal of New Music Research, 34(1), Taylor & Francis Publishers
Wishart, T. (Ed. Simon Emmerson) (1996). On Sonic Art. Amsterdam: Harwood
Academic Publishers
19
Buckland
The Musical Life of a Late Victorian Dancing Master
From Familiar Melody to Alien Jazz
Theresa Jill Buckland
De Montfort University, Leicester, England
Copyright 2005, Theresa Jill Buckland
Social dance and music in the late Victorian and Edwardian period have received little
scholarly attention in comparison with dance and music designated as “art.” This is
particularly the case with social dance and music in England from 1870 to 1920. And yet,
dance and music in the social sphere similarly underwent the transformative effects of
modernity, the legacies of which remain today. Key witnesses to these transformations
were the teachers of social dancing who faced an unprecedented revolution in music and
dance culture. Two highly regarded and well established teachers, whose long careers
spanned the old world of the waltz and quadrille and the new world of the one-step and
the tango, were Louis D’Egville (1855-1927), who came from a family dynasty of dancing
teachers and musicians, and Edward Scott (1852-1937), whose publications on social
dancing and its technique are perhaps the most prolific and revealing of the period. Both
men might qualify as the last of the English dancing masters and both provide insight
into the musical competence of Victorian dancing masters and their responses to the new
sounds and moves from America in the early 1900s.1
Since the early Renaissance the dancing master or mistress had been a significant figure in
the lives of European royalty and aristocracy, acting as mediator of a music and dance
culture that signalled social position. He or she conserved the traditions of the past,
developed and disseminated the latest dance fashion and aimed to police the social
distinction of bodily culture between different social groups. For several hundred years,
the high- class dancing master’s role had been to contribute directly to the civilizing
process that helped to assure the social distinction of the rich and powerful. Until the end
of the 1800s, the most well positioned dancing masters maintained a number of
eighteenth-century traditions typical of the profession and each of which had a musical
dimension:
•
Instruction in ballet technique fundamentals
•
Gender socialization through deportment, etiquette and repertoire
•
Connections with the theatre
•
Aesthetic and socio-political principles of grace and refinement
•
Adherence to Parisian fashions in dance and music
•
Composition of his/her dances and music
With the arrival of the democratizing sounds and movement of ragtime and jazz in the
early 1900s, however, these functions were threatened, contributing to a decline in the
social importance of the dancing master and removing his once direct interface with the
production of music for dancing.2
Dancing in Victorian elite society enjoyed a comparatively high profile. A number of
under-explored historical sources provide some understanding, even if a fragmentary
one, of the social and artistic contexts in which the dancing master or mistress worked.
These sources (the use of which includes the usual caveats proper to contemporary
historiography) include:
20
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
Buckland
Dance manuals
Newspaper reports
Census returns, birth, marriage and death certificates
Specialist periodicals
Sheet music
Theatre bills
Photographs
Diaries and biographies
Social dancing in late Victorian society was a highly formalized activity, its rules extending
to the restricted choice of dance and music repertoires, the environments in which these
repertoires were enacted, and their accompanying musical instrumentation.3 The two
principal types of social dancing were round dances and squares. Round dances were
couple dances performed by men and women who rotated together on a circular pathway
around the ballroom. Typically, round dances included the polka, the mazurka, the
gallop, and of course the ubiquitous waltz. Square dances comprised of various
choreographies of the quadrille; a dance form executed by four couples arranged as in the
four sides of a square.4 Throughout the century, the music that accompanied these
waltzes, polkas, quadrilles and the like was either specially composed or else was arranged
from popular tunes of the day, many of which were often drawn from the theatre.
Distributed through the publishing industry, sheet music for dancing might also contain
verbal instructions on how to perform the latest dance, and often written by a famous
dancing master of the day. Thus the dancing master ensured dissemination of his own
choreography, as in the newly composed dance and music of the Chorolistha by Edward
Scott, or else the dancing master provided his own dance notation to some specifically
composed tune by a musician, such as the dance The Arcadian created by dancing master
Robert Crompton.5 New dances and music for dancing received regular reviews not only
in the emerging specialist periodicals dedicated to dance, such as Dancing and The Dancing
Times, but were more widely brought to public attention in daily and weekly newspaper
reviews of new music.6
The new music would be played by quadrille bands of string players who were hired to
accompany dances in the private ballrooms of royalty, the aristocracy, and the London
houses of the newly rich upper middle classes. In more public venues such as hotels,
quadrille bands or military bands were often engaged for subscription and charity dances.
Music for Scott’s Chorolistha, for example, exists in a scoring for a military band.7 At
smaller private dances, of which there were a great many during the London season , a
small string orchestra was considered appropriate, or a piano and violin. For even more
small-scale affairs, a pianist, most usually female, much as in Jane Austen’s time, would
be drawn from within the ranks of the social gathering itself.8 A late Victorian manual on
ballroom etiquette offers the following advice with respect to the provision of music at
private dances;
Good music is an absolute necessity…Keep musicians as much in the
background as possible. They should be heard not seen.9
In the event of amateur accompaniment, the efforts of the lady pianists were not always
fully appreciated by the dancers, as a cartoon in the satirical magazine Punch makes
clear.10 It might also be remembered that dancing fulfilled a vital role in the marriage
stakes among high society. Although a young woman playing the piano could be the
focus of attention at soirees, at dances her role as pianist was secondary and she was
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Buckland
literally removed from the central space of the courtship that took place publicly on the
dance floor.
Undoubtedly late Victorian high society was highly musical in terms of its participation in
music making and listening as the pioneering research of music scholars such as Cyril
Ehrlich and Nicholas Temperley has made clear.11 We have plenty of evidence of music
scores for social dancing and of dance manuals - but how did people actually move to the
music? And was the system of tuition provided by dancing masters, together with their
prescriptive texts successful in achieving harmonious and well-coordinated rhythmic
dancing to the music? In the chapter “Dancing to Music” in his 1892 book, Dancing as an
Art and Pastime, Scott observes:
The fact is, that for purposes of dancing it is far better to have an
accurate perception of rhythm than an ear for a tune.12
Scott is mindful of the tendency of those with an ear for music to attempt to dance by
following the melody rather than the rhythm and recommends learning how to
distinguish rhythmic differences between, for example, the waltz, polka, and mazurka.
He also provides exercises to music intended to indicate to the pupil the duration and
quality of the step. With respect to ease of learning and general dancing proficiency, Scott
notes that women rather than men tended to be more responsive pupils. By the second
half of the nineteenth century, certainly, dancing was no longer so regular a part of a
young man’s education in high society, even though he was expected to be able to
participate in the various balls and dances of the season. By the 1890s, listening to music,
or indeed playing cards rather than joining in the dance could be a more favoured activity
for young men as a cartoon again from Punch indicates.13 For all the tuition and manuals
available, for both men and women, it is clear that sometimes the actual practice of
matching specific dance steps to musical rhythms fell short of Scott’s ideal.14
The musical accompaniment for learning to dance was provided mostly by a pianist in
urban contexts in the late nineteenth century. Louis D’Egville, according to his son’s
testimony, was in fact a gifted pianist:
Though he had assistants to play for him, he often played himself. On
these occasions he would sit at the piano, play a few runs and chords,
and then go off into something perfectly glorious but to which no dance
could possibly be done. He had forgotten the pupils completely. There
they stood and listened in rapture while he played like no man I have
ever heard since … 15
But D’Egville also continued an older tradition of the dancing master’s profession with
respect to musical competence, for he was a violinist who was much appreciated by
leading professional musicians. He and his father, also called Louis D’Egville (1819-1892)
had co-founded ‘The Wandering Minstrels,’ an amateur orchestra which included
members of the aristocracy and which regularly gave public recitals for charity. Louis
D’Egville senior was a well known composer of dance and theatre music, was an expert
at re-stringing violins for professional players, and possessed a collection of eighteenthcentury violins, one of which is still known as the D’Egville.16 Indeed, many of the
D’Egville dynasty, including the women, taught dance and deportment and composed
music that was published.
The creation of new dance and music was an expected function of the Victorian dancing
master, feeding the desire for novelties at each London season, but all within the strict
bounds of European good taste and tradition. By the late 1800s, the younger generations
22
Buckland
were showing signs of boredom with the established repertoire of round and square
dances. The traffic in dances and music had tended to be from the old world to the new
– from Europe to America. But there were signs of a reversal of this direction. The first
popular import, the American Barn Dance, arrived around 1888.17 Several years later
another American import the Washington Post arrived with accompanying music by
Sousa.18 Although the dance and music enjoyed popularity it was comparatively shortlived in society ballrooms, even though or possibly because the steps and choreographic
structure followed familiar models. The dominant dances of the society ballroom at the
end of the 1800s remained the waltz and quadrille.
Waltzing in the late 1800s was still the Viennese style of rotary waltz in which dancers
were to turn their feet out slightly and take two bars of music to accomplish a full turn. It
was becoming though more difficult to dance the rotary waltz absolutely correctly and as
instructed by dancing masters such as Scott and D’Egville. This difficulty was related to
the new fashion for Austrian, German and Hungarian bands who typically played the
waltz at an accelerated tempo. To accommodate the pace, a new fashion of dancing the
waltz emerged, known as the Boston. This required a number of distinctive features:
parallel feet as if in walking, a smooth step, a ballroom hold in which the man and
woman no longer faced each other at a respectable distance, but positioned themselves
hip to hip. Musically, the dancers took twice the number of bars to effect a full turn and
moved to the melody rather than to the rhythm. The occurrence of dual responses (at
least) to the same music in the same environment caused considerable confusion on the
dance floor especially as the Boston was rectilinear in its pathway rather than rotary.19 The
Victorian dancing masters were slow to act upon this new style of moving to the quicker
waltz music, insisting still on the turned out positions of the old rotary waltz style.
By the end of the first decade of the twentieth century, the seeming chaos on the dance
floor was exacerbated by a musical revolution from America: ragtime. The new music
was embraced enthusiastically by the younger generation but the establishment
responded in terms of moral panic.20 Punch ran a series of cartoons satirizing the new
music and dance forms, the iconography of one of which, depicting the response of the
muse of Music to the arrival of the newly popular forms, might merit the attention of a
whole paper.21 New dances such as the One Step and Two Step flooded the dance floor, for
which no technique grounded in the essentials of ballet was necessary. The Tango had also
arrived on the scene via Paris and the London stage. The Victorian dancing masters had
no expertise in these new forms, and the situation promoted the rise of young exhibition
dancers to demonstrate often complex new moves.22 The appearance of a succession of
so-called animal dances such as the Turkey Trot and Grizzly Bear during the years
preceding the First World War occasioned a number of verbal attacks on the new
fashions of dance and music with accusations of moral degeneration. The national press
carried frequent articles and correspondence, often fuelling the controversy, and to which
Edward Scott was a vociferous contributor. Above all, these dances and music were
regarded by their critics as completely alien to the English temperament and were said to
threaten the roots of civilization itself.23 The racial content of this reaction is highly
offensive to today’s readers, but provides important information that a significant
number of educated and articulate people within the nation clearly felt threatened by the
irreversible political, social and economic changes around them.
By the time the sound of jazz arrived during the First World War, it was evident that
there was to be no easy return to the old technique of social dancing, or to the sounds of
the nineteenth century. Following the First World War, dances were no longer
accompanied by Austrian and German bands who, on the war’s outbreak, had returned
23
Buckland
to continental Europe. Instead, the new bands were composed of mainly English
musicians who followed American styles of instrumentation such as the banjo, drums,
piano and saxophone. The dissemination of new dance music through the transatlantic
publication of sheet music had been further widened through the development of the
recording industry.24 No longer was it absolutely necessary for a teacher of dancing to
have been schooled from childhood in the practice of music making and composition.
The newly arrived dance teachers, many of them female, might use records, although
some ability to play the piano remained in evidence since so many of these new teachers
were drawn from middle-class families. Scott had been unable to turn back the tide of the
new syncopated rhythms, however much he continued to deride them. For most of the
younger generation, the new sounds and movements had been eagerly copied and made
their own. Even Scott’s elder son had been caught up in the excitement of the new
sound, and became a well known ragtime pianist with an international reputation.25
By the end of the First World War, the alien invasion was complete: Scott, now nearing
his seventies, although still teaching and writing, turned his attention more and more to
the revival of dances reconstructed from what he regarded as the more civilized days of
the eighteenth century and earlier. D’Egville spent more time working with actors in the
theatre, training them at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art. 26 Neither man attempted
to create dances or music in the style of the new world. In a few decades, several hundred
years of dance and music tradition had been overturned. Social dancers and musicians
had responded positively to the sounds and moves of two new continents, America and
Africa: the twentieth century fashionable dance and music cultures of old Europe were
now to reflect the realities of an increasingly postcolonial world.
Notes and Acknowledgements
I wish to thank the Arts and Humanities Research Council and the British Academy for the
award of grants to support the research from which this paper is drawn.
1
See Theresa Jill Buckland, ‘Edward Scott: The Last of the English Dancing Masters,’ Dance
Research, 21, no. 2, 2003, pp. 3-35. For brief biographical details on Louis D’Egville see his
obituary in The Dancing Times, January 1928, pp. 534, 536.
2 This paper is drawn from my forthcoming monograph, Society Dancing: Fashionable Bodies in
England, 1870-1920.
3 For general information on social dancing in this period see Philip J. S. Richardson, The Social
Dances of the Nineteenth Century, London: Herbert Jenkins, 1960 and A. H. Franks, Social Dance: A
Short History, London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1963, chapter 6. For insightful commentary
on selected primary source material from both sides of the Atlantic see Elizabeth Aldrich, From
the Ballroom to Hell: Grace and Folly in Nineteenth-Century Dance, Evanston, Illinois: Northwestern
University Press, 1991.
4 See Ellis A. Rogers, The Quadrille. A Practical Guide to its Origin, Development and Performance,
Orpington, Kent: C & E Rogers, 2003 for an overview of its form and practice in England
during the nineteenth century.
5 Edward Scott, The Chorolistha, an entirely New Round Dance, London: Francis Bros & Day [1889];
The Arcadian by R. M. Crompton was a new round dance composed to music by Oscar Morley,
London: E. Ascherberg, 1897. Copies of both are in the British Library.
6 Dancing 1891-1893 edited by R. M. Crompton; The Dancing Times, first series 1894-1902, second
series edited by P J S Richardson, 1910 onwards.
7 In Boosey’s Supplemental Military Journal, April 1890, copy in the British Library.
24
Buckland
8
See Ruth A Solie, ‘”Girling” at the Parlor Piano,’ in Ruth A Solie, Music in Other Words. Victorian
Conversations, Berkeley, Los Angeles and London: University of California Press, 2004, pp. 85117.
9 A. C. Maxfield, Dancing and Ball Room Etiquette, London: Gaskill and Marriott, [1901], p. 8.
10 ‘Severe on the Pianistes,’ Punch, 17 February 1872, p. 74.
11 Nicholas Temperley (ed), The Athlone History of Music in Britain, vol 5, The Romantic Age 18001914, London: The Athlone Press, 1981; Cyril Ehrlich, The Music Profession in Britain Since the
Eighteenth Century: A Social History, Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1985; Nicholas Temperley (ed), The
Lost Chord: Essays on Victorian Music, Bloomington, Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 1989.
12 Edward Scott, Dancing as an Art and Pastime, London: George Bell, 1892, p. 19.
13 ‘Dancing Men,’ Punch, 12 March 1892, p. 126.
14 ‘A Terrible Alternative,’ Punch, 10 January 1885, p. 18.
15 Alan D’Egville, Adventures in Safety, London: Sampson Low, Marston and Co., 1937, p. 4.
16 D’Egville, Adventures in Safety, p. 2.
17 This dance was variously known as the American Barn Dance, Barn Dance, Military Schottische and
Pas de Quatre. See Richardson, Social Dances, pp. 118, 145; Edward Scott, How to Dance, or the
Etiquette of the Ball Room, London: Ward, Lock and Co, [1898], pp. 78-81.
18 See Richardson, Social Dances, p. 119, 145-46; Scott, How to Dance, pp. 83-85.
19 Richardson provides an interesting retrospective on the emergence of this dance in Philip J. S.
Richardson, A History of English Ballroom Dancing (1910-45), London: Herbert Jenkins, 19 pp. 1821. See also Edward Scott, All About the Boston. A Critical and PracticalTtreatise on Modern Waltz
Variations, London: Geo. Routledge and Sons, 1913. The controversy surrounding the Boston
can be traced in The Dancing Times of the period.
20 The years 1910-1913 saw considerable comment in the national and specialist press.
21 ‘Time, Gentlemen, Please!’ Punch, 9 April 1913, p. 275.
22 For a comparable situation and mindful of the transatlantic traffic in dancers between New
York, Paris and London, see Lewis A Erenberg, Steppin’ Out: New York Nightlife and the
Transformation of American Culture, 1890-1930, Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press,
1981, pp. 146-175 and Julie Malnig, Dancing Till Dawn. A Century of Exhibition Ballroom Dance, New
York and London: New York University Press, 1992.
23 See, for example, A Dancer of the Past, letter to The Times (London), 22 May 1913, p.11;
Edward Scott, letter to The Times, 22 May 1913, p. 11; Anonymous correspondent to The Times ,
26 May 1913, p.7. These issues and others will be dealt with more fully in my monograph, Society
Dancing.
24 For detail on the live music and recording scene for listening and dancing see James J Nott,
Music For The People. Popular Music and Dance in Interwar Britain, Oxford: Oxford University Press,
2002.
25 Information on Scott’s son Harold was kindly provided by Edward Scott’s grand-daughter,
Miss Gillian Booth. I am most grateful to Miss Booth for sharing knowledge of her family with
me.
26 D’Egville, Adventures in Safety, pp. 153-8.
25
Duerden
Dancing in the imagined space of music
Rachel Duerden
Manchester Metropolitan University
Copyright 2005, Rachel Duerden
The natural affinity between music and dance allows each to draw attention to the other
sometimes most tellingly when they seem to be in closest harmony with one another but
then, on further look, reveal subtle divergences which offer as it were a glimpse into
another world, a parallel universe. It is this tantalising glimpse that is my main focus
here, and because I want to look at this at the level of detail rather than the larger-scale
structural aspects, I am considering dance and music events which might be termed
‘gestures’. Gesture is an elusive term, but it is something that functions as metaphor in
both music and dance, and thus forges a link that may facilitate the exploration of some
important aspects of music-dance relationships.
In the complementary relationship of dance and music, dance seems to have moved into
what Roger Scruton (1997) describes as ‘the imagined space of music’ and, at the same
time, to have drawn music into the ‘real space’ of performance. The relationship is
steeped in metaphor as we are invited to perceive one in terms of or in the light of the
other, and to consider the potential transfer of attributes from one to the other. Dance
and music share significant features, such as rhythm, metre, tempo – the fact that they
are structured in and through time - but also have intrinsic differences, they each ‘mean’
differently, making the job of talking about their relationship with one another difficult in
some ways. Perhaps, however, this combination of closeness and distance is what makes
the use of metaphor itself seem natural – but I want to look not so much at the way we
use metaphor in speaking about dance and music together as about the way in which
metaphor may itself be a significant part of the way that relationship works. Linking two
disparate entities by metaphor first draws attention to a clear point of contact between
the two, and then goes further and implies or invites us to consider further connections –
we imagine further attributes of one being transferred to the other, creating ghostly
resonances beyond that first connection.
When we see a dancer articulate a specific rhythmic pattern in movement – a pattern that
we hear in music at the same time – there is immediately that clear point of reference or
correspondence that attracts our attention and offers a sense of the two belonging, or
corresponding in some way, because we recognise the movement reaching its ‘closure’ as
the sound occurs. The dance movement could, in a parallel universe, be the cause of the
sound we hear. But we know that it is not, of course and, once our attention is drawn to
both the connection and the contradiction, then we notice perhaps something else that is
not as we first thought, our attention is drawn to other aspects which seem germane to
the relationship. Indeed, arguably, a lot of the satisfaction we derive from dance with
music comes from the tension between convergence and divergence. A continuing
dialogue – sometimes consonant, sometimes dissonant – introduces a wealth of potential
attribute transfer to enrich and complexify the resulting choreography, and in each case
there is a drawing of attention, a mutual illumination, and a process of suggestion. We
find this deeply satisfying, I should like to say, because we are engaged both intellectually
26
Duerden
and aesthetically. To borrow from art philosopher Paul Crowther (1993), the rational
and the sensuous are reconciled in this engagement.1
Gesture is a term frequently used in talking about both dance and music, although its
precise application is constantly elusive, but I think there is significance in the fact that it
is a term that is used in a metaphorical sense in both disciplines – and it is the connection
through metaphor, and the transference of attributes that metaphor entails, that I’m
exploring here.2 Roger Scruton, in his book The Aesthetics of Music (1997), refers frequently
to ‘gesture’ in relation to music, acknowledging its metaphorical use in connecting with
ideas about human communication, expression and experience. His exploration of the
spatial imagery so frequently used in music writing is particularly interesting when
considering music’s relationship to dance. He writes: ‘music shows us movement
without the thing that moves’ (1997:341).3
I should like to focus on two exemplars, each of which offers a different way of thinking
about ‘gesture’ and its metaphorical function in both dance and music. The ‘Bransle Gay’
solo from Agon (1957) is an especially interesting one to consider in the light of Stephanie
Jordan’s (2002) excellent analysis of it in terms of temporal structures – the importance
of metre and rhythmic pattern - and Irene Alm’s observations on the deliberate
‘incompleteness’ of Stravinsky’s score, only made ‘complete’ by the choreography. I have
chosen one instance when rhythmic convergence gives way to a more elusive relationship
of dance and music, that at the same time draws attention to another way of
understanding the nature of that relationship. The second exemplar is the ‘Bourrée’ from
Mark Morris’ Falling Down Stairs (1997), created by the choreographer in collaboration
with the cellist, Yo Yo Ma, to J S Bach’s 3rd Suite for Solo Cello. This is an interesting
work to consider in terms of dance and music ‘gestures’ for a number of reasons. The
music, of course, is directly related to dance forms of the 17th and 18th century, replete
with musical ‘gestures’ of the baroque that seem to beg for consideration in relation to
the choreography that Morris has created. The choreography is non-narrative, but rich
with gestural movement that could be seen as strongly connotative. The close matching
of musical metrical and rhythmic patterns sometimes draws accusations of ‘MickeyMousing’ but, as Stephanie Jordan writes
Mark Morris has proved the point that [the] ‘rule’ against overdoing
[music visualisation] can be broken, demonstrating through his extreme
density of visualisation the various ways in which music can be listened
to. And, too, through judicious movement invention, he shows us the
ironies and fun of Mickey-Mousing
Jordan 2000:74
I should like to argue that, in both the exemplars I am looking at, music and dance offer
reciprocal metaphorical illumination.
Underlying all this is the recognition that each medium – dance and music – means
differently. But through the use of metaphor, we are encouraged to engage with both
together, enjoying and being engaged by the transference of attributes between the two
and understanding each in the light of the other. I should like to look at this process
from two related but slightly different perspectives. First, the notion of each medium –
dance or music – leaving gaps or holes through which the other can be apprehended,4
and secondly the possibility of one as it were throwing light on the other, or offering a
particular way of understanding or engaging with it.
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Duerden
The idea of one medium leaving gaps or holes for the other is one that arises, naturally
enough, in discussions of the relationship of music and film. Nicholas Cook refers to
this as ‘gapping’ – a means to allow both music and image to have space to inhabit (Cook
1998:122) and to operate collaboratively in the construction of meaning. This is a
metaphorical image, again; the notion of allowing music space to inhabit, for example. It
is easy to see how this notion may be applied to dance and the principle is surely at work
in Agon, which the composer, Stravinsky, deliberately made economical to allow space for
the choreography. The music was not intended to be complete in itself, but to be
completed by the choreography.
Jordan’s analysis (2002) of the ‘Bransle Gay’ from Agon explores and illuminates
especially cogently the metric and rhythmic structural relationships between dance and
music, and the ways in which each can weave patterns that complement the other, gently
drawing attention to differences while remaining transparent enough to facilitate the
perception and appreciation of both; each medium leaving gaps, as it were, through
which we can perceive the other.
In one particular moment (it occurs twice in the solo), the female soloist’s arms articulate
the rhythm of the castanets. But in this case the rhythm is in fact only that: castanet
sound with no melody, no harmony (not even the implied harmony that melody can
evoke), pure rhythmic patterns, brisk and staccato. The dancer’s movements are clearly
articulated rhythmically, certainly, but the focus of articulation is the wrist, even though
the whole arm moves, and the hand is left behind, as it were – like an afterimage, almost
– and this is at odds with the music’s clear-cut, pristine edge. So immediately we have a
tension: a clear correspondence in rhythmic terms, but at the same time a clear
announcement of the divergence of media, a feeling of distance between the two. It is
like an invitation to notice and contemplate the difference between the two worlds, to
acknowledge the autonomy of each, perhaps. It is a playful, mischievous moment, no
doubt – there is nothing literal about it, no-one thinks the dancer is playing castanets and
her gestures do not resemble that activity at all. But suddenly, the music is ‘shown’ to us
and, at the same time, the dance reveals its difference – the difference between the
embodied and the disembodied, visual and aural - and we recognise the existence of
parallel worlds (dance in the imagined space of music?).
A second perspective is that of one throwing light on or making the other more less
specific. Musicologist Jenefer Robinson (1998) has written about the notion that while
music may not ‘mean’ in any specific sense, its potential meanings may be given
specificity in a given context. We can extend that idea through, for example, the
juxtaposition of its relationship with dance (Duerden, 2000); consider different
choreographic treatments of the same score, for example, each offering one way of
exploiting the expressive potential of the music and extending the availability of meaning.
The association of musical themes with characters, as in leit-motif, is another aspect of
this, although, as Marian Smith has noted (Smith 2000:178), musical ideas in nineteenthcentury ballets were not necessarily attached to characters, but to moods; for example in
Giselle Loys’s ‘declaration of love’ and Wilfride’s ‘softening of…resistance’ use the same
musical theme; perhaps suggesting a similar emotional colouring in different dramatic
contexts.
Thus sometimes we might understand dance to be perhaps offering a specific ‘reading’ of
the music, grounding its emotional colouring through its own characterisation and
narrative action. In fact, any narrative work that is linked structurally and dramatically to
its music could be said to do that as Smith shows. But it need not be character or
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narrative that produces this sense of specificity, although gesture in its broader sense may
offer a fruitful area of enquiry.
In the ‘Bourrée’ from Mark Morris’ Falling Down Stairs, the nine dancers stand in close
formation on the staircase of the title and, in the first section (and again in the third and
final section), they perform, in unison (or canon, in the final section) an intricate series of
gestures of hands, arms and head, keeping very close to the metrical pulse of the music
and its phrasing. The rhythmic patterns of dance and music do not coincide, however,
even though the strong metrical link and the shaping of the phrases tends toward that
impression. This is at least in part due to the fact that music notes can ‘move’ much
faster than the human body, even when it is only hands that are moving. Physical
movement, perceived visually, is much more sluggish than movement in sound can be;
this is a spatial issue, of course – a human body has to get from here to there by passing
through all the space between; it cannot simply be ‘here’ and then be ‘there’. So there is
in no sense a ‘movement per note’ correspondence here; and, of course, the dancers
themselves are very much rooted to the spot – connecting with the musician himself,
rather than with the sound he makes.5 The shaping of the gestural movement is varied in
terms of focus, direction, attack and the extent to which other body parts, beyond hands
only, are involved, such as arms and head. Sometimes the hands reach out towards a
virtual audience, sometimes they describe circular or cascading actions in space. The very
fact of the focus of the movement overall being directed to the dancers’ hands – such a
potentially expressive part of the body – loads the movement with implied significance.
But it is significance without signification, to borrow from Edward Cone6 because there
is no story being told here - in the traditional sense, at least.
But then how is the dance making the music ‘more specific’, if it is indeed doing this?
One of the key features in this particular piece is the close structural relationship of dance
and music. The phrase lengths in the music are regular four-bars, apart from the final
phrase, which is augmented to eight bars. The piece is in two sections, each of which is
repeated, and then played through again without repeats. The dance matches this –
phrase lengths coincide, repeats coincide (apart from the reprise, when Morris introduces
the same material but in canon at three). So far, so ‘Mickey Mouse’, one might think.
However, looking more closely at the detail, different things begin to emerge, and to
draw attention to the different worlds of dance and music. I mentioned earlier about the
different speeds at which dance and music can move, and this is particularly evident here.
The music is fairly fast and, while the dance movement also moves along at a pace, it
does not articulate anything like the same number of what we might call ‘events’. It is the
problem of getting from here to there, again, even though the dancers stay on the spot.
So the articulation of rhythmic patterns is very different in each – for example, a
throwing action that is performed several times in a downward direction, and then
repeated in an upward direction, has one clear rhythmic impulse at the beginning of the
movement. The follow on from that impulse is a continuation of the same thing, similar
to the after-image idea I mentioned earlier in relation to the ‘Bransle Gay’. The music,
however, is articulating sequential patterns of quavers in groups of four for each
throwing action. The direction of the musical gesture is downward, to start with, as is the
dance gesture, but not in an uninterrupted path – three notes down, one up, then the
pattern repeated in a lower register, then again, then again with slight variation. The
detail of variation in the music is far greater than in the dance, yet we perceive a strong
connection between the two. Apart from the metrical connection, there is something
about the almost workmanlike attitude of the dancers, the fluency and the exuberance of
their gestures, that picks up on and highlights similar qualities in the music.7 The music,
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with its clarity of timbre and articulation, is given back its dancerly roots, its joie de vivre –
this is not to say that these things are not apparent already, of course, but rather that the
dance could be seen to draw attention to them, to ground these ideas in a specific
manifestation belonging to the present while reflecting back to the past. Dancing in the
imagined space and the real space and moving through each, the choreography draws
attention to or makes visible the imagined space, but in such a way as to suggest that
there could be any number of parallel imagined spaces. Morris uses images or gestures
which could be seen to correspond in some way to the musical shape – for example the
dropping or throwing of the hand downward to reflect the falling melodic line – but then
mischievously pulling the rug from underneath us, as he uses dance equivalents of
musical compositional forms to contradict the first idea. In this instance, he is mirroring
the shape – as Bach frequently does in melody – but here the mirroring means that the
hand is moving upwards, defying gravity, if we saw the first movement as a dropping
motion. The music has its own pattern – again, three notes down, one up, in sequential
repetition, but climbing higher than previously. So Morris could be seen to be at once
borrowing musical forms and conventions and applying them to choreography, and, at
the same time, deliberately dislocating the movement from the music. By drawing
attention to the beauty of formal structures in baroque music, undercutting the perceived
relationship of dance and music, and achieving this with wit and invention, the dance
seems to be at once a celebration of the music and a celebration of the humanly
embodied.
We could also revisit the ‘Bransle Gay’ solo here: there is a clear rhythmic pattern, clear
correspondence between the two, as Jordan points out (this is in the context of a highly
developed contrapuntal rhythmic relationship between choreography and music in the
dance as a whole) but, qualitatively, the two are quite distinct because of the nature of the
human frame in comparison with the sound of the castanet. The latter evidences quick
‘decay’, sharp articulation of rhythm, no ‘dying fall’, whereas the dancer’s movement,
while it is similarly sharply articulated, necessarily has a kind of blurred edge; the hand
seems to trail behind the movement of the wrist, whether this is indeed the case or not,
visually it seems to be. So what at first glance appears to be a close correspondence, in
fact is a little more subtle than that. A tiny detail, perhaps – but it is in those tiny details
that we find complexity, richness, meaning, even. It may be that significance lies in these
tiny details precisely because they open up issues on a small scale which then have
potential application on a much larger scale.
In these two examples I have tried to begin to identify some of the more subtle and
elusive aspects of dance-music relationships that interest me, and I have selected works
by two choreographers known for their highly developed musicality, because I feel that
that is where the relationship really becomes something very special, something beyond
the dance and the music individually. I have, also, only considered very small moments,
but that is because I believe that the richness of dance-music relationships is found at the
microscopic level just as much or perhaps even more than at the level of larger structural
elements, although it is there as well, of course. Through this analysis I am led to explore
the nature of our engagement with art, and the role of metaphor in that engagement and
ways in which metaphor serves to draw our attention differently. So to draw this
preliminary exploration to a close I should like to return to a philosophical concern that
seems to me to underpin the whole (but I am just at the beginning of this journey).
The creative artist’s view of the world draws attention to certain things, allows us to
recognise and appreciate qualities that may otherwise have passed us by, as Paul
Crowther observes.8 It could be suggested that a choreographer, in responding to music,
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is doing this twofold: drawing attention to certain things through the creation of dance
movement itself and, secondly, drawing attention to things through the relationship of
dance and music. To stay with Crowther a little longer: his argument that, in engaging
with art, we are able to reconcile the key elements of our humanity – the rational and the
sensuous – involving engagement through perception, which recognises the different
ways in which things (such as dance and music) ‘mean’, lends itself to a consideration of
the implications for dance and music operating in reciprocal illumination through
metaphor, quite simply by elucidating for us the connection between the physically
embodied and the rationally conscious. Roger Scruton (1993: 341) writes that ‘[m]usic
shows us movement without the thing that moves’ and I am tempted to suggest that
dance shows us music without the thing that sounds (compare Morris, again), and
although that may appear rather a circular argument, it is suggestive of the link through
metaphor between the two in an important way. Scruton also writes: ‘when we hear
movement in music, it is a movement that is self-propelled, motivated, purposeful, in the
manner of human intention. We hear musical movement as action, and not just as
movement’ (365). I wonder if this is the root of the deep connection between dance and
music and, further, that the rich and complex relationship possible between dance and
music reflects something important about life – it is satisfying because it reveals a
potential to us that in everyday life is obscured, or we are distracted from, or feel we
cannot achieve.
The interplay of dance and music through metaphor and gesture, for example, somehow
draws us into a fuller engagement with the whole by continually reminding us of those
different aspects of our humanity and their interdependence. Through this interaction, it
could be argued that dance and music together connect to our lives as they are lived in
the world and, at the same time, connect with our aspirations to a perfect realisation of a
life in which the rational and the sensuous are reconciled.
References
Alm, I M 1989 Stravinsky, Balanchine and Agon: an analysis based on the collaborative
process. The Journal of Musicology 7: 254-269
Cook, N 1998 Analysing Musical Multimedia. Oxford: OUP.
Cook, N and M Everist 1999 Rethinking Music. Oxford: OUP.
Crowther, P 1993 Art and Embodiment. From Aesthetics to Self-consciousness. Oxford:
Clarendon Press.
Duerden, R S C 2000 Transfigurations, in Dancing in the Millennium. Washington DC
July 2000: 138-143
Duerden, R 2001 Jonathan Burrows: Exploring the Frontiers, Dancing Times March:
551-557
Hodge, J 1993 Aesthetic Decomposition: Music, Identity, and Time, in Krausz,
M (ed) 1993 The Interpretation of Music: Philosophical Essays. Oxford: Clarendon Press.
Jordan, S 2000 Moving Music: Dialogues with Music in Twentieth Century Ballet. London:
Dance Books.
Juslin, P N and J A Sloboda 2001 Music and Emotion. Theory and Research. Oxford: OUP.
Series in Affective Science.
Robinson, J 1998 The Expression and Arousal of Emotion in Music, in Alperson, P
(ed) Musical Worlds. New Directions in the Philosophy of Music. Pennsylvania:
Pennsylvania University Press.
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Scruton, R 1997 The Aesthetics of Music. Oxford: OUP.
Smith, M 2000 Ballet and opera in the age of Giselle. Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton
University Press.
Music Dances. Balanchine choreographs Stravinsky. (videocassette) Conceived, written and
narrated by Stephanie Jordan. The George Balanchine Foundation, 2002. UK
distributor: Dance Books, London.
Notes
I should like to express my indebtedness to the Arts and Humanities Research Council who
provided support for this research through the Small Grants in the Creative and Performing Arts
scheme. I am also grateful to Anna Macdonald for reading and offering useful feedback on an
earlier draft of this paper.
1 Crowther is not discussing dance-music relationships, of course, but I think that his argument
about the way in which we engage with art as fully embodied, rational beings, may be usefully
applied in this context, too.
2 Gesture is a word we use in everyday life to describe a particular kind of human movement –
one that is expressive, whether consciously or subconsciously; one that we engage with and
respond to interpretatively. In dance the meaning of gesture has often been closely related to
story-telling and characterisation (Smith 2000), although in modern times the term has come to
be used in reference to a wide range of movement, some of which may be very far from having
any literal significance. For the purposes of this investigation, however, I am thinking of the
kind of movement which seems in some way to be ‘meaning-bearing’ in the sense of carrying the
potential for interpretation in a way that draws attention to the human dimension of dance as art;
so, drawing attention to the physically human and, at the same time, pointing beyond that
immediate physicality to something else relating to human experience. The word ‘gesture’ is also
used in music to describe something in the realm of pure sound that evokes or suggests the
notion of human gesture; sounds that, disembodied and without spatial dimension, may yet be
perceived in terms of physical movement and gesture. It seems that the term eludes definition in
both disciplines, and perhaps this is inevitable; nonetheless, it functions as metaphor in both,
and thus forges a link that may facilitate the exploration of some important aspects of musicdance relationships.
3 Interestingly, of course Mark Morris has on more than one occasion expressed the desire to
help audiences to hear the music better through his choreography.
4 Jonathan Burrows’ Stop Quartet would be interesting to consider here, if there were space, in the
light of the choreographer’s own remarks about the need to allow for ‘holes’ in both dance and
music (by Matteo Fargion and Kevin Volans), through which to perceive the other (Duerden
2001). Clearly there is a strongly metaphorical dimension to this idea, but it invites comparison
with Scruton’s discussion of the imagined space of music, and the notion of ‘gesture’ is, I feel,
significant here.
5 The visible presence of cellist Yo Yo Ma is integral to Falling Down Stairs.
6 “musical gestures lack signification but they can be significant” Cone in Cook 1998:96.
7 Sequential repetition in music, for example, can evoke a kind of down-to-earth, almost
workmanlike approach to composition. A lecturer of mine many years ago used to refer to this
as ‘lego’ – building blocks of musical ideas to be constructed into a composition.
8 Paul Crowther (1993:76ff):
‘The artist’s style (as Merleau-Ponty and Victor Shklovsy put it, respectively) throws the world
‘out of focus’ or makes it ‘strange’. Our usual appropriative stance towards objects is thereby
thrown into disarray; we sit up and take notice of them as unique sensuous existents with an
ontological integrity of their own. On these terms, artistic representation distends the
appearance of objects, in order to return us to them. Indeed, in so far as the artist does have his
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own distinctive style, the distention of the object is, at the same time, the imprint and
manifestation of his own individuality. It preserves and makes tangible his own unique way of
perceiving the world.’
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Asserting the Rhythms: Moving Music in Student
Performances of Merce Cunningham’s “Inlets 2”
Karen Eliot, The Ohio State University
Copyright 2005, Karen Eliot
Longtime Cunningham dancer Carolyn Brown described the dancer’s experience in
Merce Cunningham’s choreography in this way: “The kinesthetic must be experienced
directly by each individual in his own unique time and space; that is to say, it is different
for everyone because everyone is different, and dancing is an ephemeral and mysterious
activity––real and expressive and meaningful only in its own time and space” (Dance
Perspectives 1968, 28). Brown further defined the inseparability of dancer and dance by
saying that the choreographer expects:
each dancer to be uniquely himself. Each of us is revealed by every
gesture—the range, the depth, the variability are within ourselves to
discover. Merce makes this possible. . . . We are as free as we feel we are.
We are as free as we allow ourselves to be. We are as free as our
acquired technique and native gifts will permit. (35)
In other words, the individual dancer, charging the movement with her own physicality,
has a measure of autonomy in the way she engages in, and fills, time. While this is one of
the great joys of dancing Cunningham’s works, it is also one of the most frightening, or
disorienting, “freedoms” for student dancers who wrestle both with the technical
challenges of the movement vocabulary, and the unfamiliar relationship to time and
rhythm. In this presentation I describe my efforts to stage Cunningham’s Inlets 2 on two
groups of student dancers in the United States––at the University of Minnesota in fall
2004, and then with my own students at the Ohio State University in winter 2005.
Inlets 2, a pristine dance choreographed in 1983 with music by John Cage, was aptly
described by critic Susan Reiter as “energy sustained through stillness.” David Vaughan
explains that the original Inlets, choreographed in 1977, evoked images of the water and
topography of the Pacific Northwest, where Cunningham grew up; the 1983 Inlets 2 is a
reworking of movement phrases from the first dance, newly subjected to chance
operations, and choreographed for two casts of seven dancers. (203; 223). I was one of
the original dancers in the 1983 work, and it was one I performed frequently during my
career in the Merce Cunningham Dance Company. As I studied the work through videos
and notes supplied by the Cunningham Foundation, I came to feel that it was the
rhythms and phrasing that had particularly embedded themselves in my muscle memory.
I began to recall the entire arc of the piece, remembering the punctuated, staccato
phrases, in which each gesture was discrete and separate, and those executed with an
ongoing sense of flow. The project required that I teach seven different parts, my own
former part and six others, for, while the dancers do sometimes perform the same
movement phrases at the same time, they always have individual modifications as they
travel through the space following different pathways and orienting themselves to
different facings.
I was anxious to elicit from the student dancers both the fleetness and precision of the
rhythmic passages, and the stillness and quietude of the archaic, frieze-like poses that
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define this dance; that is, I wanted them to experience the extremes of tempi that inform
much of Cunningham’s work. I hoped too, to share the sense I had that I was dancing
both as a soloist––with all that implies about a certain freedom of execution––and as a
member of a group. Dancing in a group required that my execution of movement
phrases must link me in time with a muscular and kinesthetic understanding established
with other dancers during the rehearsal process. I hoped to give these student dancers a
sense of their glorious individuality within Cunningham’s work, while still establishing
clear rhythmic guidelines. My double-edged responsibility was heightened when I
consulted the time sheets supplied by the Cunningham Foundation [show picture with
landmarks]. The discrepancies in timings between the two original casts demonstrates the
relative autonomy of the individual dancer within the time frames, and, consequently the
overall differences in timings between the two groups. While the two casts might vary
from one another in their timings, and, might in fact, diverge slightly from their own
running times over the course of rehearsals and performances, the work must not be
allowed to get bloated. A running time of 18 minutes and 54 seconds, according to these
directives, is just too slow. Best timing is between 18 minutes and 18 minutes and 30
seconds.
Viewers familiar with Cunningham’s work often remark on the clarity of rhythmic
execution of select passages within the choreography. In 1985, Don Daniels wrote “With
no immediate or detailed competition from conventional musical accompaniment,
Cunningham rhythms are exposed and ‘held’ in a way that dance audiences may
sometimes find assertive” (29). How was I to elicit the “assertiveness” of the group
rhythms without allowing them to become dogmatic? How was I to nurture the
individual dancer’s freedom to “play” within time lengths (“durational” time) at other
moments in the dance? As a dancer I had once found this freedom both exhilarating and
challenging. Assuming my responsibilities to teach and coach the work, the freedom was
frequently terrifying.
The late Chris Komar, former rehearsal director and assistant to the choreographer,
spoke of this paradoxical element of Cunningham’s work: it was built into the
choreography to allow for individual difference, he said in interviews with Susan Kraft
(Oral History Project of the New York Performing Arts Library). Merce is interested,
said Komar, in “unison” work, not “uniform” work. When the group dances together,
viewers might observe the relatedness of the dancers, but they can also see individual
variations and discrepancies in execution and timing. The individual dancer’s rhythmic
accents should be clear, but an observer might also be aware of multiplicity and
difference within a group phrase. This shared physical undertaking of a movement phrase
differs from what is sometimes called “breath phrasing.” Unlike another choreographic
approach which asks the dancer to phrase movement according to his own “organic”
breath patterns, in Cunningham’s choreography, even those passages that are not
counted in any strict sense, have an established series of complicated weight changes that
can make the rhythms jagged or irregular. The rhythms do not appear “organic” or
“inevitable” in any way; thus, the movement is virtuosic and technically challenging for
the dancer. For the audience the multi-layered complexity of the individual within the
group is visually intriguing and kinesthetically stimulating.
But how was I to evoke this freedom within limits? To quote Chris Komar again,
“rehearse, rehearse, rehearse.” The first stage of teaching the dance was to help the
dancers learn a rhythmic phrase as I both sang it and demonstrated it. This rhythmic
understanding clarified many other details: which foot to step on, and how to land from
one movement and take off for the next, even, at times, how far the dancer could move
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into the space. Next, the dancers learned to distinguish rhythmic phrases, switching
rhythmic “gears” when they initiated a subsequent series of movements. I had to clarify
for the students what Cunningham had once taught me: it is a matter of finishing one
action completely, and picking up another without bleeding together the rhythmic values
and the physicalization of the two events. Some phrases are distinctly staccato and bright;
others are fluid and weighty. The distinctiveness of these two situations must be
maintained with clarity. At times there may be more than one rhythmic phrase going on,
a complexity which requires that the dancer stay concentrated on his individual
movement pattern. This phenomenon creates a sense of the dancer’s independence, even
his insularity in space. Meanwhile, the viewer, watching the aggregate activity, senses
rhythmic counterpoint and visual complexity. When, at some later point, two or more
dancers seek to establish a communal rhythm, their eye contact reunites them in space
and reminds the viewer that these are dancers operating together in time and within a
shared universe.
My goal was to teach the dancers the rhythms, insist upon them, beat them out with my
hands and sing them, and then stand back and let them process the phrases through their
own physical understandings. In this transaction, the phrasing is translated from my
physicality to theirs. Most often, I found, there was difference in execution. Sometimes
dancers were too slow because they struggled to accomplish the exacting technical
demands of the movement, or too fast because they blurred the precision and
pointedness of the rhythms. But, at some point in the rehearsal process, I had to quiet
myself and my own physical sensibilities so as to allow their unique physicalities to
emerge. Chris Komar described the process of teaching Cunningham’s choreography to
dancers not versed in the work: you try to help the dancers get the phrase, he said. Then
you step back and let them do it without trying to fix on them some preconceived idea
about what the movement needs to look like. In the end, said Komar, something new
might happen.
Eventually student dancers can grapple with the challenge of learning “hard” steps and
“awkward” phrasings. They go away and practice and come back having accomplished
the movement to some acceptable (sometimes even remarkable) degree. However, I
found that another challenge was to teach them to sustain moments of stillness, critical to
both the choreography and to John Cage’s very quiet score. Inlets 2 includes weighty
moments of quiet in which the dancers assume highly stylized angular poses that David
Vaughan suggests might refer to well-known photographs of Nijinsky (203). This stasis is
particularly poignant as it is interlaced with moments of high energy that replicate the
way flocks of water fowl suddenly, and without previous signal, converge to take off into
the air in a flurry of unexpected activity. The quietness––the non-busyness––must be
taught to student dancers, I found. I needed to reaffirm for them that stillness is not just
absence of movement, but a moment carved in time.
I’d like to show you some examples from the students’ performances:
Example 1: The opening from one performance by the Ohio State University dancers.
Example 2: The same opening as danced by the students at the University of Minnesota
at an informal showing of the work at the end of our three weeks of rehearsals. Note the
distinction in the dancers’ physicalities and their use of energy in space; thus we observe a
difference in timings though individual dancers’ rhythms are clear.
Example 3: A later point in the informal showing demonstrating a point where the
dancers need to establish a shared rhythm and how this rhythm spreads as dancers break
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out of the group or join in after the rhythm has been established. Note that the system of
internal cues makes possible the layering of rhythms.
Example 4: The same point in the Ohio State University dancers’ performance and
going on to show examples of sections which must be executed in unison and the
rhythms must be very doggedly clear (the men’s coupés). Also, the final archaic frieze-like
pose.
Example 5: The Ohio State University dancers in phrases which are linked over time,
but are not danced in unison. Don Daniels has written that Cunningham’s best dances
“so advertise their freedom from the underlying metrical ground that we are tantalized
into trying to locate any ‘beat’ at such heady distance” (33). And it was that metrical
grounding––while gaining the freedom to move away from it that I would have liked to
transmit to the dancers. I discovered, however, that student dancers often feel more
comfortable when they can execute these “free” phrases in unison. This tendency often
slows down the tempo and eliminates the possibility for greater individual freedom to
experiment, “play,” within the phrase. I am confident that with more experience, the
dancers would not feel the need to always be together—and then as a director, I might
actually have to rein in their idiosyncratic timings.
Example 6: An example of the need to establish one rhythm and then drop it and start
something new so that the succeeding rhythm is very clear.
Example 7: The same issues as examples 5 and 6.
Example 8: Teaching inexperienced dancers to be still.
Finally, I’d like to talk about the score itself which Laura Kuhn has described as a
“contingency-based composition” in which John Cage opened up the relationship
between himself as composer and his players, and allowed for improvisation within a
structured series of directions (35). Intrigued with the sounds created when water is
rolled around in conch shells, Cage leaves very precise but open-ended directions for the
musicians in his score for “Inlets.” As these different sized shells are tipped forward and
back, the aural space is filled with quiet gurgles of greater or lesser volume and in a range
of tones. Cage described the music in this way:
The gurgle must be amplified to hear it properly. It gives an effect
related to the sound you hear when you place a shell over your ear.
During the course of Inlets, the players will make a predetermined
number of gurgles with one shell, and then pick up another. Three
players will perform simultaneously.
If we can get clearance from the authorities, the performance will also
include the burning of crackling pine cones in a fire and the sound of a
conch shell being blown. This will unite the elements of air, fire, and
water.
Vaughan, 202-3
In my two opportunities to teach the dance, I oversaw one production which was
performed to a CD of the Cage score––a canned recording of what once was a live and
unique performance. While the dancers in this production began to find landmarks in the
taped music to anchor their timings, the performance with live music brought an entirely
new electricity to the experience, as the musicians occupied a physical space in the hall
and actively participated in the meeting of music and dance. While scrupulously following
the directions set forth in John Cage’s score, the three live musicians performed
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contingency-based music and contributed to the individuality and un-repeatability of each
performance.
Works Consulted
Cohen, Selma Jeanne, ed. Time to Walk in Space: Essays, Stories and Remarks about Merce
Cunningham. Dance Perspectives. 34, Summer, 1968.
Daniels, Don. “Boutique Items and Risky Business: Cunningham, Wiener, Peters
Tomasson,” Ballet Review. 13.2 (Summer, 1985): 29-56.
Komar, Chris. Interview with Suan Kraft. Dance Collection Oral History Project. New
York Performing Arts Library, 5, 17, 24 November 1994.
Kuhn, Laura. Interview with Merce Cunningham in Art Performs Life: Merce
Cunningham, Meredith Monk, Bill T. Jones. Minneapolis: Walker Arts Center,
1998: 22-43.
Reiter, Susan. Rev. of Inlets 2, chor. Merce Cunningham. The Merce Cunningham Dance
Company. Ballet News 5.2 (June 1984): 32.
Vaughan, David. Merce Cunningham: Fifty Years. New York: Aperture, 1997.
38
Fogelsanger
On the Edges of Music: Trisha Brown’s Set and
Reset and Twelve Ton Rose
Allen Fogelsanger, Cornell University
Copyright 2005, Allen Fogelsanger
In the realm of American concert dance, discussion of dance's relationship to music
tends to center around two antipodean practices, that of George Balanchine, and that of
Merce Cunningham. Balanchine's works exemplify a view of dance being closely joined
with music;1 but in the work of Cunningham, dance and music are independent entities.2
Trisha Brown's dances show an eclectic relationship with music that is neither as close as
Balanchine's nor as independent as Cunningham's. This paper looks at the relationship
between music and dance in two of Brown's works, Set and Reset (1983) with music titled
Long Time No See by Laurie Anderson, and Twelve Ton Rose (1996) set to Anton Webern's
Op. 5 and Op. 28.
Cracks in an Eggshell
In Set and Reset, surface events arise from a less visible game plan. As Brown explains,
"... I made a very long phrase that circumnavigated the outside edge of
the stage, serving as a conveyor belt to deliver duets, trios, and solos
into the center of the stage. All of the dancers were taught the phrase
and given the following set of five instructions: ... Keep it simple ... Play
with visibility and invisibility ... If you don't know what to do, get in line
... Stay on the outside edge of the stage ... Act on instinct."3
Brown then created the dance through her dancers' improvisation, out of the collisions
and combinations of her fundamental material. The choreography is a sequence of solos,
duets, trios, and so on up to sextets, that overlap to varying degrees, and last anywhere
from a few seconds to several minutes. Sometimes many pass by in quick succession and
sometimes one will last for a while but be interrupted by or aggregated with an extra
dancer or ensemble. The structural effect is like a cracked eggshell: the sections vary
widely in size, some very small, some quite large, and they may combine together to form
regions even though there are tiny cracks between them. Additionally the cracks
themselves vary in depth, some being small fractures while others are almost completely
broken.
The music Long Time No See4 is almost twenty minutes of an ever-clanging fire bell; a
seventeen-and-a-half beat percussion loop with occasional bass and keyboard
reinforcement; noises such as cracks, bells, breaking dishes, buzzes, hisses, and beeps;
and melodic fragments for various synthesizer settings and Anderson's distorted voice.
The loops are not immediately apparent and the harmony is static and nonfunctional, so
it is the various combinations of the layers of elements that allows one section of the
music to be recognized as different from another. The music's structure is similar to that
of the dance, another broken eggshell.
For both dance and music, it is the extremes of density and duration that stick out.
Sextets and solos, full music and empty music, and things that go on for a long time are
most noticeable. But sections such as these may be reached through incremental steps,
39
Fogelsanger
so that they are difficult to define as sections differentiated from the sections around
them. However, there are key points where dance and music make relatively large
changes in tandem, creating not so much sections of the work, but fault lines where the
eggshell is cracked most deeply.
One set of such fault lines occurs a quarter of the way into the dance, coinciding with the
temporal edges of a thirty-five second sextet. This sextet appears immediately after a
long duet, making a big change on stage. Likewise the music grows relatively quickly, as a
number of layers rapidly accumulate in the fifteen seconds preceding the sextet. The end
of the section mirrors the beginning: musical layers disappear as the sextet is replaced by
a succeeding trio. Anderson is here matching visual density with musical density, creating
a well-defined time region of the dance, a whole piece of the eggshell.
But more often music and dance coordinate to make a break, not a section. Such a break
occurs at the three-quarters point of Set and Reset. It is the entrance of the longest trio in
the dance, following a sextet where the dancers repeatedly return to a line. The sextet
has a clear beginning which is not recognized by the music, and during its two-minute
duration the music adds and varies layers, not quickly as in the first example, but bit by
bit, in what amounts to a long crescendo, against little change in the dance. The trio's
entrance creates a choreographic boundary and coincides with the entrance of the music's
important bass layer just as a melody disappears. The trio itself is a long movement
section, but the music drops out thirty seconds into it. Thus while music and dance do
not maintain a constant relationship during either the sextet or the trio, their joint change
proposes a fault line that makes visible the regions on either side. It is because music and
dance do not generally change together that such coordination becomes significant.
With a cracked eggshell there is no point at which analysis naturally stops. One can
always find shallower and shallower breaks, smaller and smaller sections. But this
metaphor captures an important aspect of Set and Reset: there is not a clear hierarchy of
relationships but instead a fragmented continuum of structural levels, some more
important than others but not by much. The situation is somewhat different in Twelve
Ton Rose because the cracks in the musical plane are sometimes complete: there are
separate movements disconnected by silence.
Complementing the Music
Brown choreographed the twenty-five minute Twelve Ton Rose to Webern's Five Movements
for string quartet, Op. 5; and to the three-movement String Quartet, Op. 28.5 Music theorist
Robert Morgan says of Op. 5 that, “[t]he individual movements ... each a tiny jewel unlike
anything heard before, are intimate expressions of pure lyricism, fleeting musical
visions....”6 The dynamic extremes and energy of the first and third movements are hard
for a choreographer to ignore, but the other movements are slow, quiet, and meditative.
As for the ascetic and serial Op. 28, in a good performance7 the tempo changes, rubato,
and dynamics give the music a sense of constantly pausing and re-gathering its energy,
and with great intonation even the harshest dissonances attain a sweetness that calls
attention to the sounds themselves.
Brown's choreography offers an enigmatic fleetingness not unlike that of Op. 5. Even
so, the movement and music are not integrated. The dance8 is divided into movement
sections which are not always coextensive with music sections, and movement dynamics
are usually contrasting with or unrelated to musical dynamics.
For example, the opening dance section describes a long arc of activity, as one by one
dancers periodically enter and then slowly their numbers recede to nothing. The arc
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Fogelsanger
covers most of the first two music movements, and Brown choreographs right through
the silence between them, emphasizing the silence by contrasting it with a maximal
number of dancers on stage. Op. 5/i tends to be intense while Brown's choreography
tends to be quiet; the second musical movement is quiet while the dancing is dynamic.
Later on the choreography to the muted Op. 5/v is often a churning canon. At one
point the stage divides into two groups which seem to be reverse trios symmetric about
the center point of the stage, and the choreography embodies an almost kaleidoscopic
geometry, or given that the dancers are all in red, an opening and closing rose.9 This
"rose" sequence corresponds to the only loud point of Op. 5/v.10 All this dense,
pulsating activity occurs against music that is slow and quiet.
The symmetry of Brown's choreography in Op. 5/v is a displacement of the symmetry in
Op. 28, which exists at many levels, including in its twelve tone row.11 Composer Elliott
Carter remarks that "[i]n many cases the row seems to be a kind of secret formula barely
audible in the music,"12 and this is exactly what Brown turns to in Op. 28/i, a secret
formula to complement the music note by note. During this movement there is a quartet
that is invisibly entwined with the music. Deborah Jowitt reports that the dancers,
"sharing the same steps but each keyed to a different instrument, move only when their
instrument falls silent."13
One last example of complementarity is in Op. 28/ii. Its woman's solo is divided into
three long phrases each of which corresponds to one section of the music's ABA form,
but while the rhythm of the music sounds like that of a slightly unstable clock, the dance
movement combines extreme slowness and extreme speed. In each section the dance
phrase tends to start slowly, continuously accelerate, then gradually slow down to near
stillness, though there may be hiccups along the way.
Brown's preference seems to be to contrast with the music, to make invisible and
displaced connections, and furthermore to play around the edges of the music, an idea
worth exploring in a little more detail.
Playing with Edges
Marianne Goldberg points out that "Brown often places crucial chroreography at the
stage margins;" and that in Set and Reset "Brown plays with the edge of the stage, finding
innumerable ways to undermine it as a frame."14 Brown does this also in Twelve Ton Rose,
playing with the wings so they cut motion and bodies partially from audience perspective.
Likewise, Brown plays with the traditional framing property of music. A live
performance of Set and Reset includes what seems like a separate preceding film projected
on a Robert Rauschenberg sculpture. The work Set and Reset begins long before
Anderson's music does.
In Twelve Ton Rose the situation is reversed, as the music begins in darkness and dancers
cannot be seen until twenty-five seconds later. But Brown retrieves all that time and
more by filling all of the silences with dance. As mentioned above, Brown packs
choreography into the gap between Op. 5/i and Op. 5/ii. Then as the dance moves to
Op. 5/iii Brown completely turns the tables on the music and uses the dance to
temporally and physically frame the music. Op. 5/ii ends with three women dancing in
silence; when a man runs on stage they move to the periphery and take on still shapes as
Op. 5/iii begins. The women are still during all of the quick and short Op. 5/iii while the
man dances, surprisingly, to the music, after which they move in retrograde back to their
41
Fogelsanger
previous positions and the man backs off the stage. Op. 5/iii has been symmetrically
bookended by a movement phrase and its retrograde.
In later inter-movement silences Brown sets up what she calls a "windshield wiper" motif
for the last movement.15 Dancers are not seen in lines in Twelve Ton Rose until very
briefly during Op. 5/v. Then they begin and end Op. 28/i in lines perpendicular to the
audience. Finally, after the end of Op. 28/ii the soloist begins to walk off, and is literally
swept off her feet by a line of dancers running across stage from right to left. The
dancers walk back on to begin the third movement in line, and now the line becomes an
important theme in Op. 28/iii, no longer perpendicular to the audience but rotating and
rushing around the stage.
At the end of Op. 28 the choreography continues a few seconds after the music ends.
One last time a musical edge is a site for elaboration. Where in Set and Reset the fine
network of eggshell cracks defined jointly by dance and music helps articulate what
Goldberg calls "the monotone of passing activity,"16 in Twelve Ton Rose the deep and
gaping musical edges function in an opposing manner, providing a simple block
foundation which Brown complicates, thus increasing the intracacy of the outer
framework that the music provides the dance.
Space for Play
Brown's playing with the edges of the music, her tendency to complement the music, as
well as her choices of music in the first place, all bring up the question of how music and
dance work together in general. It is possible to place the functioning of music with
dance into music theorist Leonard Meyer's psychological framework for music analysis.
When we listen to music, we are evaluating how sounds are related and building a model
in our minds of what the music is.17 One important factor that affects our evaluation is
the structure of information in the music, which is created by constraints, correlations,
and redundancies.18 When we recognize a connection, a stylistic marker like a cadence,
or an extra-musical reference, we add this information to our mental model and adjust it
to reflect our new understanding. Furthermore, we extrapolate, seeing implications in
our model and forming expectations about upcoming music. Music that creates
expectations or goals--where one event implies a succeeding event--is called "linear"19 or
"teleological."20 One example of linearity is the way in which the leading tone implies the
tonic in tonal music. Another example is how in the second time through a repeated
section of music there is an implication that the section will likely be repeated to its
conclusion. In both examples, composers may fulfill or frustrate expectations.
Music where linearity has broken down is called "vertical" by music theorist Jonathan D.
Kramer.21 In vertical music listeners abandon their constant evaluation of relationships
and can only listen to the sensuousness of sound. Linearity may break down because we
are unable to hear many relationships between musical events, as in John Cage's music; or
it may break down because the relationships are so predictable that we take them for
granted, as can happen in the music of Philip Glass. In the first case, we have minimal
redundancy, randomness, aleatoric music; in the second case, we have maximal
redundancy, predictability, minimalist music. Most music has both linear and vertical
qualities.22
Linearity tends to supercede verticality; this occurs in combinations of text and music.
As Meyer observes, “texts with a narrative message tend to be coupled with highly
redundant music so that the story can be easily followed ... conversely, when music is of
prime importance, verbal information tends to be redundant.”23 Similarly, what occurs
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in Brown's work is that complex dance is coupled with vertical music so that the dance
can be easily followed.
Certainly Long Time No See is highly redundant music, with little or no sense of temporal
progression.24 It does have a sense of rising and falling due to its sound layering, but the
changing density and quality of the texture is perhaps the only dimension of this music
that occasionally sounds like a goal-oriented movement. Thus Long Time No See is more
vertical than linear.25 Brown appreciates exactly the openness of Anderson's design,
saying that "[i]t is possible to be rhythmically complex within that ground base."26
As for the Webern, Op. 5 is highly gestural with phrases chiseled strongly by rhythm,
dynamics, and texture. But there is a difference among the five movements: while the
first and third movements have a clear linear component, the other movements are fairly
static and contribute much more to mood and atmosphere than to a sense of passing
time: they have little enough forward motion that they take on the quality of vertical
music. As a result they provide Brown as much space "to be rhythmically complex" as
Long Time No See, and her treatment of Op. 5 reflects this. She places her most dynamic
dancing in the second, fourth and fifth movements; she in some sense avoids the first
movement, sneaking the dance in behind it; and she adopts the traditional framework of
the dancer dancing to the music for the third movement.
Op. 28 is perhaps most interesting of all, because it requires such close attention to hear
and appreciate the serial organization. But Michael Russ argues that Webern "constructs
canons which may be difficult ... to perceive" by obscuring them "through changes in
contour, texture and instrumental pointillism."27 This hiding of the secret formula
supports the position that not hearing it is not necessarily "wrong." But even if one does
completely hear the music, Meyer argues that Webern's compositional style "weakens the
listener’s sense of goal-directed motion" and has a "tendency toward nonfunctionalism."28 Like the slow Op. 5 movements, the Op. 28 movements place little in
the way of the choreographer shaping time as she likes, and while Brown follows the
music exactly in the first movement, she chooses rhythmic freedom in the second and
third.
In Set and Reset and Twelve Ton Rose Brown uses music that tends to be perceived
vertically: she uses minimalist music, slow atmospheric music, and very complex
music.29 To call such music a decorative element is not to be disrespectful of it, but to
recognize how it functions with dance, when the audience's attention is directed to the
visual. The question of whether or not its underlying compositional structures should be
perceived has its analogue in Brown's own choreography.30 As Goldberg points out,
"[i]n Brown's earlier work, the audience's job seems to be to decipher the rules of the
[movement] score. In her later work the scores are so complex they are almost
impossible to discern."31
The complexity of Brown's scores is matched by the complexity of Brown's relationship
with music. Like Balanchine, Brown works with structure, but she does not usually work
with pulse.32 Her parallel structures will more often be complementary to the music
rather than consonant with it. As with Cunningham, the music supplies an emotional
space and a duration; the dancers generally do not dance to the music. Unlike
Cunningham, Brown often acknowledges the music by playing around its edges, by
sometimes dancing dynamically with the music, and sometimes contrasting with it. What
one can be sure of is that Brown will always be re-negotiating traditional relationships,
always playing with the edges of what's expected.
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Fogelsanger
Notes
The author gratefully acknowledges the assistance and suggestions of Kathleya Afanador and
Joyce Morgenroth.
1 The most comprehensive survey of Balanchine's use of music is Stephanie Jordan, Moving
Music: Dialogues with Music in Twentieth-Century Ballet (London: Dance Books, 2000), pp. 105-185.
But see also Paul Hodgins, Relationships between Score and Choreography in Twentieth-Century Dance:
Music, Movement and Metaphor (Lewiston, New York: Edwin Mellen Press, 1992) and Roger
Copeland, “Backlash Against Balanchine,” Choreography and Dance vol. 3, no. 3 (1993), pp. 3-12.
2 “[M]ovement and sound [exist] independently of one another; choreography and music [are]
both performed in the same space and time, but without affecting (or even acknowledging) one
another.” Roger Copeland, “Merce Cunningham and the Politics of Perception” (1979), in What
Is Dance: Readings in Theory and Criticism, ed. Roger Copeland and Marshall Cohen (Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 1983), p. 310. See also Roger Copeland, Merce Cunningham: The
Modernizing of Modern Dance (New York and London: Routledge, 2004), pp. 145-164.
3 Trisha Brown, "How to Make a Modern Dance When the Sky's the Limit," in Trisha Brown:
Dance and Art in Dialogue, 1961-2001, ed. Hendel Teicher (Andover, Massachusetts: Addison
Gallery of American Art, Phillips Academy, 2002), p. 291.
4 Anderson composed the music for Set and Reset with constant feedback from Brown. Brown
talks about the collaboration in Marianne Goldberg, "Trisha Brown: All of the Person's Person
Arriving," The Drama Review: TDR, vol. 30, no. 1 (Spring 1986), p. 164; she emphasizes how
tightly music fits to dance in Brown, "How to Make a Modern Dance When the Sky's the Limit,"
p. 292. For a short description of the process by Anderson see Laurie Anderson, 8 November
2001, quoted in Trisha Brown, ed. Hendel Teicher, p. 128. The connections between dance and
music are probably best captured on Trisha Brown's video Set and Reset: Version I, filmed by
James Byrne and produced by Susan Dowling (WGBH New Television Workshop and Trisha
Brown Company, 1985). See also the archival tapes from the Brooklyn Academy of Music at the
New York Public Library of performances on 21 October 1983 and 5 October 1996. The first
performance is part of Trisha Brown Company, the second is part of Trisha Brown at 25: Post Modern
and Beyond, Program A. Set and Reset is also in the current repertory of the Trisha Brown
Company. On the video Set and Reset: Version I the dance lasts the full length of the music,
19:23. In the 1983 performance the dancers exit at 18:41 in the music, in 1996 at 18:33, and the
music is faded out. During the course of the live performances, key visual landmarks creep
forward in time relative to the video performance. As the dance looks essentially the same in
each, one possible explanation is simply that Set and Reset: Version I shows the dance as Anderson
composed the music to fit it, while in performance the dancers, taking no cues from the music,
have sped up the choreography from the original rehearsal tapes Anderson worked with.
5 Originally there was also a middle section choreographed to Webern's Four Pieces for violin and
piano, Op. 7. According to the Trisha Brown Company’s former Executive Director, LaRue
Allen, the Op. 7 section “was dropped for dance rather than music reasons. Trisha felt the piece
was tighter without it. But we have performed the duet as a stand-alone piece on occasion when
we needed something quick and informal," e-mail to author, 19 June 2000. The twenty-five
minute estimated duration comes from Trisha Brown, ed. Hendel Teicher, p. 197.
6 Robert P. Morgan, Twentieth-Century Music (New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 1991), p. 81.
His remarks apply to Opp. 5-11.
7 Listen to Anton Webern: Complete Works - Juilliard String Quartet, London Symphony Orchestra, Pierre
Boulez, and others (Sony Classical SM3K 45845, 1991, originally CBS Records, 1978).
8 Trisha Brown Company, Twelve Ton Rose, Brooklyn Academy of Music, Opera House,
Brooklyn, New York, 3 October 1996. Archival videorecording is at the New York Public
Library Dance Collection, part of Trisha Brown at 25: Post Modern and Beyond, Program B.
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Fogelsanger
9
Through most of the dance the women are in black and the men in red, but in the dance sextet
for Op. 5/v the women are in red like the men.
10 The loud point of Op. 5/v is bar 19. The "rose" sequence is also "pre-echoed" in near silence
three bars earlier.
11 0-11-2-1-5-6-3-4-8-7-10-9. This row is identical to its retrograde inversion, its first four notes
and last four notes form segments that are equivalent by transposition, and its middle four note
segment is an inversion of the end ones. Perhaps the most complete row analysis of the Op. 28
movements in English can be found in Kathryn Bailey, The Twelve-Note Music of Anton Webern: Old
Forms in a New Language (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 1991), pp. 215-222, 256261. For an understanding of Webern's philosophical interest in combining canons of rows with
classical forms, see Regina Busch's "On the Horizontal and Vertical Presentation of Musical
Ideas and on Musical Space" in Tempo spread across three issues: part I in No. 154 (September
1985), pp. 2-10; part II in No. 156 (March 1986), pp. 7-15; part III in No. 157 (June 1986), pp.
21-26.
12 Elliott Carter, “To Be a Composer in America” (1953/94), Elliott Carter: Collected Essays and
Lectures, 1937-1995, ed. Jonathan W. Bernard (Rochester, New York: University of Rochester
Press, 1997), p. 207.
13 Deborah Jowitt, “Stepping Out with Anton Webern,” Dance Magazine vol. 70, no. 10 (October
1996), p. 61.
14 Marianne Goldberg, "Trisha Brown, U.S. Dance, and Visual Arts: Composing Structure,"
Trisha Brown, ed. Hendel Teicher, p. 42.
15 Quoted in Barbara Adams, “Breaking the Silence,” The Ithaca Times, 23-29 September 1999, p.
22.
16 Marianne Goldberg, "Trisha Brown: All of the Person's Person Arriving," p. 158.
17 See, for instance, Leonard B. Meyer, Music, the Arts, and Ideas: Patterns and Predictions in TwentiethCentury Culture, with a new postlude (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1994, 1967).
18 For example, see James R. Pomerantz and Gregory R. Lockhead, “Perception of Structure:
An Overview,” ch. 1 in The Perception of Structure: Essays in Honor of Wendell R. Garner, ed. Gregory
R. Lockhead and James R. Pomerantz (Washington, D.C.: American Psychological Association,
1991).
19 See Jonathan D. Kramer, The Time of Music: New Meanings, New Temporalities, New Listening
Strategies (New York: Schirmer Books, 1988).
20 Meyer, Music, the Arts, and Ideas, pp. 71-72.
21 Kramer, ch. 12.
22 Kramer, p. 389.
23 Leonard B. Meyer, "A Universe of Universals" (1998), ch. 8 in The Spheres of Music: A Gathering
of Essays (Chicago, Illinois: University of Chicago Press, 2000), p. 293. Meyer also criticizes the
assumption “that the ‘natural’ function of music is to parallel and ‘reflect’ the narrative meaning
of the text"; the analagous assumption regarding music and dance is of course inherently
criticized in Cunningham's and Cage's work.
24 This is attested by reviewers calling it "hypnotic" and "trance-inducing;" see respectively, Paul
Parish, "Shy Genius," Danceviewtimes vol. 3, no. 10 (7 March 2005) at
www.danceviewtimes.com/2005/Winter/10/brown.htm, and Jenny Gilbert, "From Silence to
Schubert," Dance Now vol. 12, no. 4 (Winter 2003/04), p. 45.
25 It could be argued that Long Time No See is an example of what Daniel Albright calls "eye
music," Untwisting the Serpent: Modernism in Music, Literature, and Other Arts (Chicago and London:
University of Chicago Press, 2000), pp. 56-62.
26 Brown, in Marianne Goldberg, "Trisha Brown: All of the Person's Person Arriving," p. 164.
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Fogelsanger
27
Michael Russ, review of The Twelve-Note Music of Anton Webern by Kathryn Bailey, Music &
Letters vol. 73, no. 4 (November 1992), p. 630.
28 Meyer, Music, the Arts, and Ideas, pp. 243-244. For a discussion of the continuum of weakening
types of linearity in atonal music, see Kramer, pp. 32-40.
29 For examples of other choreographers using minimalist music of various types see David
Koblitz, "Minimalist Music for Maximum Choreography," Dance Magazine vol. 59, no. 2
(February 1985), pp. 52-55.
30 For a discussion of the situation with regard to serialism, see Meyer, Music, the Arts, and Ideas,
pp. 267-269.
31 Marianne Goldberg, "Trisha Brown: All of the Person's Person Arriving," p. 154. Meyer
argues similarly that sometimes serial organization can be heard, and sometimes it cannot, Meyer,
Music, the Arts, and Ideas, p. 269.
32 For Balanchine's use of pulse see Jordan, pp. 112-127.
46
Frymoyer
Ballet as the Subject’s Speech:
Defining Classical Gesture in Prokofiev’s
Romeo and Juliet
Johanna Frymoyer, Princeton University
Copyright 2005, Johanna Frymoyer
When it received its first run-through at the Bolshoi Theater in October 1935,
Prokofiev’s ballet Romeo and Juliet featured a happy ending in which the protagonists
survive and their families reconcile their differences. The composer later justified this
drastic departure from Shakespeare’s story by explaining, “The reasons which forced us
to this barbarism were purely choreographic; the living people can dance, the dying won’t
dance lying down.”1 His explanation does not take into account ballet’s capacity,
manifest in the ballet blanc repertoire, for invoking the au delà. Although Prokofiev
rewrote the ending, he still encountered difficulties getting the work performed in the
Soviet Union and the premiere, with the tragic ending, occurred instead at the Brno
Opera House in Czechoslovakia on December 31, 1938. Only afterwards did the Kirov
Theater in Leningrad move forward with its efforts to stage the work. But the
collaboration at the Kirov between composer, choreographer, and dancers was unhappy.
The Kirov management demanded that Prokofiev rework the score to conform to ballet
convention. Leonid Lavrovsky, the choreographer, asked for the addition of variations
and more subtle changes regarding dynamics, affect, and orchestration, indicating that the
company was suspicious of Prokofiev’s ballet modernism. Prokofiev, on the other hand,
was stubborn and unwilling to compromise. The battles continued beyond the Soviet
première that occurred in January 1940, such that Prokofiev was still demanding
explanations four months later from the theater for alterations made to the score without
his knowledge.
Prokofiev’s defense of his score was warranted for several reasons. First, Prokofiev
considered the score a complete work that did not need tinkering. It had undergone
revisions following the Bolshoi run-through and had a successful season at Brno. As he
told the Kirov conductor Isai Sherman, “I’m not going to alter a thing – so just tell any
choreographer, that he’s not to dare to deviate from the composer’s score, whether it’s
repeats, alterations or transpositions…This piece was composed between 1934 and 1936,
and now I have other work in hand, and I don’t intend going back to this piece.”2
Prokofiev was also an experienced composer of ballets, having written three successful
works for Serge Diaghilev as well as several other lesser known dance scores. By
returning to full-length storybook ballet in Romeo and Juliet, Prokofiev broke away from
Ballets Russes’ abstraction and stylization to pursue his own vision of a modern, Soviet
ballet. When Prokofiev permanently settled in the Soviet Union in 1936, which followed
the denunciation of Shostakovich in Pravda, he pursued an unstated ambition to become
the leading Russian composer. However, Soviet ballet, despite much turmoil and
experimentation following the 1917 Revolution, was not prepared to accept Prokofiev’s
vision.3 The Kirov attempted to bring Prokofiev’s score in line with nineteenth century
tradition, and Prokofiev resisted.
But what exactly was Prokofiev’s vision for Romeo and Juliet? While the history of the
ballet is well documented, the larger artistic and aesthetic motivations behind these
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Frymoyer
conflicts have yet to be examined. Prokofiev was a composer of the theater; many of his
important works were written for opera, film, and ballet. His music for these genres
reveals a deep interest in movement and space in relation to the score. In this paper, I
will discuss how Prokofiev, through his score for Romeo and Juliet, sought to inform the
choreography for the ballet through his music, in effect extending the composer’s role
beyond the music and into the physical realization of the work onstage.
Among Prokofiev’s works for the stage, it is typically his ballets for which we remember
him today. But it was in the opera house that Prokofiev wished to succeed, and he
poured huge amounts of time into revising his operas and seeking performance venues.
From his copious and highly specific performance notes in his operas, we know that
Prokofiev’s score served both as the script for the musical performance and the script for
the visual performance. Prokofiev was thereby able to increase his authorial presence –
and control – by using the score as a directorial device that provides explicit instruction
for movement. In Romeo and Juliet, the music and the accompanying directions create a
strict divide in the movement vocabularies of the characters. For the secondary
characters and corps de ballet, Prokofiev used specific social dance genres such as marches
and gavottes. These numbers involve fairly regular phrasing, homogenous rhythmic
texture, and dance topoi, which denote decorum, social class structure, and general
behavioral norms. These scenes are set in the streets of Verona, the ballroom, and the
wedding procession. With this music, Prokofiev instructed the choreographer to use
stylized social dance steps to invoke a “performance within the performance.” By this I
refer to the hyper-awareness in many nineteenth century ballets of the question of ballet’s
“realism.” Particularly in divertissement acts where dance exists within a human rather
than supernatural sphere, ballet is often cast as a type of social dance performance viewed
by dancer-spectators around the perimeter of the stage, as well as the ticket holders in the
audience. Because Prokofiev’s music presents balletic gesture as decisively different from
social dance, the composer raises the issue of ballet’s realism, likewise calling upon the
choreographer to reconsider balletic gesture’s role in the narrative and character
portrayal.
In the nineteenth century, as in Soviet storybook ballets, the ballet score typically
segmented movement gestures into adagios, allegros, and character dances, each with a
fairly homogenous musical character. In Prokofiev’s music for Juliet and Romeo,
particularly in the balcony and bedroom scenes, balletic gestures are seamlessly
interchanged as different musical characteristics are juxtaposed in the score. Rapid shifts
of meter, tempo, harmonic and rhythmic texture, and affect give the music a
spontaneous nature that presents to us the psyche of the protagonists. In the world
onstage, balletic gesture reveals how Romeo and Juliet understand themselves and the
world around them. No longer a social dance, nor a substance to fill the mold outlined by
the music, this free-flowing choreography takes on the role of portraying the subjectivity
of the protagonists.
There exists another facet to this dichotomy of movement. Romeo and Juliet
communicate in choreography; but the figures of authority in the ballet – Lord and Lady
Capulet, the Nurse, and Friar Laurence – do not. The Nurse and Friar Laurence primarily
use pantomime and gesture, while the Capulets engage in dancing only within the social,
performative context. This distinction is not the choreographer’s choice, but something
ingrained in the music itself. As Arlene Croce discerned from Yuri Grigorovich’s
choreography, any deviation from these spheres of movement seems counterintuitive to
the music.
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Grigorovich’s [choreography] is merely omnivorous: Everybody dance!
He even tries to convert the lovers’ intimate scenes into visions of the
Romantic ballet by filling in the background with a drifting group of
damsels in pink tulle…Such normally lay figures as the Duke of Verona,
the Nurse, and Tybalt are given dance assignments; even Friar Laurence
is pressed into partnering service and lays unpriestly hands on Juliet’s
person.4
These divisions between the young and old, ballet and social dance, give the work an
underlying tension that, in the absence of a strong Montague presence in the libretto,
becomes the central theme of the ballet. But the expressive choreography is not accepted
by all characters. Rather than a symbol of youth and beauty, the choreography is a threat
that, within the context of an aristocracy epitomized by social dance, must be restrained
and subordinated. By examining these contrasting movement stylizations in three scenes,
we will see how they are clearly established in opposition musically, choreographically,
and dramatically.
Our first example is the “Dance of the Knights” (No. 13) from the ball scene of Act I,
Scene II, the best known of the social dances in Romeo and Juliet. The dotted-eighth
rhythms and symmetrical, eight-measure phrases afford the first opportunity in the ballet
for the complete corps de ballet to dance. The music suggests a march, but the setting
codifies it as an aristocratic social dance. This performance epitomizes the ideals of
“nobility”: power combined with physical mastery. The music embodies these in its
command of huge tessituras in all instrumental voices. The uninterrupted rhythmic
pulsation leaves little room for individual variation, thus encoding in the music the social
expectation of conformity. But there is an underlying tension in the march. Alexei
Yermolayev described the dance as “a grand procession which could be either a
triumphal wedding procession or a ponderous funeral one.”5 Vadim Gayevsky explains
in more detail that, “the sinister, slow step ends in frenzied discords in the upper
registers, the orchestra breaks off in a scream, and the ceremonial march acquires the
overtones of a medieval witch’s Sabbath. All Prokofiev’s knights are on the verge of
insanity: …this is the music of madness.… This is not a romantic madness of Giselle or
of Lucia di Lammermoor,… This is the madness of aggression.”6 Although the score and
choreography depict a powerful aristocracy, these characters are threatened. The abrupt
silencing – almost a decapitation – of the melodic line as it strays into the upper registers,
indicates the violent hostility with which any dissention within this social structure will be
met. Here there is no room for dance or choreographic expression that resides beyond
the collective statement of conformity signified by the march.
In contrast to the “Dance of the Knights,” the music for Juliet and Romeo has a more
fluid, spontaneous character that does not yield the homogenous movement of social
dance. The music of “Juliet the Girl” (No. 10) in Act I, scene II introduces the character
of Juliet with a five-part rondo. Each of the three themes is markedly different from the
next, and it is impossible to choreograph the number utilizing only adagio or allegro
steps. The music calls for a rapid interchange of jumps, pirouettes, footwork, and port de
bras. The first theme (at rehearsal 50), in vivace tempo, is quite boisterous, suggesting
petite allegro steps. The second theme (reh. 53), marked con eleganza, calls for self control
and poise, and the slower rhythmic subdivisions are more appropriate for grande allegro,
while the third theme (reh. 55) in a Più tranquillo tempo with strict counterpoint is the
most introverted of the themes. It is most appropriately used for adagios. Because of the
rondo structure, the latter two themes are repeatedly interrupted by a return to the first
theme. The music and subsequent choreography depict Juliet at the end of her
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childhood, rapidly moving between childlike feelings and a budding awareness of her role
as an aristocratic woman. Yet the repetition of the first theme suggests resistance to the
constraints imposed on her by etiquette and adulthood.
Juliet’s uninhibited choreographic self-expression is an affront to the oppressive social
dances assigned to her parents. This tension erupts when Juliet refuses to marry Paris in
Act III, Scene 6 (No. 41). In this scene, Prokofiev repeats the music of both Juliet’s
childhood and the March. Prokofiev reworks the first theme from Juliet’s childhood such
that beginning at reh. 300+3 the sixteenth-note upward flourishes are replaced with
triplet sixteenths, and a new rhythmic motive in the strings at reh. 302 (three sixteenths
followed by a sixteenth rest) give the theme its own militant quality, allowing Juliet to
exert her will and determination. However, Juliet’s outburst is interrupted by a return of
the March (reh. 304), and the dual nature of this theme – only hinted at in Act I – is fully
revealed as the underlying aggression comes to the forefront. The Capulets release their
fury on their daughter not merely in response to her impudence, but also in a violent
reaction towards subjectivized balletic movement that enables her individuality and
personal expression.
Rudolf Nureyev’s choreography, performed by the Paris Opera Ballet in 1995 with
Monique Loudières as Juliet,7 is particularly effective in this scene. The violent pas de deux
between Juliet and her father allows for a musical and choreographic synthesis of
opposite dance paradigms and affirms Prokofiev’s interest in exploring the expressive
potential of the ballet genre. In his rough treatment of the ballerina, Capulet breaks all
balletic conventions, discarding the reverence and decorum with which the danseur
usually handles the ballerina. At the same time, Juliet never departs from her subjective
mode. Capulet painfully twists Juliet’s wrist whereupon a promenade results. As Capulet
drags Juliet across the floor, each tug is answered with an arabesque with which Juliet
continues to protest. By maintaining a distinct balletic vocabulary that is separate from
Capulet’s violent gestures, the choreography necessarily expands the meaning and feeling
of Juliet’s movement to depict realistically her desperation and physical pain.
How far was the score able to push Prokofiev’s exploration of choreographic
subjectivity? Certainly with the positive, “happy” ending, the composer envisioned a
ballet grounded in realism and the affirmation of real-world experience, with no dreams
of the au delà or leaps into a realm of unsullied beauty. But even Prokofiev realized the
flaw of avoiding a funeral scene, for if the “dead cannot dance,” and cannot transcend
death, the ballet could not express the most profound aspect of life – its end.
His solution was to negate otherworldly metaphysics, to affirm the characters’ material
existence by embracing an emotion previously unexplored in the ballet: grief. The score’s
development of balletic subjectivity, particularly in the scene between Juliet and her
father, allows the choreography to venture into a darker realm of the human psyche. The
scene challenges the dancers to forge new relationships and broaden their emotional
spectra. In the scene of Juliet’s funeral, Romeo continues this expansion in his pas de deux
with Juliet’s lifeless body. He manipulates Juliet’s body through a series of poses while
the music, repeating the love theme of the balcony scene, affirms Romeo’s inability to
recapture in life – rather than in death – the experience of their love. At the same time,
this grotesque pas de deux also criticizes the expressive impotence of traditional ballet. The
moment brilliantly shows the perversity of depicting death through balletic gesture, while
at the same time expressing the tragic-comedy of the human condition, an essential
feature of the ballet’s storyline.
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When Juliet awakens and discovers Romeo’s dead body, her expression of anguish differs
from that of Romeo. Up to this point, balletic gesture, supported by the music, has
enabled Juliet to assert her individuality within the vacuum of aristocratic power and fear,
even when facing the wrath of her parents. But at the moment Juliet learns of grief she is
unable to articulate this new emotion with her subjectivized choreography. Prokofiev
reprises the theme of Juliet’s entrance to adulthood, but he does so twice, almost in exact
harmonic repetition (at reh. 360 and 362). The textual instructions in the score merely
inform us that Juliet awakens, and then dies. There is a significant amount of music, and
the repetition seems banal – so the music itself must indicate that something else
happens in this scene. Indeed, in the second statement of the theme the timbre of the
melody is significantly altered and transferred from the flutes to a solo violin (reh.
362+3), while the climax of the phrase (reh. 362+10) reaches its greatest outpouring with
the thickest orchestral texture of the entire score. Prokofiev renders this music
“undanceable” as if to say that dance cannot express what the music can. Juliet becomes
“visually” silent, that is to say, immobile. Orchestral sound sweeps over her, negating the
visual space and “envoicing” rather than “dancing” her grief. (Nureyev’s choreography
and Loudières’s stunning performance are quite effective due to the willingness of the
artists to highlight the music rather than movement at this moment.)
In the absence of otherworldly metaphysics, Juliet’s physical death marks the end of the
ballet. Yet this death, like the repetition of the theme, is twofold in nature. While the
complete cessation of movement signals her physical death, Juliet first surrenders to her
grief. The death of will, the death of the ballerina, occurs as she abandons her subjectivity
to the orchestral climax. In Loudières’s performance, her silent scream, representing the
speech acts explicitly prohibited in ballet, illustrates the severance from subjectivity
embodied in balletic gesture. We therefore witness two deaths: first the ballerina in Juliet
expires, then Juliet the person, with her subjectivity that has been transferred into the
orchestra, gradually fades away and extinguishes. In the brief interlude between these two
deaths, the genre of ballet is elevated through the music to a heightened level of
expressive capability. The paradox of Prokofiev’s vision for the modern ballet is that
while ballet as a genre comes into its fullest maturation in this moment, it does so by
silencing the choreographic subjectivity in favor of that of the music.
Notes
1
This and the following quotations from the Prokofiev-Sherman correspondence are found in
Nelly Kravetz, “Prokofiev and Sherman: The first Soviet production of Romeo and Juliet,” Three
Oranges Journal 8 (2004): 18. My chronology of the genesis of the ballet derives from this article.
2 Ibid., 19.
3 For a study of Soviet ballet after the 1917 Revolution see Elizabeth Souritz, Soviet Choreographers
in the 1920s, ed. Sally Banes, trans. Lynn Visson (Durham; London: Duke University Press,
1990).
4 Arlene Croce, Going to the Dance (New York; Knopf: Random House, 1982), 216.
5 Alexei Yermolayev, “Dancing in Prokofiev’s Ballets,” in Sergey Prokofiev: Autobiography, Articles,
Reminiscences, ed. S. Shilfstein, trans. Rose Prokofieva (Moscow: Foreign Languages Publishing
House, 1961), 250.
6 Vadim Gayevsky, “Juliet’s Flight,” in the program booklet Sergei Prokofiev: Romeo and Juliet
(Moscow: The State Academic Bolshoi Theater of Russia, 2003), 18.
7 Rudolf Nureyev’s Romeo and Juliet: Ballet in Three Acts, DVD, directed by Alexandre Tarta (West
Long Branch, NJ: Kultur: NCV Arts, 1995). Despite the attention given Lavrovsky’s
choreography at the opening of this paper, I have chosen not to use the 1954 film version of his
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choreography starring Galina Ulanova for several reasons. The scene discussed here features a
similar violent confrontation between Juliet and her parents in Lavrovsky’s choreography, so
either production could serve as an example. However, in the Funeral scene, which I will also
discuss, Lavrovsky’s film version departs drastically from Prokofiev’s score with both cuts and
insertions of music from elsewhere in the ballet into the Funeral scene for cinematic purposes.
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Collaborating in the Melting Pot: George
Balanchine, Vernon Duke and George Gershwin
Beth Genné and Christian Matjias
University of Michigan
Copyright 2005, Beth Genné and Christian Matjias
We explore Balanchine’s collaboration with Vladimir Dukelsky (aka Vernon Duke) a
composer who was, in many ways, as significant to his career as Stravinsky but remains
largely unexamined. When Balanchine met him, Stravinsky was an established master
and throughout his career Balanchine treated him with the respect due a father. Duke
and Balanchine were peers, born within four months of one another. Just Twenty years
old when they met at the beginning of their careers, Duke and Balanchine’s lives
followed a remarkable similar trajectory. Conservatory trained, both young Russians
worked for Diaghilev, eventually making their homes and careers in America. Under the
influence of George Gershwin and his brother Ira, they transformed their art radically in
response to the new world of music and dance born of the American “melting pot”.
Duke and Balanchine and Gershwin, together and separately, drew freely on that exciting
blend of cultural traditions created by a “nation of immigrants” to New York, fusing
strands of Russian and European “classical” music and dance with not only AfricanAmerican vernacular musical and dance forms, but those forms as transformed by the
(largely Jewish) tin pan alley composers like Gershwin, Berlin, and Richard Rodgers. All
these forms in the 20’s and 30’s were loosely categorized by the term “jazz.”
(Throughout this paper we will use the term “jazz” as Americans used it in this period –
in its widest definition – not in the more narrow definition now given the term. Likewise
we will also use “classic” and “classical” to refer to concert music in the European
tradition, as American’s use it. )
The fusion of “jazz” and the “classics” was a central project of American (and some
European) music during the 1920’s and 1930’s. It became Balanchine’s and Duke’s
project too – but not in the sense of a novelty or an extraneous add-on to their styles. In
their quest Balanchine and Duke, like Gershwin, drew not only on urban jazz music and
dance forms, but on their African American and Afro-Caribbean music and dance roots,
melding them with Franco - Russian classical dance and music -- as well as their own
Russian and Georgian folk traditions.
Dukelsky and Balanchine first met in 1925 as Diaghilev’s newest protégé’s. Newly
immigrated from St. Petersburg, Balanchine, had been hired by Diaghilev as a resident
choreographer. Dukelsky’s score for Massine’s ballet Zephyr and Flore was created during
Balanchine’s first summer with company. Tamara Geva was one of the nine muses in
Zephyr and Flore – and Dukelsky remembers being struck, in rehearsal, not only by her
beauty, but by the sweetness and good humour, of her husband—whom he would soon
nickname “the Tiflis Pixie.” Tiflis (aka Tbilisi), the capital of Georgia, referred to
Balanchine’s Georgian ancestry, which Dukelsky himself shared.
They were similar in other ways too. Although he was raised in the Caucuses, Duke’s
family was nonetheless, closely connected to St. Petersburg while Balanchine had been
raised in St Petersburg, within an atmosphere of Georgian culture, provided by his father,
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a composer and collector of Georgian (and other Caucasian) folk music. Both were slated
for the military, but diverted to music (and in Balanchine’s case dance). Duke studied at
the Kiev conservatory; Balanchine at the St. Petersburg conservatory (as well as training
for the ballet.) Both had their lives interrupted and shaped by the 1917 Revolution. And
both had immigrated when it became clear, with the Bolsheviks in power that their lives
as artists were in danger. Both loved girls – which caused some tension in the largely
homosexual circle surrounding Diaghilev.
Jazz also brought them together. Both Balanchine and Duke had long been fascinated
with American “jazz” and its precursor, Ragtime. Like Duke, Balanchine liked to play as
well as listen to jazz –both earned money playing for silent movies, a job that demanded
knowledge of the latest popular songs. Balanchine formed his own ragtime band at
school. Later in Paris he eagerly studied African American performers like Josephine
Baker, who he coached in ballet and for whom he choreographed. (For more about this
see Beth Genné, “Glorifying the American Woman: Josephine Baker and George
Balanchine,” Discourses in Dance, v.3:1,2005) Duke remembers Balanchine carrying around
a worn guitar and entertaining at parties with his heavy Russian accent: “ Everybhody
loves my bohby, but my bohby don’t love nobhody but me”. (Duke, p.178) Later under
Duke and Gershwin’s influence, Balanchine, himself, wrote popular songs.
By the time they met in 1925 Dukelsky was already way ahead of Balanchine. He was in
the remarkable position, at age 20, of being a close friend of George Gershwin, the
composer who more than anyone was identified with American jazz. Just the year before,
in 1924, Gershwin had created a sensation with his attempt to break down the barriers
between “jazz” and the concert hall when his Rhapsody in Blue premiered at Carnegie Hall.
In fact, Duke had been present at Rhapsody’s creation: he remembers sitting in Gershwin’s
apartment, listening to him developing the famous opening theme. Indeed Gershwin
had entrusted Duke not only to arrange the piano solo version of Rhapsody, but to create
“piano copies” (publishable voice and piano versions) of his songs Araby and Somebody
Loves Me. “ I was quite proud”, Duke later said “of the ‘fill-ins’ I provided for “Somebody
Loves Me” and was amused to find that they were used in the stock orchestration –
obviously, the arranger thought them eminently “Gershwinesque”. Duke also did a bit of
ghostwriting for Gershwin: “a black and white ballet – a simple bit of ragtime for a highkicking precision routine for the Tiller girls who were to appear in the 1924 George
White’s Scandals”. (Duke, p.98)Duke’s role as Gershwin’s “stand in” will be important for
our story later.
How did this come to happen to a mere twenty year old? Duke’s family immigrated to
New York in 1921 when Duke was seventeen. There the young Russian émigré had led a
kind of double life of composing symphonic music and playing jazz in restaurants and
cabarets to support his mother and brother. The twenty three year old Gershwin had
befriended the Russian teenager after hearing one of his “serious” compositions at a
devoted new music.
Each was fascinated with the others talents, skills and training. Gershwin, was impressed
with Duke’s conservatory training with Gliere) in theory and composition, his wide
ranging knowledge of music literature, and in particular his” rich playing” and “lush
harmonies” the musical language of a kid raised in the Franco- Russian School and
imbued with Rimsky Korsakoff, Scriabin, Rachmaninoff, Stravinsky – and the young
Prokofiev.
But, while impressed with his accomplishments, Gershwin was suspicious – and one also
suspects a little jealous – of Duke’s arsenal of academic musical devices. “Those
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European guys don’t have many ideas, but they sure know how to dress them up.” He
told Duke bluntly. (Duke, p.96)
Duke, for his part, fell in love with the freshness and vitality of Gershwin’s music. “
Gershwin, he wrote, was as “a superbly equipped composer… not just a concocter of
commercial jingles. His extraordinary left hand performed miracles in counter-rhythms,
shrewd canonic devices and unexpected harmonic shifts” (Duke, p. 90).
In his autobiography, Passport to Paris, Duke would chronicle what Gershwin taught him
and how it would change his life and his attitude toward popular music. Once after
playing Gershwin his latest work, an extremely “cerebral piano sonata” George bluntly
advised him. (Duke p. 91) “There’s no money in that kind of stuff”... no heart in it,
either, he advised the young and poor immigrant. Try to write some real popular tunes –
and don’t be scared about going lowbrow. They will open you up!” That phrase “they
will open you up!” was somewhat of an epiphany for Duke. “It stayed with me all my
life,” he wrote. Jazz was not just a way to earn money – but real musical nourishment for
all his work. (p. 90)
In this way, Duke and Gershwin became close friends and mutually beneficial colleagues
– the older man mentoring the younger, but also taking his advice seriously. Under
Gershwin’s influence, Duke, himself started writing popular songs, while continuing his
work as serious composer. (It was Gershwin who gave him his “American” nom de plume,
Vernon Duke and recommended him to his own publisher, Max Dreyfus.)
Most importantly, Gershwin brought Duke into his circle of friends and patrons -- the
best and brightest of Broadway’s young composers and lyricists and the New York
socialites that admired them. “Dukie”, as the Gershwin brothers called him was a regular
at the Gershwin’s apartment where his fluent Russian endeared him to Gershwin’s St.
Petersburg born father and mother and where George would famously entertain his
guests with his latest songs, brilliantly improvised at the piano. Ever generous to his
younger colleague, Gershwin would often invite Duke. With the Gershwin “crowd”,
Duke went Harlem, to hear and see the great African American performers of the day
and the groundbreaking all black Broadway revues: Sissle and Blake’s Shuffle Along and
Blackbirds. Thus between 1921 and 1924 when he left for Paris and his great Diaghilev
adventure, Duke had had a thorough education at the heart of American jazz world.
For his part, the young Duke became Gershwin’s champion among the group of
“serious” composers to which Duke belonged. He and Dukelsky discussed the range of
musical literature – and concepts such as orchestration, harmony, and counterpoint. It
seems clear, that especially in the period before Rhapsody in Blue, Duke, who respected
Gershwin’s potential as a “serious” composer in a way that many of his concert hall
colleagues did not, may have served as both a model and a motivator for Gershwin to
conceive of himself as someone who had something to contribute to the concert hall as
well as the Broadway stage.
Gershwin was as supportive of his Duke’s symphonic ambitions as he was of his popular
music. Gershwin’s “ghost writing” commissions were, in part, to help Duke earn the
money to get to Paris in 1924 to further his “serious” music career. Once there, Duke
connected with the expatriate Russian community, many of whom he already knew. An
introduction to Diaghilev was arranged through Pavel Tcheletchev, Walter Nouvel and
an old friend, Boris Kochno. Zephyr and Flore, his first ballet, was the result. It established
Dukelsky as a young composer to be reckoned with. Poulenc wrote not one, but two
enthusiastic reviews. Diaghilev proclaimed Dukelsky his “third son” – after Stravinsky
and Prokofiev. And Prokofiev, far from being jealous, loved the ballet. Duke, himself,
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had loved Prokofiev’s work ever since he had seen the young St. Petersburg conservatory
graduate, perform his first piano concerto in Kiev. He was especially thrilled with this
approbation from Diaghilev’s “second son”. After Zephyr, Prokofiev became, like
Gershwin, Duke’s close friend and mentor -- the only composer, says Duke, to rival
Gershwin in his affections.
The problem was that both Prokofiev and Diaghilev looked with suspicion on Duke’s
jazz career. Prokofiev once refused to look at one of Duke’s compositions, because it
was written on jazz manuscript paper. And when Diaghilev found out that Duke was
moonlighting as a songwriter for a Cochran review in London, he declared him a
“whore”. This after trampling on the young man’s top hat. (Duke, p. 253)
Duke did not have that problem with Balanchine who had no trouble reconciling Duke’s
love of jazz and “classical” music. Balanchine had admired Duke’s music for Zephyr and
Flore. He and Duke began to work on a new ballet for Diaghilev called The Three Seasons.
(Diaghilev hated autumn so the seasons were winter, spring, and summer) When the
Ballets Russes moved to London for the 1925-6 season, Balanchine and Duke took rooms
adjacent to one another in Torrington Square. When George and Ira Gershwin arrived
later that winter of 1926 for the premiere of Lady Be Good, Duke moved to be near him.
It seems very likely that Balanchine would have met Gershwin at this time and it is also
about this time that he would have first seen Fred Astaire who with his sister Adele was
the star of Lady Be Good.
For Balanchine, Duke, was an ideal go-between, an active bridge builder between the two
worlds. At home in the world of popular and classical music, fluent in Russian and
English, aware of Balanchine’s musical background and love of jazz as well as his
choreography, it is hard to believe that he didn’t introduce his young Russian friend to
his distinguished (slightly) older one. Later Duke would take Diaghilev to hear
Gershwin’s Concerto in F (Gershwin, himself, was at that concert). And he introduced
Gershwin to Prokofiev. Both remained unimpressed but the “Tiflis Pixie”, I suspect, had
another reaction.
When Duke returned to America in 1929, with a distinguished reputation but basically
penniless, he continued to bridge build. Equally penniless, Balanchine followed in 1933.
“It was wonderful to see George again…” remembers Duke (p. 295). Eager to resume
their collaboration, Duke approached Balanchine’s sponsor Edward Warburg for a
commission. He was rejected. It seems Warburg already had his sister-in-law, Kay
Swift, in mind for Balanchine’s first Americana ballet Alma Mater, which premiered in
1935. (Kay Swift also happened to be a close friend of George Gershwin)
However, Duke was able to work with the “Tiflis Pixie” by getting him a job on
Broadway in the Ziegfeld Follies where Duke was collaborating with Ira Gershwin. Duke
was again working as a kind of “stand in” for George Gershwin who was too busy
working on Porgy and Bess.
Thus it was Duke’s recommendation for Balanchine that got the young choreographer
his first really well paying job and, most importantly, an “in” to the circle of the young
movers and shakers of Broadway. The Follies was a high level operation: The creative
team included John Murray Anderson and the young set designer Vincente Minnelli and
from Paris, Balanchine’s old friend and colleague, Josephine Baker who starred along
with Fannie Brice. The supporting cast included Bob Hope, Harriet Hoctor and Eve
Arden.
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Balanchine fit in easily and soon, he too, was spending time with Duke around the
Gershwin’s piano. George Gershwin was all caught up in Porgy and Bess which
premiered at the Alvin Theatre in October 1935 just down the street from the Winter
Garden where the Follies was in rehearsal. Duke had continued to play his role as
supporter, sounding board and advice giver as Gershwin worked on his most ambitious
symphonic project to date. “George was still under the sway of the Wagnerian formula
which I held and still hold to be completely anti-theatrical. I insisted on the old Italian
approach with separate numbers, duets, trios and ensembles.” Duke wrote. Gershwin
listened and Porgy’s arias, duets, trios and ensemble works were masterpieces. Duke left
Follies rehearsals to accompany the Gershwin brothers to Porgy’s out of town premiere
in Boston and he was in the opening night audience.
Eager to bring everything he could to Porgy, Gershwin had taken lessons in orchestration
and other “classical” music devices (Duke’s strong point) from the Russian teacher,
Joseph Schillinger and he made it a point to show off his newly developed skills to Duke.
“One day he played the ingenious crap game fugue from Porgy, his face beaming”
remembers Duke “Get this Gershwin writing fugues. What will the boys say now?”
(Duke, Some Reminiscences, p. 109)
Duke was indeed impressed. “The tunes we all listened too, around George’s piano –
Summer Time, It Ain’t Necessarily So, I Got Plenty of nothin -- were now clothed in appropriate
orchestral garb and shone with a new and dazzling brilliance. “ (Duke, Schillinger, p. 110)
And indeed, Gershwin’s gift for melody, interesting harmonies and “fascinating rhythms”
was now bolstered by his new command of orchestration and vocal part writing, which
had made a quantum leap under Schillinger’s tutelage. Duke himself was so impressed,
he, himself, consulted Schillinger.
Josephine Baker also took off time from the rigorous Follies rehearsal to see Porgy and
she was equally bowled over. She announced to the papers that she wanted to play Bess
when it premiered in London. We have no record of what Balanchine thought, but he
certainly knew of Duke and Baker’s opinion.
Three months later, on January 30, 1936, the Ziegfeld Follies opened at the Wintergarden
theatre just up the street from the Alvin. As Duke and Ira Gershwin had followed Porgy
and Bess’s progress, so George Gershwin had paid frequent visits to Follies rehearsals.
George Gershwin now watched how the three Duke Balanchine ballets revealed their
distinctive blending of old and new world “musics” blending influences from Debussy,
Ravel, Prokofiev and Scriabin,) with the syncopation of American jazz to create a new
form of “ballet”, which like Porgy, had moved outside the boundaries of both “popular”
and classical traditions.
This was made clear even in the Follies program. The Duke-Balanchine works were
clearly distinguished from the more routine song and dance “numbers” on the program.
They were identified as “ballets”. Balanchine was prominently credited as the
“choreographer” -- a new term for Broadway. (Robert Alton who choreographed the
rest of the show was identified with the more usual job description “dance director” and
was not singled out and given credit for each of his numbers.)
And indeed, in look and sound the Duke-Balanchine ballets were a real departure from
the other Broadway dance numbers in the Follies – more akin to the one act, post war
Diaghilev ballets. Vincente Minnelli’s surrealist design for Words without Music, featuring
classically trained Harriet Hoctor could have fit into any Diaghilev ballet of the twenties
and you can see some of Balanchine’s innovations in the ballets opening moments: three
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shadowy figures stand; their shadows played by four other figures who lie on the ground
in front of them. In another photograph the strange shadowy figures form an
amorphous mass that support Hoctor high in the air.
The “Aviator ballet” is also surrealist. It begins with a cascade of dissonant chords -- a
musical “plane crash”. The shadowy hulk of wrecked plane looms on the stage. The
spirit of the pilot – a woman – appears from the plane and dances in white against a
starry sky. It was the era of aviator excitement ignited by Lindbergh’s solo Atlantic
crossing, Amelia Earhart’s adventures and the publication of Antoine de Saint-Euxpéry’s
poetic evocation of flying at night: Vol de Nuit. Unfortunately we have yet to discover
photographs of this ballet. There is only a newspaper cartoon, along with the intrigued
descriptions of critics. (We know for example that Hoctor rotated her arms and spun
around the stage like a propeller)
How did Balanchine and Duke work together on these ballets? From Duke’s account of
their working method, it is clear that Balanchine actively participated in the shaping of
the score. Balanchine guided him “ by sitting down at the piano and improvising the sort
of music he needed Balanchine dancing out whole chunks of it, humming to himself,
throwing himself on the floor and saying at intervals. Here I want about a minute of
music for the guests…. tra, la, la…tra la lee. Something like that; now…” as he ran from
the room. “That’s where the dancer comes in, like this….” – a hop and a couple of turns
– “about twelve bars. You see?” I saw. “ (Duke, p. 379.)
We will now take an in depth look at Duke and Balanchine’s third Follies ballet, Five
AM. Our sources are the unpublished Follies script, the critics description and Dukes
unpublished scores for which we thank The Vernon Duke Trust and Ira and Lenore
Gershwin Trust. Five AM was written for Josephine Baker in her first American
appearance in a decade. Now the toast of Paris, fluent in French, and a star of operetta
and movies as well as music hall, she was very different from the young and frightened
chorus girl who had left New York in 1925 to appear in the Revue Negre. As mentioned
earlier, she had also been trained in ballet and Balanchine had already choreographed for
her in Paris drawing on her skills as both jazz dancer and her newly acquired skills in
ballet (refer to my article)
Duke’s score and Balanchine’s choreography very much reflected this blend of old world
and new in the mature Baker. They both depart from the strict orthodoxy of either
Broadway show tunes or symphonic repertory towards the development of a new form.
Around the AABA form of a tender and nuanced musical theatre song with lyrics by Ira
Gershwin, Duke shapes a score in which you can hear influences of Prokofiev, Debussy,
Scriabin and Rachmaninoff combined with the syncopation of jazz and of the Gershwin
of the symphonic tone poems, An American in Paris and Rhapsody in Blue.
Balanchine, for his part, creates a mini ballet d’action – a narrative in dance that expands on
Ira’s poignant lyrics, with several scenes that uses song and dance to tell the “story” of a
tragic female – a modern descendant of the Romantic Ballet tradition, who yearns for
something she cannot have. She is adored by men who dance with her in a mysterious
dream like setting, These shadowy, masked figures, all in black, as one viewer put it
“carry Baker around like a queen” supporting, lifting and swaying with her glittering,
form fitting figure, until the rude reality interrupts. But the balletic narrative conceits, also
incorporate a new dance vocabulary – one that activates the hip and gives new and
angular lines to the dancer’s shape as in jazz dance, but combines it with the ballet
dancer’s much freer range of movement of arms and legs.
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Duke’s score combines classical compositional techniques with popular musical
vernacular forms. Debussy, Stravinsky and others had done the same, but we would
argue, as a kind of novelty add-on to a “classical” foundation. Fully at home in both
“languages”, with love and respect for each, Duke’s synthesizes these elements to create
something new. It is not a watered down version of his sources, but something his own.
To us, this music sounds so familiar and acceptable. In 1936, did audiences find these
mixtures to be audacious?
The music of the opening section – clearly for mime and dance-- firmly sets the scene in
a modern big city. It suggesting the bustle of traffic, the hyper gaiety of the crowd and a
kind of mad festivity. (The influence of Gershwin’s An American Paris opening can be
heard) After a time, the guests leave and the mood changes. Baker is alone. She walks to
the mantle, turns out the lights and begins to sing: Ira Gershwin’s bittersweet lyrics and
Duke’s yearning and poignant melody clearly portray a sophisticated woman who is
relieved when her public mask can be taken off and she can enter “a world of her own”.
The song follows the AABA format of a standard American popular song in the manner
of Gershwin, Porter, or Berlin.
Five Am –
And I am alone again,
Five AM.
My time is my own again.
Five A.M.
Through with the nights I slave in,
I’m in my haven again.
Through with cafes where I paraded
to drink with jaded old men.
Home again.
No white tie is facing me.
Home again. Home again.
No Don Juan embracing me.
Home again.
Soon enough the masquerade starts again
Soon enough I’m playing with hearts again.
Five A.M. I live in a world of my own.
lyrics by Ira Gershwin,
used by permission of the Ira and Leonore Gershwin Trust
Baker walks to the sofa and falls asleep. Now, in her dreams, Baker will truly enter that
“world of her own” and Duke indicates this by leading into the dream sequence with the
melodic material that accompanies that lyric. One by one, four male “dream figures
“step from the shadows to dance with her. The music is not so much developed, but
fragmented – like a dream, might be – with events appearing and disappearing suddenly.
The dance clearly builds in intensity (the dream is turning into a nightmare) and Baker
opens the door of her apartment to reveal the nightmarish shadow of one of those “Don
Juans” she sings about. He disappears, and calming herself, she returns to the song and
final dance sequence in the world of her own.
This dream ballet sequence, 79 measures in length, uses fragments of material we heard
in the song. Duke builds these fragments into a cohesive whole, focusing on the melodic
materials used for a key moment in the text “I live in a World of my own” now “dressed” in
orchestral colors and textures and presented in a harmonic language which reflects a
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variety of Franco-Russian and American musical influences: Debussy, Scriabin,
Rachmaninoff, Prokofiev and the Gershwin tone poems to create the “dream world” she
now enters. These alternate with rhythmic phrases clearly drawn from jazz. The work
concludes with another repeat of the 32 bar song refrain and concludes with a five or
seven measure tag that revisits the music of the dream ballet.
The Ziegfeld Follies was, one the whole, a success and before its run was over
Balanchine was hired as choreographer for On Your Toes, which premiered in the spring
of 1936. Why are we talking about On Your Toes – which is after all – a Rodgers and Hart
musical? Because it directly draws on the “melting pot” musical world of which Duke,
Balanchine and Gershwin were so important a part. On Your Toes is a satirical look at the
“invasion” of the Russian émigré community and its impact on American performing
arts. By 1936, Russians were everywhere -- intimidating and alluring with their fancy arts
pedigrees and exotic glamour. In dance there was Balanchine, Fokine, Danilova, Geva
and the Ballets Russes; in music, Duke, Koussevitsky, Horowitz, Heifetz to name only a
few. On Your Toes also poked fun at those composers and choreographers who were
trying so hard to “elevate” jazz by bringing it into the concert hall and the ballet stage.
Indeed Phil Dolan (“Junior”) the young American composer who writes, as he says
“something sort of new – a jazz ballet”, could easily have been Gershwin, himself. It was
more than a decade since his highly publicized Carnegie Hall debut with Rhapsody in
Blue. And now his new opera was playing on Broadway. Gershwin was both admired and
teased for it by his Broadway colleagues.
Junior composes his “jazz ballet”, Slaughter on Tenth Avenue, for a company, which is a
thinly disguised portrait of the Ballet Russes. And Slaughter is clearly Rodger’s response
to Duke and Balanchine’s “ballets” for the Ziegfeld Follies.
Throughout On Your Toes, Balanchine contrasted Broadway chorus dancing, tap and
ballet and Slaughter on 10th Avenue, the climactic ballet actually “fused” the two. As in
Five AM Balanchine creates a score for a ballet d’action to tell the story in a modernized
kind of mime as well as dance. Slaughter is probably the closest tot he movement for
Five AM as we will ever get and it probably goes further. Tamara Geva, its star, was not
only a ballerina but had recently done jazz movement on Broadway. In Slaughter,
Balanchine, I believe gave us the modern form of jazz dance. (Think Cyd Charisse in
Singin in the Rain). He widened the range of the African American the African American
tap dancer and the chorus girl kick line. He did this by using the classical dancers wider
range and expansiveness of arm and leg motion, and actually choreographing and
opening up the port de bras. He fused all this with the jazz dancers tight integration and
interaction with syncopated rhythms, angular body shapes, a “preparation less” flow of
movement and speed and the acrobatics of Broadway chorus girls.
As Rodgers and Hart emulated Gershwin, now Gershwin took account of the success of
On Your Toes. His and Ira’s next project in 1936-7 was another tongue in cheek look at
the clash and eventual reconciliation of “old and new world forms” Called “Stepping
Toes” (later changed to Shall We Dance) Fred Astaire is Petrov, a Russian ballet star,
who woos a reluctant jazz dancer, Ginger Rogers. She softens when he reveals his true
American identity – and his love of American jazz dance – along with his ambition to
mix the “vitality of American jazz with the classics” to create a new form. As in On Your
Toes, the final extended sequence contrasts the two styles – with ballerina Harriet Hoctor
(direct from Balanchine and Duke’s ballets for The Ziegfeld Follies played off against
Ginger Rogers’s tap dancing. Astaire dances with them both to a Gershwin score – a
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fantasia which contrasts Ravelian waltz for Hoctor and Astaire with a syncopated
Broadway song played by combination of orchestra and jazz band.
Gershwin and Balanchine finally got together to create their own ballet for the Goldwyn
Follies of 1938. The two Georges and Ira roughed out a libretto for a ballet to an
American in Paris. But Gershwin was already suffering from the symptoms of the brain
tumor that would eventually kill him. Balanchine takes up the story: “I went to visit him
and found him lying in bed in a dark room. He had a towel against his head and was
obviously in great pain. He said to me ”it is difficult for me to work now, but I’ll be all
right” He knew I was trained in music so he also said” Do what you must, I know it will
be good” -- he had more confidence in me than Goldwyn did then! And when I’m all
better we’ll do our ballet just the way you want it. A week later he was dead.” (Ira
Gershwin, p. 278 )
So with Gershwin’s blessing, Balanchine choreographed the ballet and edited An
American in Paris score to his specifications. (This will be discussed in the expanded
version of this article). Again the mixture of new world jazz and old world “classical”
forms is the theme. Ballerina Vera Zorina is pursued by American tap dancer Paul
Draper through the pavilions of an international exposition. Sets were built and
Balanchine planned out the camerawork with the great cinematographer Greg Toland.
But Goldwyn was not impressed and it was dropped from the picture. Furious,
Balanchine threatened to quit.
It was Balanchine and Gershwin’s mutual friend Vernon Duke who saved the day. Now
our story comes full circle. Eager to help rescue the picture for which his friend and
mentor had created his last songs and in which his old buddy, the “Tiflis Pixie”. was
making his film debut, Duke had stepped to help tie up loose ends and write the
remaining ballet scores. He now persuaded Balanchine to stay. Reassembled, the old
Ziegfeld Follies team, Vernon Duke, George Balanchine and Ira Gershwin went to work.
Balanchine and Duke created two ballets (Water Nymph and Romeo and Juliet) The Water
Nymph ballet, like those for Hoctor in the Ziegfeld Follies was in the Diaghilev mode
with Vera Zorina and members of Balanchine’s American Ballet company all on point.
But Romeo and Juliet explores the two friends favorite theme. The Montagues (jazz tap
dancers) and Capulets (ballet dancers) battle in dance on the streets of an updated
Verona. Unlike Shakespeare’s original, the lovers survive to dance happily together, just
as Duke and Balanchine would continue on their quest to combine old and new world
forms.
Note: A fuller discussion of The American in Paris Ballet and of Romeo and Juliet will be
included in a longer version of this article to be published later.
Works Cited
Duke, Vernon, Passport to Paris, Little Brown: Boston, 1955
Duke, Vernon, “Gershwin, Schillinger, and Dukelsky: Some Reminiscences,” The Musical
Quarterly, 1947, pp. 102-115.
Gershwin, Ira, The Complete Lyrics, New York: Knopf, 1993
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Trumpets and Flutes: Music and Dance in John
Weaver’s The Loves of Mars and Venus
Moira Goff
Copyright 2005, Moira Goff
John Weaver’s The Loves of Mars and Venus, first performed at the Drury Lane Theatre on
2 March 1717, has been described as the first ballet d’action and is widely acknowledged to
be one of the most important works in the history of dancing. Weaver called his new
afterpiece a ‘Dramatick Entertainment of Dancing’, and published a description which
summarised the action and explained the expressive gestures used by individual
characters.1 Although he championed the recently invented system for notating dances,
now known as Beauchamp-Feuillet notation, The Loves of Mars and Venus was apparently
never recorded. The music for his afterpiece was never published and no manuscript is
known to survive. Thus, both the music and the dance for The Loves of Mars and Venus
are lost, and the work cannot be reconstructed. However, there is a wealth of other
evidence about music and dance on the London stage from the 1690s to the 1710s,
which may provide clues to what audiences saw and heard in 1717. This paper takes the
first step towards recreating The Loves of Mars and Venus by investigating some of those
contemporary sources, to assess whether the music and dance in Weaver’s first
‘Dramatick Entertainment of Dancing’ was as ‘novel and foreign’ as he claimed in the
preface to his description.2
Context for the Creation of The Loves of Mars and Venus
Weaver created The Loves of Mars and Venus during a period of fierce rivalry between the
two principal London theatres, Drury Lane and Lincoln’s Inn Fields. The Drury Lane
actor-manager Colley Cibber summarised the situation in his Apology, published in 1740:
… when one Company is too hard for another, the lower, in
Reputation, has always been forc’d to exhibit some new-fangled
Foppery, to draw the Multitude after them: Of these Expedients,
Singing and Dancing had formerly been the most effectual; but, at the
Time I am speaking of, our English Musick had been so discountenanc’d,
since the Taste of Italian Operas prevail’d, that it was to no purpose, to
pretend to it. Dancing therefore was, now, the only Weight in the
opposite Scale, and as the New Theatre [i.e. Lincoln’s Inn Fields]
sometimes found their Account in it, it could not be safe for us, wholly
to neglect it. To give even Dancing therefore some Improvement, and
to make it something more than Motion without Meaning, the Fable of
Mars and Venus, was form’d into a connected Presentation of Dances in
Character, wherein the Passions were so happily express’d, and the
whole Story so intelligibly told, by a mute Narration of Gesture only,
that even thinking Spectators allow’d it both a pleasing, and a rational
Entertainment; …3
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By ‘English Musick’, Cibber meant the semi-operas, with their mixture of music and
drama, which had been extremely popular on the London stage until the introduction of
Italian opera in the early 1700s. The advertisements for the first performance of The
Loves of Mars and Venus declared that the afterpiece was a ‘New Dramatick Entertainment
of Dancing after the Manner of the Antient Pantomimes’, a claim repeated on the
titlepage to the published description.4 Weaver and the Drury Lane actor-managers were
determined to present his new work as a serious danced drama.
John Weaver, born in Shrewsbury in 1673, had left his home town by 1697 although he is
not recorded in London until 1700.5 He danced in the London theatres until at least
1703, and probably stayed in the capital until late 1707. During these years, Weaver
became involved in promoting the newly invented system of dance notation, and in 1706
published Orchesography (a translation of Feuillet’s treatise Choregraphie) and A Collection of
Ball-Dances Perform’d at Court: … Compos’d by Mr Isaac.6 By early 1708, he was back in
Shrewsbury, where he wrote his Essay towards an History of Dancing published in London in
1712.7 The Essay set out the theories of expressive dancing which Weaver was to put
into practice in The Loves of Mars and Venus. There is no evidence that Weaver returned to
London before 1717, when his ‘Dramatick Entertainment of Dancing’ was performed
for the first time.
Weaver’s first stay in London coincided with the production of several ‘English’ musical
works which would later influence his danced dramas. Among them were The Loves of
Mars and Venus (1696, revived 1704) by Peter Anthony Motteux with music by John
Eccles and Gottfried Finger, Rinaldo and Armida (1699) by John Dennis with music by
Eccles, and Psyche (1674, revived 1704) by Thomas Shadwell with music by Matthew
Locke and Giovanni Battista Draghi. Music survives, at least in part, for all of them.8 In
1715, just before Weaver came back to London, Drury Lane mounted two new musical
works; Venus and Adonis and Myrtillo and Laura were by Colley Cibber, with scores by
John Christopher Pepusch. Weaver may not have seen either of them (they were not
revived in 1717), and Pepusch had moved to Lincoln’s Inn Fields by the time he arrived
back at Drury Lane, but the composers for The Loves of Mars and Venus cannot have been
unaware of this latest trend in music on the London stage. Scores survive for both
works.9
According to Cibber, dancing was a key element in the rivalry between Drury Lane and
Lincoln’s Inn Fields. By the mid-1710s dancing was being advertised by the theatres
more than ever before, and the repertoires of the principal dancers in The Loves of Mars
and Venus demonstrate the variety of dancing on the London stage. Weaver must surely
have drawn on the particular talents and experience of his leading dancers. Louis Dupré
danced Mars, Hester Santlow was Venus, and Weaver himself appeared as Vulcan.
Dupré was possibly not well known to Weaver. He was probably French and had first
danced in London as recently as 1714. I have shown elsewhere that the Dupré who
danced in London, and appeared as Mars in The Loves of Mars and Venus, was not ‘Le
Grand’ Dupré.10 The dancer-actress Mrs Santlow and John Weaver must have known
each other by 1707, when he notated Mr Isaac’s duet The Union which she had performed
with the French dancer Desbarques at court and in the theatre. Weaver was essentially a
comic dancer, but both Dupré and Santlow had wide-ranging repertoires, which
encompassed serious as well as comic dances.
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Music and Dance in The Loves of Mars and Venus
In his theoretical writings, Weaver said little about music. He hardly mentions it in the
final chapter, ‘Of the Modern Dancing’, of his Essay. His only extended discussion comes in
his Anatomical and Mechanical Lectures upon Dancing published in 1721. Weaver declares that
a dancing-master should have ‘so much Skill in Musick, as, at least, to be able to give
Instructions to a Master in Musick for the Composition of his Airs’. This was evidently
his own practice, in theory at least. Weaver also names his composers for The Loves of
Mars and Venus:
… it was my good Fortune, when I compos’d the Entertainment of
Mars and Venus, to be recommended to Mr. Symonds, of whom I shall
say no more, than, that the Symphonies he was so kind to give me for that
Entertainment, were so well suited to the Subjects they introduc’d, that
they sufficiently shew’d the Skill of the Composer, at the same Time as
they imbellished the Performance: Nor, was its good Reception by the
Town less owing to the musical Airs of the Dancing Parts, compos’d by
Mr. Firbank, …
Weaver particularly praised ‘Mr. Firbank’, the dancing-master and composer Charles
Fairbank, for the ‘just adapting his Sounds to the Passions, and Affections’ in The Loves of
Mars and Venus.11
Although the musical works given at Drury Lane in 1715 had been by a single composer,
Pepusch, the use of more than one composer was not unusual. Among the works
Weaver could have seen during his first period in London several had two or more
composers. In Motteux’s The Loves of Mars and Venus, Finger had set the prologue and act
three, while Eccles had set acts one and two.12 For Psyche in 1674, Locke had composed
all the vocal and much of the instrumental music, but the ‘Instrumental Musick before
and between the Acts, and the Entries in the Acts’ were provided by Draghi.13
Weaver probably knew both Symonds and Fairbank by the early 1700s. Neither were
among London’s leading musicians, and his choice of them as composers for The Loves of
Mars and Venus may have been as a result of the departure of Pepusch for Lincoln’s Inn
Fields. Symonds, variously identified as John or Henry Symonds, was apparently a
member of the King’s Band of Musicians and organist at two London churches.14 His
only compositions to survive are a cantata published about 1720, and Six Sets of Lessons for
the Harpsicord published about 1734.15 Charles Fairbank had danced on the London stage
in the early 1700s, and was named by Weaver in his Essay as among ‘those Masters whom
I take to have arrived at the true Skill and Taste of Genteel Dancing’.16 In 1728, the
dancing-master John Essex described Fairbank as ‘strong and active in his Way of
Dancing, yet very taking and genteel’ and as ‘an extraordinary Genius in Musick’.17 Of
Fairbank’s music, the only survivals are a song published about 1720, and several dances
in A Collection of Minuets Rigadoons & French Dances published about 1721.18 George
Dorris has made a plausible connection between the tune ‘Mars and Venus’ in the third
volume of The Dancing Master, a collection of country dances published in the late 1720s,
and Fairbank’s music for Weaver’s afterpiece.19
In the description of The Loves of Mars and Venus, Weaver specified the music and dance
at key points of the drama:
Scene 1 (Mars)
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‘Martial Overture’
‘Pyrrhic to a March’ - Dance by the Followers of Mars
‘Warlike Prelude’ - Mars Enters
‘Entry’ - Dance by Mars
‘Pyrrhic Mood’ - Dance (or Pas d’Action) by Mars and his Followers.20
Scene 2 (Venus and Vulcan)
‘Simphony of Flutes, &c.’
‘Passacaile’ - Dance by Venus, the Graces, an Hour
‘wild rough Air’ - Vulcan enters
‘Dance’, ‘of the Pantomimic Kind’ - Venus and Vulcan.21
Scene 3 (Vulcan and the Cyclops)
‘rough Consort of Musick’, ‘adapted to the particular Sounds of the Shop’ Cyclops at work
‘Entry’ - Dance by the Cyclops and Vulcan.22
Scene 4 (Mars and Venus)
‘Prelude of Trumpets, Hautbois, Violins and Flutes alternate’ - Mars and Venus
enter
‘Entry’ - Dance by the Followers of Mars, the Graces [and the Hour?], Mars and
Venus.23
Scene 5 (Vulcan and the Cyclops)
[Dance] - Vulcan.24
Scene 6 (Mars, Venus, and Vulcan)
‘soft Symphony of Flutes’ - Mars and Venus discovered
‘Insulting Performance’ - [Dance or Pas d’Action?] Vulcan and the Cyclops
‘Grand Dance’ - Mars ‘with the rest of the Gods, and Goddesses’.25
Weaver’s indications point to the division of the music between his two composers. In
the early eighteenth century, as Weaver makes clear, the term ‘symphony’ was used for
overtures and introductory instrumental music in operas. Symonds probably contributed
at least five pieces of music to The Loves of Mars and Venus - the ‘Martial Overture’ with
which the afterpiece begins, and the music which begins scenes two, three, four and six.
Fairbank may well have provided as many as twelve pieces of music, not only the ‘Pyrrhic
to a March’ in scene one, the ‘Passacaile’ in scene two, and all the other dance music
including the final ‘Grand Dance’, but also the ‘Warlike Prelude’ to which Mars enters,
Vulcan’s ‘wild rough Air’, and the music for the ‘Insulting Performance’ by Vulcan and
the Cyclops in scene six. Weaver is noticeably warmer towards Fairbank than Symonds
in his Anatomical and Mechanical Lectures upon Dancing, noting that the dancing-master and
composer also provided the music for his Orpheus and Eurydice in 1718.26
Weaver’s use of Motteux’s libretto for the action of his own version of The Loves of Mars
and Venus has been analysed in detail by Richard Ralph.27 The description suggests that
Weaver was influenced by more than just the text of the earlier work. He may also have
drawn on other elements, as well as the text, of the 1704 revival of Shadwell’s Psyche.
In Weaver’s danced drama, Mars and his Followers are characterised by a ‘Pyrrhic’ dance,
which Weaver declares ‘consisted chiefly in the nimble turning of the Body, the shifting,
and avoiding the Stroke of the Enemy’.28 ‘Pyrrhic’ dances are included in both Motteux’s
masque and Psyche; in the latter, the Priests of Mars dance ‘striking their Swords upon the
Targets, showing the postures of their Swords’.29 Vulcan and the Cyclops have
prominent roles in both the earlier works. In Motteux’s The Loves of Mars and Venus, a
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‘rough wild Tune’ accompanies their entrance in act one, which must surely have influenced
the ‘wild rough Air’ to which Weaver’s Vulcan enters.30 In scene three, Weaver calls for
a ‘rough Consort of Musick’ which is ‘adapted to the particular Sounds of the Shop’ as
the Cyclops forge armour and weapons for the gods. Both Motteux’s and Shadwell’s
texts have stage directions calling for the Cyclops to strike on an anvil as they dance.31
Weaver’s borrowings did not stop there. Scene four of his afterpiece begins with a
‘Prelude of Trumpets, Hautbois, Violins and Flutes alternate’ and culminates in a dance in which
the ‘Strength of the Warrior is seen, mixt with the Softness, and Delicacy of Love’. This
is very much the same effect as Motteux called for in act three of his masque, contrasting
‘Trumpets, and other warlike Music’ with ‘Flutes, and other soft Musick’ to which the Followers
of Mars and those of Cupid dance alternately.32
Weaver’s use of the music directions in Motteux’s The Loves of Mars and Venus and
Shadwell’s Psyche suggests that, when he instructed his own composers, he had in mind
the music of Eccles, Finger, Locke, and Draghi in those entertainments. Eccles also
provided the music for John Dennis’s Rinaldo and Armida in 1699, for which Dennis gave
him particular thanks in his preface to the libretto:
… I design’d not only to move Passion, but as many Passions as I could
successively without doing violence to my subject, as Admiration, Love
and Joy, Anger, Compassion, Terror, Grief, Horror, Astonishment and
Despair. How clearly, how fully, and how admirably Mr. Eccles has
expressed those Passions I leave to the World to judge, … he has every
where so throughly enter’d into my design, that if I had not known him
very well, I should have often wonder’d at it.33
Eccles was clearly aiming at expressive effects in music parallel to those Weaver was
seeking from dancing. Unfortunately, Eccles’s expressive ‘symphonies’ are missing from
the manuscript score of Rinaldo and Armida, and neither his nor Finger’s instrumental
music was included when the songs and dialogues from Motteux’s masque were
published. However, other theatre music by both composers survives and is surely
worth consulting in any attempt to recreate the instrumental music for Weaver’s first
‘Dramatick Entertainment of Dancing’.
If the ‘Pyrrhic’ dances in the first scene of Weaver’s The Loves of Mars and Venus suggest the
influence of Finger or Draghi, the ‘Entry’ for Mars, and Venus’s ‘Passacaile’ in scene two,
point to French dance music. This idea is reinforced by Dupré’s and Santlow’s
repertoires; both were celebrated for their mastery of the French style and technique of
theatrical dancing, and both often danced to French music.
Dupré’s wide-ranging repertoire included a Harlequin solo, to Charpentier’s chaconne for
Molière’s Le Malade imaginaire, as well as a very difficult serious solo created for him by
Anthony L’Abbé, to part of the chaconne from Lully’s Amadis. Both dances were
recorded in notation and published, the former shows one facet of Dupré’s interpretative
powers, while the latter clearly demonstrates his virtuosity.34 Mars’s ‘Entry’ could well
have been a slow duple-time dance like an entrée grave or a loure, giving Dupré the
opportunity for a virtuoso display of ‘French’ dancing using a vocabulary very similar to
that in the ‘Chacone of Amadis’.
Santlow’s repertoire also included a Harlequin solo, to Lully’s chaconne for Molière’s Le
Bourgeois gentilhomme.35 This was never recorded, but several of the dances created for her
by L’Abbé were published in notation. The most significant is the lengthy and
demanding solo ‘Passagalia of Venüs & Adonis’ to music by Henri Desmarets.36 L’Abbé
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created this solo for Santlow at much the same time as The Loves of Mars and Venus, and it
is an obvious source for recreating some of her choreography as Venus in Weaver’s
afterpiece.37
Fairbank may have looked to English sources for the ‘Entry’ in scene four, and the
‘Grand Dance’ which ends The Loves of Mars and Venus. Finger’s music for the Followers
of Mars and the Followers of Cupid in act three of Motteux’s masque could have served
him, as well as Symonds, for the former. For the latter, he could have turned to
Pepusch’s music for Myrtillo and Laura, which includes an ‘Entrée’ with five sections
forming a suite of dances. Such a structure would have allowed the assembled gods and
goddesses to perform solos and duets as well as dancing together.38 Perhaps more likely
as a source, for Weaver as well as Fairbank, is the ‘Dance’ in act three of Rinaldo and
Armida. Eccles’s score titles this a ‘Chacone’, a dance type which could accommodate
solos and duets alongside group dances, and which was particularly suitable to end
entertainments of music and dancing.39 Fairbank had himself performed in the ‘Grand
Dance from Rinaldo and Armida’ in 1705.40
A ‘novel and foreign’ Entertainment
Was the music and dance in Weaver’s The Loves of Mars and Venus as ‘novel and foreign’
as he claimed? Reading between the lines of his description, it is possible to see that
much of his first ‘Dramatick Entertainment of Dancing’ drew heavily on earlier musical
works with dancing. Particularly influential were Motteux’s The Loves of Mars and Venus,
Shadwell’s Psyche, and perhaps also Dennis’s Rinaldo and Armida. Symonds and Fairbank
may well have made use of the musical effects, if not the music, composed by Eccles,
Finger, Locke, and Draghi for these works. In addition, Fairbank may have made use of
French dance music for the ‘Airs of the Dancing Parts’, and Weaver may have drawn on
existing ‘French’ choreographies for the more conventional of his dances. Such practices
were inevitable in the London theatres of the early eighteenth century, where tradition
was as important as innovation, and many productions (including Weaver’s The Loves of
Mars and Venus) were mounted as quickly and as cheaply as possible.
The truly ‘novel and foreign’ aspects of Weaver’s afterpiece were pinpointed by Colley
Cibber as ‘a connected Presentation of Dances in Character, wherein the Passions were
so happily express’d, and the whole Story so intelligibly told, by a mute Narration of
Gesture only’. These all come together in the ‘Dance being altogether of the Pantomimic
kind’ by Venus and Vulcan in scene two.41 I have not dealt with the dance here, because
it needs an entirely separate paper to discuss (and try to recreate) the music Fairbank may
have composed, and the dance vocabulary Weaver may have used, alongside the gestures
he specifies in the description of his first ‘Dramatick Entertainment of Dancing’.
Although this innovative duet presents special problems, there are more than enough
contemporary musical and choreographic sources to allow us to explore what John
Weaver tried to do in The Loves of Mars and Venus by recreating his danced drama.
References
1
John Weaver, The Loves of Mars and Venus (London: W. Mears, J. Browne, 1717). All of
Weaver’s works are published in facsimile in Richard Ralph, The Life and Works of John Weaver
(London: Dance Books, 1985). References will be to page numbers in the original editions.
2 Weaver, Loves of Mars and Venus, p. x.
3 An Apology for the Life of Colley Cibber, ed. B.R.S. Fone (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan
Press, 1968), p. 279.
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4
Unless otherwise indicated, all information about performances is taken from: The London Stage
1660-1800. Part 1: 1660-1700, ed. William Van Lennep (Carbondale: Southern Illinois University
Press, 1965); The London Stage 1660-1800. Part 2: 1700-1729, ed. Emmett L. Avery (Carbondale:
Southern Illinois University Press, 1960).
5 Weaver was advertised at Drury Lane on 6 July 1700, in ‘a new Entry Compos’d by the late Mr
Eaglesfield’. Information about Weaver’s career is taken from Ralph, Life and Works of John
Weaver.
6 Raoul Auger Feuillet, Orchesography. Or, the Art of Dancing, by Characters and Demonstrative Figures,
[translated by] John Weaver, (London: H. Meere for the Author [i.e. Weaver], P. Valliant, 1706);
Mr. Isaac, A Collection of Ball-Dances Perform’d at Court, [notated by] John Weaver (London: the
author [i.e. Weaver], J. Vaillant, 1706).
7 John Weaver, An Essay Towards an History of Dancing (London: J. Tonson, 1712).
8 John Eccles, Gottfried Finger, Single Songs, and Dialogues, in the Musical Play of Mars & Venus
(London: J. Heptinstall, J. Hare, J. Welch, 1697); John Eccles, ‘Rinaldo and Armida’, British
Library, Additional MS 29378, ff. 3r-56v; Matthew Locke, The English Opera; or the Vocal Musick in
Pysche, with the Instrumental therein Intermix’d (London: T. Ratcliff, N. Thompson, J. Carr, 1675),
Draghi’s music is omitted from the published score.
9 John Christopher Pepusch, ‘Venus and Adonis’, Royal College of Music, London, MS. 975(1).
John Christopher Pepusch, ‘Myrtillo and Laura’, Royal Academy of Music, London, MS. 88, ff.
1r-55r.
10 Moira Goff, ‘The “London” Dupré’, Historical Dance, 3.6 (1999), 23-26.
11 John Weaver, Anatomical and Mechanical Lectures upon Dancing (London: J. Brotherton, W.
Meadows, J. Graves, W. Chetwood, 1721), pp. 142, 143.
12 The division between Finger and Eccles is stated in the libretto, Peter Anthony Motteux, The
Loves of Mars and Venus (London: printed, 1696).
13 Locke, Pysche, sig. A4r.
14 Philip H. Highfill Jr., Kalman A. Burnim and Edward A Langhans, A Biographical Dictionary of
Actors, Actresses, Musicians, Dancers, Managers & Other Stage Personnel in London, 1660-1800. 16 vols.
(Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 1973-1993), entry for John Symonds. See also
Ralph, Life and Works of John Weaver, p. 42 n. 109.
15 Henry Symonds, When Paris Bore away ye Grecian Prize. A Cantata [London, 1720?]. Henry
Symonds, Six Sets of Lessons for the Harpsicord (London: W. Smith, [1734?]).
16 Weaver, Essay, sig. A4v.
17 Pierre Rameau, The Dancing-Master: or, the Art of Dancing Explained, trans. John Essex, (London:
[J. Essex], J. Brotherton, 1728), p. xiii.
18 Charles Fairbank, Amyntor’s Prayer [London, 1720?]. A Collection of Minuets, Rigadoons, & French
Dances (London: J. Walsh, J. Hare, [1721?]).
19 George Dorris, ‘Music for the Ballets of John Weaver’, Dance Chronicle, 3 (1979), 46-60 (pp.
50-53).
20 Weaver, Loves of Mars and Venus, pp. 17-18.
21 Weaver, Loves of Mars and Venus, p. 20.
26 Weaver, Anatomical and Mechanical Lectures upon Dancing, p. 143.
27 Ralph, Life and Works of John Weaver, pp. 58-64.
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Goff
28
Weaver, Loves of Mars and Venus, pp. 17, 18.
29 Thomas Shadwell, Psyche: a Tragedy (London: J. M. for H. Herringman, R. Bentley, 1690), p. 30.
30 Motteux, Loves of Mars and Venus, p. 8. Weaver, Loves of Mars and Venus, p. 20.
31 Weaver, Loves of Mars and Venus, p. 24. Motteux, Loves of Mars and Venus, p. 18. Shadwell,
Psyche, p. 23.
32 Weaver, Loves of Mars and Venus, pp. 25, 26. Motteux, Loves of Mars and Venus, p. 28.
33 John Dennis, ‘Musical Entertainments in Rinaldo and Armida’ in Theatre Miscellany (Oxford: B.
Blackwell, 1953), Luttrell Society Reprints: 14, 97-115 (p. 106, italics reversed). The ‘Musical
Entertainments’ were first published in 1699.
34 F. Le Roussau, A Chacoon for a Harlequin (London: the Author and Mr Barrett, [1729?]).
‘Chacone of Amadis Performd’ by Mr. Dupré’ in Anthony L’Abbé, A New Collection of Dances:
Originally Published by F. Le Roussau c.1725 (London: Stainer & Bell, 1991), plates 57-64.
35 Moira Goff, ‘Art and Nature Join’d: Hester Santlow and the Development of Dancing on the
London Stage, 1700-1737’ (unpublished doctoral thesis, University of Kent at Canterbury, 2001),
p. 125.
36 ‘Passagalia of Venüs & Adonis performd by Mrs Santlow’ in L’Abbé, New Collection of Dances,
plates 46-56.
37 For the dating of the ‘Passagalia’, see Moira Goff, ‘Art and Nature Join’d’, pp. 191-192.
38 Pepusch, ‘Myrtillo and Laura’, ff. 52v-54v.
39 Eccles, ‘Rinaldo and Armida’, ff. 28v-31r.
40 London Stage, Part 2, 26 April 1705, Queen’s Theatre.
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Greenhead & Odom
Dalcroze Eurhythmics in the Professional Training
of Dancers and Musicians
An Interview with Karin Greenhead by Selma Odom
Copyright 2005, Karin Greenhead and Selma Odom
Odom: Eurhythmics, the Dalcroze method of studying music through movement, dates
back to the experimental teaching of Swiss composer Émile Jaques-Dalcroze around 100
years ago. From observing motions such as toe-tapping and swaying, he developed a set
of physical practices to involve his students in active experiences of listening and music
making. He demonstrated the new method in England as early as 1907 and came
annually until the beginning of World War II to examine teachers in training at the
London School of Dalcroze Eurhythmics.
Our purpose today is not Dalcroze history, but rather to let Karin Greenhead tell you
about how she uses Eurhythmics in the professional training of dancers and musicians.
Most people think of Dalcroze as an introduction to music for children, and actually the
work is studied by people of all ages in schools around the world. Karin teaches in
conservatories, currently the Royal Northern College of Music in Manchester and Central
School of Ballet and Trinity College of Music in London. She also has worked
internationally for the past twenty-five years with musicians, dancers, choreographers,
teachers, opera and ballet companies, orchestras and chamber ensembles.
As we go along in the interview, we’ll show video clips to give an inside look at her
teaching at the Royal Ballet School in the 1980s and more recently at Central School of
Ballet, where founder Christopher Gable invited her to develop courses in Eurhythmics
and singing. Among the hundreds of prominent dancers and choreographers who have
studied with Greenhead are Christopher Wheeldon, Christopher Hampson, Viviana
Durante, Michael Rolnick, Michael Keegan Dolan, Robert Tewsley and Fergus Logan.
Karin, how did you become a Dalcroze teacher?
Greenhead: When I was a student at the Royal College of Music in the 1970s, training in
piano, violin and harpsichord, Eurhythmics was an optional course available to all
students. I gained my Dalcroze Certificate and License in London studying with
Elizabeth Vanderspar, Ruth Stewart and other teachers in England at the time. Later, a
scholarship from the Dalcroze Society made it possible for me to complete the Diplôme
at the Institut Jaques-Dalcroze in Geneva.
Odom: That’s the highest qualification in the Dalcroze teaching world. I think you also
sang in the chorus of the opera while you studied in Geneva.
Greenhead: In the meantime I had trained as a singer and so supplemented my income
in Geneva by singing in the Grand Théâtre there. My experience as singer, soloist and
ensemble player has put me in a good position to teach performance.
Odom: How do you begin Dalcroze work with a new group?
Greenhead: First you need an open space suitable for movement and a piano. I usually
start in a circle with simple rhythm games including everyone’s names. Then I ask people
to get up and explore the space freely, travelling in various ways, walking on straight or
curving paths, changing directions, stopping and starting—finding out how to share the
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space and not have collisions. They need to look where they’re going, perhaps do-si-do if
they meet someone. Next I ask them to hold their own way of going against that of
someone different. At a signal one person changes so the partners move in perfect
unison, and finally the entire group adjusts to move in unison. I also might ask them to
give their action a vocal sound, so they can establish a connection between sound and
movement. I point out that they have become a perfect chamber orchestra or corps de
ballet without any music or counting and ask them to think about how they “read” one
another. What did it feel like to be different from someone else? What did you have to do
to be the same? In other words, we talk so they can raise to awareness what their
experiences have been. After that, I play for them and ask them to follow the piano. Now
they respond to an external musical stimulus, with changes of speed, rhythm, dynamics
and so on.
Odom: They invent their own movements by listening and reacting, connecting with
what they hear you do, rather than by learning steps as in a dance technique class. Let’s
see this interactive process by looking at the first video clip, which was made in the mid1980s at the Royal Ballet School. You’ll catch a glimpse of choreographers Christopher
Wheeldon and Christopher Hampson as twelve year olds. Karin, would you explain what
we are seeing?
Greenhead: This video was made at White Lodge, the Lower School, at the end of the
year. The children decided they wanted to make a record of what they’d done. Sometimes
you’ll hear aeroplanes flying over on their approach to Heathrow. This first exercise
shows the two Christophers working with two of their classmates who are playing hand
instruments such as cymbals and woodblocks. Each moves with his partner who makes
sounds. They learn to lead and follow both directions—movement follows sound, or
sound follows movement. In the next exercise, you see the class following the changing
speeds I play on the piano. They respond to verbal and musical cues indicating that they
should travel twice as fast or twice as slowly, or they can show the subdivisions by
making “quick responses” to the musical ideas I play. The next exercise shows them
beating time by using large conducting gestures while they step out rhythmic patterns, so
they integrate the feeling of how rhythms fit within the metre. Notice that the triplet has
a completely different feeling, depending on whether it comes on the first or last beat of
the bar. What they are doing is a kind of rhythmic dictation. They make their own
movement decisions on the spot to show what they hear. In this next exercise, they are
beating time and stepping rhythms in canon. While they do what I played in the previous
bar, I continue and they must listen to what they’ll need to do next. It’s a way of
developing polyphonic feeling and thinking.
Odom: They continuously improvise movement, finding personal solutions to musical
challenges, and it takes place within the social situation of the group. It’s a scene of
cooperation, not competition.
Greenhead: The last exercise in this clip shows the boys making their own canon
studies. First they chose five gestures and made a sequence which they do in unison.
Then they perform these in canon. Next they perform their movements faster or slower,
traveling, changing direction and so forth. So these are some basic exercises involving
movement. Students also gain musical literacy in practically no time. I use flash cards to
teach the note values for rhythmic notation which they perform in movement before
writing them down. We also do quite a lot of singing, to enhance their understanding of
breathing, phrasing and expression. If we have time, they learn to read pitch notation and
study pitch relationships and harmony. They also learn to listen for treble and bass, so
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they can follow one voice or another, pick themes and patterns out of the musical texture
and develop a feel for various kinds of cadence.
Odom: Improvisation is central to both the teaching and learning, but sometimes you
also work with existing music. Let’s look at another clip of the same group.
Greenhead: This is a sports piece the boys decided to do with pop music, something in a
different style. They picked out different elements in this music, not just the timing. They
used sports movements to embody the patterns they had picked out.
Odom: Let’s talk more about the key role of improvisation in Dalcroze classes. One of
your former students at White Lodge, Gillian Saunders, danced with the National Ballet
of Canada and is now one of my M.A. students at York University and head of the Music
Theatre-Performance program at Sheridan College. She said she was taken aback when
she first went to Miss Greenhead’s class. “Where are the steps?” she wondered, but soon
she discovered she could invent her own movement. She told me that your teaching was
immensely freeing, and that it helped to take away her fear. She also said you were
“funny,” that you encouraged people to let go and take risks. How does improvisation
function in the workshop atmosphere of a Dalcroze class, for you the teacher and for the
learners?
Greenhead: My playing provides the stimulus for the activity or skill we are working on.
I can adjust what I play to help them to feel what I want them to learn—for example
simplifying my pattern of accents if they could not pick up what I first played. I can give
a new stimulus through the music, and I can correct what they do without speaking. That
is, if they are not using enough space, I play using narrow intervals. I ask, “Am I playing
what you’re doing?” and they say yes. Then I can lead them into a larger deployment of
energy in the space by changing the way I am playing. The playing creates a dialogue with
the class and a way of asking questions: their improvisation is problem solving on the
spot. They show what they can hear and express in movement and what they can’t, so it
becomes a perfect diagnostic tool. I observe what they need to work on and decide how
to help them through my playing. I can ask them “How many different ways can you
show an accent?” and play accents of different kinds and qualities. They invent from
what they hear and feel, not usually by copying a visual model, so improvisation engages
their hearing, their creativity and their perception of self and others throughout the class.
Odom: Let’s move to expression, interpretation and analysis—how does Dalcroze study
help people develop musicality and musicianship?
Greenhead: We do a lot of work on phrasing, firstly noticing phrase endings and
beginnings, making them happen at the right moment. We might trace a sustained line,
passing an object to another person with exact timing. Later we might use bamboo sticks
with a partner to achieve smooth and continuous movement. We experiment with
modifying energy during the line, using a ball or scarf, or through communicative gesture
with a partner. I also ask people “Where is the phrase going?” so they will think about
direction and orientation, and what is involved in projection when they are facing front.
Different kinds of endings are very important, how to make the cadence.
Another area is called plastique animée, which is a realization in movement of a musical
composition. The next video clip shows a Bach fugue in one of several versions created
by students at Central School of Ballet around 1990. You can see how the theme is
introduced by one group, how other groups enter with each voice and how they then
manipulate and overlap their movements as the parts develop. Christopher Gable is there
in the studio watching with other teachers on the sidelines. This study could work as a
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stage piece, but that’s not its main purpose. The aim in Dalcroze plastique is to help
people refine their sensibilities and be able to explore physically what they have learned
about musical structures and meanings. It’s a living analysis in real time. Dalcroze actually
foresaw that through the training in Eurhythmics the body could become expressive
enough in movement to communicate feeling and intention perfectly without sound: a
silent art. But to attain that level, experiencing the dialogue between music and
movement can be very helpful. Jiri Kylian’s Symphony of Psalms includes a fugue that
actually begins as a plastique, and then he goes off and treats the music more freely.
Odom: What are the benefits of Dalcroze study, and how do dance and music students
respond to your teaching—are there differences?
Greenhead: It’s economical, in that it allows efficient internalization—neurons that fire
together wire together. Through this work you can wire brain, senses, nerves and muscles
together to achieve integrated thought and feeling with communication. It teaches both
freedom and discipline, so in plastique you can’t just do any old thing. You have to think
about how music and movement go together. Leading and following involve people in
social decisions, communicating clearly and projecting intention. Participants learn about
group unison and polyphony. Dalcroze work enables them to apply known techniques
creatively and bring to awareness what they know and can do. Above all, the work is not
competitive. We work together to improve performance.
Dancers train in groups, and they like to follow. They need to learn how to lead. In
Eurhythmics, they experience a different type of learning from learning dance technique,
in which they aren’t asked to improvise or work creatively. There they are involved in
copying movements they have been shown repeatedly and the automatisms they develop
may imprison them. Often they learn to move with the same tape at the same speed, and
they are not invited to listen to different speeds and adapt the timing of their movements.
Also, they don’t speak in technique class. They often don’t hear texture, structure and
bass or read music, and they lack harmonic knowledge. Dalcroze work widens the
musical and intellectual experience of dancers by inviting them to attend with all their
senses and body.
On the other hand, musicians practice alone. Even orchestral players spend a lot of time
alone. Musicians often prefer to lead but they must be able to follow. They need to find
out what to do when they lead but others don’t get the message. Some musicians really
think the sound is in the instrument. They don’t realize it is in them! The effectiveness of
their playing depends on the motor and aural images in their brain and the efficiency with
which these are communicated through their body to the instrument. They often play
fingers, not music; if you take the instrument away they can’t remember the music
because they have not developed inner hearing. Sight reading also can get in the way, as
can the habits of the self taught—such musicians can’t adapt, they can only function in
one way. Dalcroze study is not dependent on instrumental technique, and it can help
those who have lost their love of music and playing, to find it again.
The last video clip shows a performance piece that was part of an exam by violinist Rose
Martin, one of my recent students at Royal Northern College of Music, who now teaches
at the Purcell School. She first had to choose an object and use it to create a movement
piece with form, phrase, dynamics, rhythm and metre. The next step was to compose
music to go with it and perform the music herself. Here she moves to a recording of
herself playing her music. At the Northern, I work mainly with string players. In coaching
them, I apply Dalcroze principles and other movement work in what I call Dynamic
Rehearsal techniques.
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Odom: Karin, thank you very much.
Greenhead [responding to a question from the audience about how to get musicians to
move]: It helps to be a Dalcroze teacher. You build up a repertoire of methods, devices
and processes—ways of doing that connect music and movement. You learn to say the
right thing at the right time and know how to help. When I teach dancers and musicians I
don’t think “how do I teach Dalcroze Eurhythmics to dancers or musicians?” Instead I
think “of all I know, what will help dancers dance or choreograph better or musicians
play better?” I frame what I teach to suit the interests and needs of performers.
For further information visit Karin Greenhead’s website:
www.themovementofmusic.com
74
Heisler
The Art(isticity) of Music and Dance in Schlagobers
by Richard Strauss and Heinrich Kröller
Wayne Heisler Jr., The College of New Jersey
Copyright 2005, Wayne Heisler Jr.
Inspired by the Ballets Russes, Richard Strauss set out to emulate Diaghilev’s enterprise
when he assumed co-directorship of the Vienna Staatsoper in the wake of World War
One.1 The composer recruited dancer-choreographer Heinrich Kröller from Berlin to
the Austrian capital, where the two embarked on a series of dance productions.2
Schlagobers (Figure 1), Viennese dialect for “Whipped Cream,” was arguably the most
ambitious and provocative of their collaborations. In Strauss’s scenario, a group of
children celebrate their confirmation by consuming sweets in a local Konditorei where
various confections come to life, including a militaristic march of marzipan, gingerbread
and sugarplum men, as well as exotic character dances for tea, coffee, cocoa and sugar.
Having overindulged, one boy hallucinates a rebellion against Princess Praline, a
politicized variation on the vengeful objects in Maurice Ravel’s L’Enfant et les Sortilèges
(1925), carried out by such lowly baked goods as pound cakes, pretzels and donuts.
Dance and music historians have largely ignored Schlagobers, regarding it as a knockoff of
the Nutcracker, while also disparaging Strauss’s dance scores generally as outmoded
novelties that betray a misconception of what ballet music should sound like in terms of
local gesture, small and large-scale form.3 But contemporaries of this Strauss-Kröller
ballet took it very seriously. Already two years prior to the premiere, Berlin ballet master
Max Terpis criticized the Schlagobers scenario as “banal” and plagued by “feeble
symbolism.”4 Terpis of all people must have known that ballet plots, like opera plots, are
often mere scaffolds for dance or vocal display. At any rate, he was not alone in sensing
a poverty of artistic conception in Schlagobers. To name but one additional example:
following the ballet’s premiere on May 9, 1924, Viennese critic Karl Kraus attacked the
production as “the venture of a no longer entirely vigorous impresario of taste who can
still permit himself to offer a rabble that falls for anything sensational as a special treat
for the holidays pure idiocy. . . .”5 The holidays to which Krauss referred were the
celebrations commemorating Strauss’s sixtieth birthday, for which Schlagobers was
performed three times.
Frivolity, banality, poor taste: it is difficult to suppress the word “kitsch” when
considering Strauss’s and Kröller’s theatricalized Konditorei. Kitsch—rubbish or trash—is,
of course, a designation for low-brow cultural products: faux vintage furniture, massproduced genre paintings or shoddy originals, pulp fiction.6 As one of many
commentators on kitsch, Umberto Eco stressed a dialectical relationship between it and
art, one grounded in the “prefabrication and imposition of an effect.” He continues:
“The production of an effect becomes Kitsch in a cultural context in which art is not
seen as a technical ability . . . but rather as something produced for art’s sake. . . . Any
process that, using ‘artistic’ means, aims at achieving a heteronymous end would fall
under the more generic rubric of an ‘artisticity’ that can assume a variety of forms but
that should not be confused with art.”7 That is to say: kitsch was not born as art’s foil (as
implied by cultural critics of many stripes, from Theodor Adorno and Clement
Greenberg to Walther Killy and beyond);8 rather, kitsch emerged alongside the concept
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of art for art’s sake, as a byproduct of its own definitional urgency. Thus, despite Eco’s
admonition, kitsch must be “confused with art” on a certain level in order to be kitsch.
Susan Sontag opined that ballet induces an over-aestheticization of the stylistic and
decorative, stating that it is “saturated with Camp,” a category that can connote a
predilection for kitsch.9 While for Sontag this is not simply “bad,” some in this very
room might object to the blanket association of ballet with artisticity. Nevertheless, it
might safely be said that certain dance productions tread the line between art and kitsch.
The Eastern spectacles of Denishawn, like “Incense” (1906) or “Nautch” (1913), inspired
by adventures abroad, the East Indian Village at Coney Island, and Egyptian cigarette ads
are obvious examples.10 A balletic case in point is Don Quixote, the Petipa-Minkus
adaptation of Cervante’s novel that siphons off a Spanish (or “Spanish”) style and
marries it to classical form. Music, too, plays a role in kitsch poetics and atmospherics as
an accessory to the visual and kinetic. This situation is summed up neatly in the New
Grove entry on Cesare Pugni: “The reasons for Pugni’s success can be found in the
music’s brio, its imaginative fancy and expressive quality, and in its subservience to the
functional requirements of the choreography, a subservience which is, at the same time,
its greatest artistic limitation.”11 Herein is a catch-22: ballet music is the art of the
dansante, an art that often has been experienced as something less than artistic.
As regards Schlagobers, it was precisely this balancing act of choreomusical relationships
that sparked contemporary Viennese criticism. Nowadays, Richard Strauss is rarely
thought of as a ballet composer—neither a specialist in the tradition of Pugni and
Minkus, nor its antidote that accepted wisdom locates in Chaikovsky and Stravinsky. Yet
beginning in the 1890s Strauss began composing for ballet, a vocation that piqued in the
1920s when he was at the helm of the Vienna Staatsoper, recruiting and collaborating with
Kröller. What was it that drew Strauss to ballet? In what follows, I explore the
performance and reception of Schlagobers through the lens of artisticity, or kitsch, in order
to cast new light on Strauss’s and Kröller’s activities in Vienna. This ballet provides a
case study for the aesthetic problems raised by choreomusical relationships generally, and
a glimpse into the intersection of ballet and popular culture in interwar Vienna.
Already during its genesis, Schlagobers ignited a scandal in the Viennese press due to its
exorbitant production costs, which given post-war inflation reached an unprecedented 4
billion Kronen.12 For instance, critic Emil Peschnig branded Strauss “an inconsiderate
exploiter of Austrian Gemütlichkeit (not to mention stupidity). . . . Those who have not yet
realized the essence of Strauss’s muse, with its superficiality and lack of sensitivity, are
now being enlightened by his materialistic conduct.”13 Such comments incited appraisal
of this ballet in terms of exchange value rather than use value, and set the tone for the
polemic surrounding its scenario and music. Writer Richard Specht, usually a defender of
Strauss, charged that the score “has typical Straussian color, but without his usual
imagination. Furthermore, this ‘comic Viennese Ballet’ is hardly Viennese at all, as it is
more turbulent than merry. It is rather off-putting: one barely discerns anything
heartwarming in the innocent spectacle onstage, which appears to be contrived.”14
Specht was clearly turned off by the unruly plot that culminated in the failed proletariat
uprising. He also targeted what he heard as a lack of depth in Strauss’s music, which
aimed at achieving calculated effects with orchestral trickery and Viennese local color
(waltzes) while seeming to lack genuine feeling or authenticity.
Echoing Specht, critic Heinrich Kralik wondered “how the creator of ‘Elektra’ could
waste his incomparable genius on such trivialities [as Schlagobers].”15 In fact, many traced
Strauss’s artistic decline back to Elektra’s follow-up, the 1911 opera Der Rosenkavalier.
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Some clichés are rooted in truth: the kitsch-related keywords that I have been
highlighting in the negative reception of Schlagobers surfaced in criticism of Strauss’s music
already before the turn of the century, but became leitmotives around the time of
Rosenkavalier. Amidst his collaboration with the composer on that opera, Hugo von
Hofmannsthal announced that,
it is my duty to guide [Strauss] in a certain sense, because I have a higher
appreciation of art, and also better taste. (Perhaps he surpasses me in
creative power or actual talent, but that has nothing to do with it). . . .
Strauss is a remarkably unrefined person. He has a dreadful tendency
towards triviality and kitsch. . . . [His is] a curiously mixed nature, but
the ordinary rises with such dangerous ease, like ground water.16
Although determining who has a deeper sense for art is a subjective judgment call, what
Hofmannsthal found most troubling was that both the artistic (künstlerisch) and the kitschig
(or künstlich—artificial, false) coexisted in Strauss. Despite the composer’s considerable
talent, he acquiesced to baseness; worse still, his natural gifts enabled kitsch to come to the
fore, analogous to the way that art for art’s sake (the enterprise of “actual talent”) bore
kitsch according to Eco. Reported to The Musical Times in the wake of the Schlagobers
premiere, Paul Bechert’s comments are appropriate here: “Der Rosenkavalier . . . marked
[Strauss’s] first decisive step towards what the German language . . . describes as Artistik
[artisticity]. In it are contained preponderance of form over content, of means over
matter, of dexterity and trifling playfulness over seriousness of purpose—indeed over
purpose itself.” Bechert goes on to target Vienna, the setting common to the opera and
ballet in question, as a milieu conducive to kitsch. In contrast to the time of Beethoven
or Brahms, he argues that, “the superficial Vienna of today is not the city of several
decades ago, and Strauss is not a north German. His eclectic genius quickly reacted to
subtle and latent influences. . . . All the elements of trifling and playfulness which had
heretofore been at work in him are now concentrated in . . . Schlagobers.”17 In short, the
composer made himself quite at home in the Vienna of the Mozartkugeln—before there
were Mozartkugeln. Featuring what one eyewitness declared to be a “disproportionate
orchestral apparatus,”18 and another metaphorically labeled “artificial things made out of
sugar and flour,”19 Schlagobers was the rich topping on a series of dubious musical
creations. I will return to the ambiguity as to whether Strauss’s “trifling playfulness”
resulted from a lack of self-control, or incisiveness, or both.
The perceived artisticity of Schlagobers extended past the scenario and orchestration to
include motivic recurrence and musical development. Consider the ballet’s opening
theme of the confirmants and its various manipulations: first, the initial statement of the
theme in G Major following the peel of church bells before the curtain is raised;20 then,
its contrapuntal combination with a Ländler in C Major, at the climax of the children’s
dance after their arrival and filling up on sweets (at “Noch Lebhafter”);21 and lastly, the
development of the confirmant’s theme in the pantomime at the beginning of Act Two
when the boy who had overeaten is in his sickbed and about to be visited by a doctor.22
Note that the original first four pitches of the confirmants’ theme from the ballet’s
opening—D, G, C, and A—are transposed up a half-step, elongated and reharmonized in
the remote key of g# minor; the remainder of the theme, now transposed up a minor
third from the original key, is audible in the eighth notes in the bass beginning in measure
11. Incidentally, the oscillating eighth-note motive in the bass beginning in measure 4 is
taken from the “Schlagobers-Walzer” (Whipped Cream Waltz) that had brought the
curtain down on the previous act.
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Schlagobers contains shadows of set-piece dance scores like the Viennese composer Joseph
Bayer’s popular Die Puppenfee (The Fairy Doll), the ballet to which many eyewitnesses
compared the Strauss-Kröller one.23 Contemporary writers recognized the “typical
ballet-like, clear periodic structure [of Schlagobers],”24 an evocation of conventional scores
like Puppenfee; indeed, they would have expected it given the relatively conservative profile
of the Vienna Ballet’s repertory and audiences at this time.25 But Strauss approached setpiece forms with what critic Ernst Decsey termed Zerstäubungstechnik (atomization),26
denoting a thematic-developmental treatment of motives such as that of the confirmants’
theme, a technique aligned with symphonic composition.27 Thus, Julius Korngold’s
acknowledgement of Strauss’s compositional virtuosity for what he regarded as a
negligible ballet was hardly a compliment. Like Hofmannsthal’s assessment of the
composer’s “actual talent,” the technical exhibitionism in Schlagobers only signaled a more
deep-seated emptiness. In Korngold’s opinion, the score for this ballet was “too
elaborately artistic [kunstreich], too massive and heavily developed and not dancerly
enough as regards the dynamic, graceful and piquant rhythms required by this subject
matter. . . . The light whipped cream is whisked in a gaudy bowl.”28 Korngold would
probably rather have been at a performance of Puppenfee, for his critique of Schlagobers
reveals an archconservative attitude towards dance and music, one that rehashes halfcentury old assessments of Swan Lake.29 Like the cloying allegorical dimension of the
scenario, Strauss’s score was deemed inappropriate to its purpose as accompaniment to
dance. By transgressing the normative compositional procedures, form and style of setpiece dance music, the composer debased the art of ballet as well as the art of the
symphony by trotting it out in this particular score. Put another way: Schlagobers was
kitsch because it lacked specialist accompaniment.
The collision of “high” and “low” in Strauss’s music also revealed itself in what was
unanimously viewed as the highpoint of Schlagobers: the act one finale “SchlagobersWalzer,” in which a mechanical chef (Figure 2)—related, perhaps, to the guardian-cook
in Prokofiev’s Love of Three Oranges (1921)—whips cream in a bowl from which the entire
corps de ballet flows (see Figures 1 and 3). Strauss’s employment of symphonic
development is complicated here by Kröller’s choreography of a waltz rooted in classical
dance that also hyperbolically recalls the apotheoses of Romantic ballets: these ballerinas
are latter-day sylphs, wilis and swans with overly generous dollops of lace. Strauss’s waltz
music is also stylistically self-conscious, arguably lending it the flavor of caricature in the
vein of Ravel’s La Valse. Note the schmaltzy chromatic descent with implied ritardando
beginning three bars before rehearsal 89;30 and also what the critic Ernst Decsey called
“Viennese spices,” such as the accompanimental figurations “in the old Straussian
manner” (Johann, that is)31 giving an emphasis on the second beat.
The inauthenticity of this waltz vis-à-vis Johann Strauss is attested to further by Richard
Strauss’s chromatic harmonic inflections—the minor tonic one measure after rehearsal
90, and the dominant chord on B at 91 en route to a cadence on G. Such deformations of
nineteenth-century waltzes serve programmatic ends: with increasing harmonic
wanderings, rhythmic displacement and instrumentation, Strauss constructed this music
to sound out the mechanical chef’s overloading circuitry and sugary overspill.
Kröller’s dances were described as characteristic of his style given their “tasteful
symmetries”;32 that is, they were taken as evidence of their grounding in classical
technique. At the same time, his choreography also mirrored the overflow in Strauss’s
music. Figure 4, reproduced from Kröller’s choreographic notes in his personal copy of
the Schlagobers piano reduction, documents the escalating kinetic and visual intensity. At
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rehearsal 99, halfway through the waltz’s development section, there were approximately
24 whipped cream ballerinas looping about the stage, a number that increased to 36 at
rehearsal 100. By rehearsal 103, 40 dancers have frothed out of line, swirling and
multiplying again in number and complexity of movement through rehearsal 104. And
following the recapitulation, a deluge of 50 dancers, who were most likely
indistinguishable from each other.
Although the overall effect was more of a bacchanal than a waltz of the snowflakes, this
scene demonstrates what dance historian Susanne Rode-Breymann designated as
Kröller’s “geometric command of space,” which she believed to be a translation of the
formal and developmental language of Strauss’s score.33 Indeed, the music preceded the
dances; accordingly, Kröller’s choreography might be viewed as a “music visualization”
of sorts, similar perhaps to contemporary Denishawn productions or Balanchine making
Stravinsky’s music “seen.”34 There is, however, a larger dance-historical explanation for
Kröller’s pronounced classicism in Schlagobers. In a 1922 essay entitled “Moderne
Choreographie,” he credited choreographers of the generations of Beauchamp and
Feuillet with achieving the zenith of ballet.35 In contrast, Kröller stereotypically
maintained that ballet in the Romantic era “became way too tangled up in bravura
acrobatics [showcasing] mere technical brilliance.”36 Thus, the mechanical cook in
Schlagobers is a proverbial ballet master who whips his ballerinas into shape, preparing
them to spill freely from the mixing bowl (Romantic ephemera) while giving them the
ingredients (technique) to stay true to form (geometric dance configurations). On the
one hand, Kröller’s choreography for the “Schlagobers-Walzer” might be viewed as a
critique of Romanticism, which he regarded as excessive—too much for the mixing bowl.
Nevertheless, the choreographer’s classicism is an artistic means employed to achieve an
effect—belated Romantic ballet spectacle, the simulacrum of a bacchanal—as empty as
the confection it represents. With that, Kröller is implicated in the production of kitsch,
as his classicizing dances are arguably just as out of place in a ballet like Schlagobers as its
quasi-symphonic music. That Kröller was spared the venom of contemporary critics can
be attributed to two circumstances: first, that no one remarked on the dance in any detail,
a situation that is typical of journalistic ballet reviews; and second, that the Viennese
could not fend off their appetites for anthropomorphic whipped cream, especially in a
waltz, no matter how kitschig.
If Schlagobers emanated a faint whiff of surrealism it owed not only to the dissonant
juxtapositions of scenario, music and dance, but also to an inappropriate institutional
frame: critic Adolf Aber proclaimed that, “the work as a whole resembles most closely a
revue.”37 The revue and variety formats eschewed the overarching plot of “higher”
forms of theater, featuring instead a series of tableaux, much like Schlagobers. Moreover,
revues were scandalously satirical, drawing on current social and political events. Jeffrey
S. Weiss specifies that revues “cater[ed] to the middle class, . . . [tending] to emphasize
political issues on which bourgeois opinion is fairly unanimous,” including the economy,
revolution and war.38 It is not surprising that eyewitnesses located aspects of revue
performance in Schlagobers given its bourgeois perspective on artistic, social and political
matters (again, the revolution is thwarted by Princess Praline’s soldiers).
Korngold actually connected Schlagobers to a specific recent offering at Vienna’s
“Ronacher-Revue,” a venue that had been in operation since 1886. The performance in
question featured, “a potpourri of appetizing foods in female form who kicked up their
exquisite legs. . . . Things proceeded episodically for the most part, were much shorter
and had far less weight [than Schlagobers]. Remaining for an entire evening in the
company of dry and runny sweets—the cakes and pastries as idée fixe, so to speak—might
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be entirely unprecedented.”39 Once again, we witness Strauss’s ballet being scorned for
inappropriate proportions—too long, too serious, too indulgent—in relation to the
subject matter at hand, but also in terms of the performance conventions of a revue! But
the entertainment at the Ronacher was not necessarily dismissed as base: even a culture
vulture like Korngold had an eye for a good kick line. Although Strauss’s appropriation
of such low-brow spectacle provoked indignation in some—“he, the composer of
Zarathustra and Heldenleben!”40—the major sticking point was with the “ambitious and
lavishly mounted style.”41 In other words, the production of this revue-like ballet was
treated in a manner that was too dignified, a charge that, as we have seen, was also
prevalent as regards the music. An American writer put it most bluntly: “The applause
was not the usual Viennese ‘Strauss applause,’ and the sale for the second performance . .
. is small. . . . Perhaps the whole thing is out of place in an operatic theater; but I venture
to predict a great success if it is produced, with those wonderful Viennese stage
accessories, on some first class variety stage.”42
Obviously, Schlagobers is not singular in bringing art in contact with popular
entertainments, a famous contemporary example being Parade (1917), that vulgar mix of
high and low that bespoke an irreverent attitude towards art in modern life.43 Similar in
effect and perhaps in spirit (think, too, of the sickly prince in Prokofiev’s The Love of Three
Oranges), Strauss’s oft-quoted confessional to Romain Rolland in the wake of the
ubiquitous condemnation of Schlagobers indicates his own ambivalence to high culture as
he had known it, maybe even its impossibility: “People always expect ideas from me, big
things. Haven’t I the right after all, to write what music I please? I cannot bear the
tragedy of the present time. I want to create joy. I need it.”44 Ultimately, the source of
Strauss’s not-so-guilty pleasure was charged on two counts. It was unworthy of a
composer who many expected to deliver “ideas” and “big things”—witnessing the
graying eminence of German music at the podium conducting Schlagobers was akin to
seeing the ghost of high art. Moreover, Strauss’s and Kröller’s “comic Viennese ballet”
betrayed a self-identified Kulturstadt, epitomized by one of its most esteemed institutions,
the Staatsoper, which its co-director managed to transform into a variety stage.
But a “first class” one. In this light, Schlagobers might be viewed not as the nadir of
Strauss’s creations but rather as his masterpiece of artisticity, which he could not have
achieved without the inspiration of Vienna, the contributions of Kröller, as well as the
Viennese dancers in the hallowed setting of the Staatsoper to set it into relief.
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Figure 1: Pictorial synopsis of Schlagobers by Muszynski (?).
Single page from an unknown source, folded and inserted into “Schlagobers. Klavierauszug
(‘Korrekturabzug’) mit handgeschriebene Korrekturen (Text- u. Notendruck) von Strauss u.a.
und choreographischen Notizen von Heinrich Kröller.” Deutsches Theatermuseum, Munich,
Sig. 53559. Reprinted with permission.
Figure 2: “Reisedekoration: Koch” by Robert Kautsky.
Österreichische Nationalbibliothek, Theater Sammlung (ÖNB Th.S.), Sig. H OpÜ 5688.
Reprinted with permission.
Figure 3: “Schlagobers” by Ada Nigrin.
Reprinted from Richard Strauss, Schlagobers. Heiteres Wiener Ballett in zwei Aufzügen (Berlin:
Fürstner, 1924).
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Figure 4: Excerpts from Kröller’s choreographic sketches for the
“Schlagobers-Walzer.”
“Schlagobers. Klavierauszug (‘Korrekturabzug’) mit handgeschriebene Korrekturen (Text- u.
Notendruck) von Strauss u.a. und choreographischen Notizen von Heinrich Kröller,” 61v, 63v
and 66v. Deutsches Theatermuseum, Munich, Sig. 53559. Reproduced with permission.
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Notes
Portions of this essay are drawn from my Ph.D. dissertation, “‘Freedom from the earth’s gravity’:
The Ballet Collaborations of Richard Strauss” (Princeton University, 2005). For comments and
encouragement at various stages of my work with this particular ballet, I am grateful to Carolyn
Abbate, Susan Cook, Nicole Koepke, Simon Morrison, Scott Paulin and Laura Tunbridge. All
translations are my own unless otherwise specified.
1 Strauss had experienced the Ballets Russes firsthand as a collaborator on the ballet-pantomime
Josephslegende (The Legend of Joseph, 1914) with choreography by Michel Fokine. See
“Josephslegende, Léonide Massine, and Strauss’s Music Box Dancer,” in Heisler, “Freedom from
the earth’s gravity,” 13–46. The composer’s tenure as co-director of Vienna’s Staatsoper (with
Franz Schalk) lasted from 1919–24.
2
Born in Munich, Kröller (1880−1930) had studied ballet briefly at the Vienna Court Theater in
his youth. For Strauss’s positive assessments of Kröller following his 1921 choreography of
Josephslegende for its Berlin premiere, see the letter to his wife Pauline de Ahna Strauss in Der Strom
der Töne trug mich fort. Die Welt um Richard Strauss in Briefen, ed. Franz Grasberger (Tutzing: Hans
Schneider, 1967), 258. Documentation of the composer’s attempts to persuade Kröller to come
to Vienna, first as guest choreographer and then under contract with the Staatsoper, are included
in ibid., 259 and 265−66, respectively. The Strauss-Kröller collaborations for the Vienna Ballet
were: the Austrian premiere of Josephslegende (1922); Karneval (1922, scenario by Hugo von
Hofmannsthal starring the characters Harlequin and Pierrot and with music by Schumann,
probably arranged for orchestra by Strauss himself; see Anon., “Schumann-Bearbeitung von
Richard Strauss. ‘Karneval’ für Orchester,” Neues Wiener Journal [April 12, 1931]); an eveninglength Ballettsoirée (1923; see Heisler, “‘To drive away all cloudy thoughts’: Heinrich Kröller’s and
Richard Strauss’s 1923 Ballettsoirée and Interwar Viennese Cultural Politics” [forthcoming];
Schlagobers (1924); Die Ruinen von Athen (1924, a “Festive Spectacle with Dances and Chorus” with
a scenario by Hofmannsthal and score assembled by Strauss from Beethoven’s Athen and
Prometheus ballets; see Hofmannsthal, Sämtliche Werke, vol. 24, Operndichtungen 2, ed. Manfred
Hoppe [Frankfurt am Main: Fischer, 1985], 259–305); and an updated version of Don Juan (1924,
with Gluck’s 1761 score, augmented by music from his operas Alceste and Armide, the
arrangement of which was ostensibly carried out by Strauss as well; see Pia and Pino Mlakar,
Unsterblicher Theatertanz. 300 Jahre Tanzgeschichte der Oper in München, vol. 2 [Wilhelmshaven:
Florian Noetzel, 1996], 92.)
For more on Kröller’s tenure in Vienna from 1922−28, see Riki Raab, “The Vienna Opera
Ballet,” in The Vienna Opera, ed. Andrea Seebohm, trans. Simon Nye (New York: Rizzoli, 1987),
222−28; and Grasberger, Richard Strauss und die Wiener Oper (Tutzing: Hans Schneider, 1969), 108
and 154. The most detailed general history of the Vienna Ballet in the years following the First
World War is Andrea Amort, “Die Geschichte des Balletts der Wiener Staatsoper 1918−1942”
(Ph.D. diss., University of Vienna, 1981).
3 For example, see Alan Jefferson, “Richard Strauss and the ballet,” The Dancing Times (May
1969): 410–12; Michael Kennedy, Richard Strauss (New York: Schirmer, 1996), 74 and 176; Bryan
Gilliam, The life of Richard Strauss (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 118–19; and
Monika Woitas, “Richard Strauss und das Tanztheater seiner Zeit,” in Richard Strauss und die
Moderne, Bericht über das Internationale Symposium, München 21. bis 23. Juli 1999, ed. Bernd
Edelmann, Birgit Lodes and Reinhold Schlötterer, Veröffentlichungen der Richard-StraussGesellschaft München 17, series ed. Julia Liebscher (Berlin: Henschel, 2001), 411–21, esp. p. 418.
4 Max Terpis, “Josephslegende und Schlagobers,” Blätter der Staatsoper [Berlin] 2/23 (1922): 21–
22. Terpis was Kröller’s successor as ballet master at the Berlin Staatsoper from 1923 to 1930.
Writing immediately after the premiere of Schlagobers, Viennese critic Julius Korngold also
attacked the lack of dramatic motivation in Strauss’s scenario. Korngold, “‘Schlagobers’.
Heiteres Ballett von Richard Strauss,” Neue Freie Presse (May 10, 1924).
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5
Kraus, “Kulturpleite,” originally appearing in Die Fackel 649/56 (June 1924): 52–56, and
translated as “Cultural Bankruptcy” by Susan Gillespie in Bryan Gilliam, ed., Richard Strauss and
His World (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1992), 358–62 (quote from p. 361).
6 Seminal studies on kitsch include Hermann Broch, “Notes on the Problem of Kitsch” (1933),
in Kitsch: The World of Bad Taste, ed. and trans. Gillo Dorfles (New York: Universe Books, 1969),
49–76; Clement Greenberg, “Avant-Garde and Kitsch,” originally appearing in Partisan Review
(1939) and reprinted a number of times, including in Clement Greenberg: The Collected Essays and
Criticism, vol. 1: Perceptions and Judgments 1939–1944, ed. John O’Brien (Chicago: University of
Chicago Press, 1986), 5–22; Walther Killy, Deutscher Kitsch. Ein Versuch mit Beispielen (Göttingen:
Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht, 1961); Ludwig Giesz, Phänomenologie des Kitsches. Ein Beitrag zur
anthropologischen Ästhetik (Heidelberg: Rothe Verlag, 1969); Umberto Eco, “The Structure of Bad
Taste,” in The Open Work, trans. Anna Cancogni (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press,
1989), 180–216. See also the entry on “Kitsch” by Hermann Paul in Deutsches Wörterbuch, 9th ed.,
ed. Helmut Henne, Georg Objartel and Heidrun Kämper-Jensen (Tübingen: Max Niemeyer,
1992).
7 Eco, The Open Work, 180–81 and 184.
8 For a Marxist critic like Adorno, mechanical reproduction dangerously erased the differences
between high and low art, or “light” and “serious” in the case of music. See, for example, his
“On the Fetish Character of Music and the Regression of Listening” (1938), in The Culture
Industry: Selected Essays on Mass Culture, ed. and trans. J. M. Bernstein (New York: Routledge,
1991), 26–51.
9 Susan Sontag, “Notes on ‘Camp’” (1964), in Against Interpretation and Other Essays (New York:
Farrar, Strauss and Giroux, 1966), 275–92 (quote from p. 278).
10 For historical footage and restagings of select Denishawn productions, see Denishawn: The Birth
of Modern Dance, The New Jersey Dance Collective, 1988, VHS.
11 Andrea Lanza, “Pugni, Cesare,” Grove Music Online, ed. L. Macy (accessed October 15, 2005),
www.grovemusic.com. Pugni was the official composer of ballet music to the Imperial Theaters
in St. Petersburg from 1851–1870.
12 Strauss had planned to secure a premiere in early 1923. But with an initial budget of 1.5
billion Kronen, the staging was pushed back to the fall of that year, when post-war inflation drove
the price tag to over 2 billion. Compare this with the cost of Alfred Roller’s contemporary
productions at the Staatsoper: Wagner’s Rienzi for 200 million Kronen (again, as opposed to 2
billion) and Meyerbeer’s L’Africaine for 400 million. See Susanne Rode-Breymann, Die Wiener
Staatsoper in den Zwischenkriegsjahren. Ihr Beitrag zum zeitgenössischen Musiktheater, Wiener Stadt- und
Landesbibliothek Schriftreihe zur Musik 10 (Tutzing: Hans Schneider, 1994), 80. On the initial
rejection of Schlagobers, see the letter from Strauss to Kröller dated May 13, 1922 in Grasberger,
Der Strom der Töne trug mich fort, 266. A later proposal from December 1922 (Haus-, Hof- und
Staatsarchiv, Wien: Akten der Bundestheaterverwaltung 1923: 25-2/1-1) is cited in Susanne
Rode, “‘Schlagobers’ an der Wiener Staatsoper. Über die Komposition in der UraufführungsChoreographie von Heinrich Kröller,” Richard Strauss–Blätter 28 (December 1992): 84 and 92 n.
3. For the official letter of rejection, dated March 29, 1923, see Grasberger, Der Strom der Töne
trug mich fort, 200−202. On the financial scandal surrounding Schlagobers, as well the contemporary
buzz that was fueled by miscommunication between various factions of the Viennese press, the
Theaterverwaltung and the Bundesmisterium für Finanzen, see also Rode-Breymann, Die Wiener
Staatsoper, 85 and 164−65.
13 Peschnig’s comments were elicited not only by Schlagobers, but also by the controversial loan of
a plot of land on the eastern periphery of Vienna’s Belvedere to Strauss and his wife as the site
for a new home. Hence, the full quote reads: “[Strauss ist] der rücksichtslose Ausbeuter der
österreichischen Gemütlichkeit (um nicht zu sagen: Dummheit), welche Rolle er anscheinend
nicht so bald aufzugeben gesonnen ist, baut er sich doch jetzt hier eine prächtige Villa auf der
Gemeinde kostenlos überlassenem Gründstücke. Wem das Wesen der Straußische Muse in ihrer
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Äußerlichkeit und Empfindungsarmut bisher noch nicht aufgegangen sein sollte, erhielt nun
durch diese seine materialistische Handlungsweise den reichlichsten, gründlichsten Aufschluß
darüber.” From a review originally appearing in the Neue Zeitschrift für Musik 91 (1924) and
excerpted in Franzpeter Messmer, ed., Kritikern zu den Uraufführungen der Bühnenwerke von Richard
Strauss, Veröffentlichungen der Richard-Strauss-Gesellschaft München 11, series ed. Franz
Trenner (Pfaffenhofen: W. Ludwig, 1989), 218–19. For similar charges against Strauss, see also
Kraus, “Cultural Bankruptcy,” 361. Of course, the impression that this composer was motivated
by monetary considerations had marred his reputation in some circles for decades. For example,
see Alfred Kalisch’s defense of Strauss following the American premiere of the Sinfonia domestica
in 1904 in Ernst Newman, Richard Strauss, reprint of the 1908 ed. (Westport, CT: Greenwood
Press, 1970), xix–xx. More recently, Bryan Gilliam identified a central Straussian paradox: the
necessity of raising capital through art, while at the same time regarding art to be incompatible
with business. See Gilliam, The life of Richard Strauss, 117.
14 Schlagobers “hat nur die spezifische Straußische Farbe ohne den spezifischen Straußischen
Einfall. Dazu kommt, daß dieses ‘heitere Wiener Ballett’ fast gar nicht wienerisch ist und daß es
mehr Turbulenz als Heiterkeit hat; eine etwas frostige Turbulenz zu alledem, der man kaum
jemals die Herzensfreude über all die unschuldige Buntheit der Bühnenvorgänge anmerkt und
die etwas künstlich Angetreibenes zu haben scheint.” Richard Specht, from a review originally
appearing in the Münchner Neueste Nachrichten (May 13, 1924) and excerpted in Messmer, Kritikern,
214–15. For a more recent but similar appraisal, see Michael Kennedy, “Strauss, Richard,” in
The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, vol. 18, ed. Stanley Sadie (New York: Macmillan,
1980), 228.
15 “man [mag] sich der bedauerlichen Erwägung nicht verschließen . . ., wieso der Schöpfer der
‘Elektra’ sein unvergleichliches Ingenium an solche Nichtigkeiten verschwenden konnte.”
Kralik, “‘Schlagobers’. Uraufführung im Operntheater,” Neues Wiener Tagblatt (May 10, 1924).
16 “Gewiß ist es bei diesem eigentümlichen Verhältnis meine Pflicht, ihn auch in gewissem Sinn
zu führen. Denn Kunstverstand habe ich mehr als er, oder höheren, auch besseren Geschmack.
(Im übrigen mag er mir am Kraft oder eigentlichen Talent überlegen sein, das gehört ja nicht
hierher.) . . . Strauss ist halt ein so fabelhaft unraffinierter Mensch. Hat eine so fürchterliche
Tendenz zum Trivialen, Kitschigen in sich. . . . Eine merkwürdig gemischte Natur, aber das
ordinäre so gefährlich leicht aufsteigend wie Grundwasser.” March 26 and June 12, 1909, in
Hugo von Hofmannsthal and Harry Graf Kessler, Briefwechsel 1898–1929, ed. Hilde Burger
(Frankfurt am Main: Insel, 1968), 215 and 242–44.
Marianne Reißinger’s recent volume, “Und die Schokolade nehmen wir im blauen Salon.” Zu Tisch bei
Pauline und Richard Strauss (Munich: Mary Hahn Verlag, 1999), documents Strauss’s rather
ordinary, bourgeois side through recipes, biographical accounts, and a CD with readings out of
the couple’s written correspondence. As one reviewer of Reißinger’s volume wrote: “Welche
anderen Komponisten kämen schon mit ihren Rezepten für solch ein Editionsvorhaben in
Betracht? Würde man etwa ‘Zu Gast bei Gesualdo’ erwerben wollen? Oder ‘Schlemmen mit
Stockhausen’? Gar ‘Backen mit Boulez’? Bei Strauss aber ist das anders; immer schon war dies
die eine Seite seines Bildes, das man sich von ihm gemacht hat: Strauss, der Grossbürger and
Familienmensch.” Michael Gassmann, “Wiener Schnitzeljagd. Das Festmahl im Jubeljahr,”
Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung (October 12, 1999).
17 Paul Bechert, “The New Richard Strauss Ballet,” The Musical Times (June 1, 1924): 547–48.
For more parallels between the reception of Rosenkavalier and Schlagobers, see Korngold, “Der
Rosenkavalier: Comedy for Music by Hugo von Hofmannsthal and Richard Strauss,” originally
appearing in the Neue Freie Presse (April 9, 1911) and translated by Gillespie in Gilliam, ed.,
Richard Strauss and His World, 349–58. Regarding Strauss’s decline beginning in the 19-teens, see
also Walter Schrenk, Richard Strauss und die Neue Musik (Berlin: Wegweiser-Verlag, 1924), esp. p.
155.
18 “welch unverhältnismäßiger Orchesterapparat für dieses gemimte Nichts!” Korngold,
“Schlagobers.”
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19
“künstliche Dinge aus Zucker und Mehl.” Max Graf, “‘Schlagobers’ von Richard Strauss.
Uraufführung gestern in der Wiener Staatsoper,” Prager Tagblatt (May 10, 1924).
20 See the beginning of act one in Richard Strauss, Schlagobers. Heiteres Wiener Ballett in Zwei
Aufzügen, Op. 70, arr. Otto Singer (Berlin: Adolph Fürstner, 1923), 5.
21 See 6 bars after rehearsal 13 in Strauss, Schlagobers, 12. Strauss utilized similar combinatory
procedures in his symphonic poems (for example, the scherzo section of the Sinfonia domestica;
see also Rode, “Schlagobers,” 87) and in the coda to the “Gavotte” in the Tanzsuite aus
Klavierstücken von François Couperin that accompanied the 1923 Ballettsoirée with choreography by
Kröller for the Vienna Ballet.
22 Strauss, Schlagobers, 72.
23 Die Puppenfee, music by Bayer (1852–1913) with choreography by Josef Hassreiter. The story
by Bayer and Franz Gaul (with echoes of E. T. A. Hoffmann) takes place in the shop of a doll
maker whose creations are able to dance by their own volition. A huge hit following its
Viennese premiere in 1888—by the turn of the century, it had been performed on over 100
European stages—Puppenfee was, in fact, restaged in Vienna on May 7, 1924, just two nights prior
to the Schlagobers premiere, on a program that included “Wiener Walzer” and “Sonne und Erde”
with music by Johann Strauss Jr. “Die Opernwoche,” Neues Wiener Abendblatt (Abend-Ausgabe
des neuen Wiener Tagblatts) (May 3, 1924). Thereafter, Puppenfee provided a point of
comparison in reviews by Elsa Bienenfeld (“‘Schlagobers’. Uraufführung am Wiener
Operntheater,” Neues Wiener Journal [May 10, 1924]), Graf (“Schlagobers”), Korngold
(“Schlagobers”), and the anonymous review “‘Schlagobers’ von Richard Strauss.
(Erstaufführung in der Oper),” Neuigkeits-Welt-Blatt [Vienna] (May 11, 1924). For more on the
Bayer-Hassreiter ballet, see “Josef Hassreiter, Leben und Werk,” Tanz Affiche [Vienna] 8/60
(December 1995–January 1996): 18–37.
24 “typisch ballettmäßigen, klaren Periodenbau.” Adolf Aber, “Das neue Ballett von Richard
Strauss. Uraufführung von ‘Schlagobers’,” Hamburger Fremdenblatt (May 12, 1924).
25 On the intense polarization of Vienna’s dance scene between conservative and progressive
factions in the interwar years, see Rode-Breymann, Die Wiener Staatsoper.
26 Ernst Decsey, “Die Konditorei in der Oper. Vorbericht zu ‘Schlagobers’ von Richard
Strauss,” originally appearing in the Deutsche Zeitung (May 6, 1924) and excerpted in Messmer,
Kritikern.
27 Regarding Schlagobers as symphonic, Rode attributes a four-movement structure to the score as
a whole (“Schlagobers,” 86–87 and 94). Walter Werbeck, however, views the first act alone as
paralleling a four movement symphony (see his “‘Schlagobers’: Musik zwischen Kaffeehaus und
Revolution,” Richard Strauss–Blätter 42 [December 1999]: 106–20, esp. pp. 112–13). While
conceding that Strauss’s compositional procedure is developmental, but symphonic only insofar
as that genre of instrumental music is traditionally distinguished from set-piece ballet
accompaniment by a developmental trajectory, I find Woitas’s characterization of Schlagobers to
be the nearest to contemporary hearings: “die formale Anlage orientiert sich unübersehbar an
der Tradition des Ballett-Divertissements.” Woitas, “Richard Strauss,” 418.
28 Korngold’s full statement is that the music manages “über das szenische Geschehen zu
übertauben. Aber diese Partitur ist viel zu kunstreich, zu massig und wuchtig geführt, auch zu
wenig tanzerisch im Sinne einer für diesen Stoff allein möglichen flatten, graziösen, pikanten
Tanzrhythmik. Führt sie doch manche Tänze förmlich mit der Schwere von Salometänzen
durch. Das leichte Schlagobers wird in einer schweren Prunkschüssel gequirlt.” Korngold,
“Schlagobers.” For a similar critique of the inappropriateness of Strauss’s music to the action,
see Leopold Schmidt, “Schlagobers,” Berliner Tagblatt (May 16, 1924). Korngold’s reference to
Salome is apt, in that Strauss sought to sublimate physical gesture in that score rather than to
provide “mere” accompaniment—a feature that the “Dance of the Seven Veils” shares with
much twentieth-century dance music that was maligned by stalwart partisans of classical ballet
(Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring naturally comes to mind). From Korngold’s comparison, then,
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Schlagobers might seem to fall in line with larger trends in modern ballet and early modern dance.
For Strauss’s retrospective comments on the relationship between music in dance in Salome, see
his Recollections and Reflections, ed. Willi Schuh, trans. L. J. Lawrence (London: Boosey and
Hawkes, 1953), 151.
29 See the survey of critical reception to Chaikovsky’s music for Swan Lake following the 1877
Moscow production in Roland John Wiley, Tchaikovsky’s Ballets: Swan Lake, Sleeping Beauty,
Nutcracker (New York: Oxford University Press, 1985), 51–55.
30 See Strauss, Schlagobers, 57–58.
31 “Wiener Pikanterie” in the “zungenschnalzenden Sechzehntelfiguren nach altstraußische
Vorbild.” Decsey, in Messmer, Kritikern, 217.
32 “sehr charakteristisch in geschmackvollen Symmetrien.” Rudolf Kastner, “‘Schlagobers’.
Richard Strauß’ neuestes Werk an der Wiener Staatsoper,” Vossische Zeitung [Berlin] (May 13,
1924). As Kröller himself said, “Um einen wirklich künstlerischen Tanzentwurf zu machen,
bedarf es schöpferischer Begabung, starker Musikalität, Phantasie und guten Geschmackes.”
Kröller, “Moderne Choreographie,” Blätter der Staatsoper [Berlin] 2/2 (1922): 17–19 (quote from
p. 17).
33 Rode, “Schlagobers,” 89–90 and 94.
34 For a recent, summary discussion of the aesthetic impact of dance and music when the former
takes a subservient, mimetic stance on the latter, see Sophia Preston, review of Stravinsky and
Balanchine: A Journey of Invention, by Charles M. Joseph, Journal of the American Musicological Society 57
(Fall 2004): 679–84.
35 “Die alten berühmten französischen und italienischen Choreographen”; “Blütezeit der
Ballettanzkunst.” Kröller, “Moderne Choreographie,” 76.
36 Romantic ballet “hat sich zu sehr in bravouröse Akrobatik verwirrt,” resulting in “blosses
Brillieren mit Technik.” Ibid.
37 “Das ganze Werk hat vielmehr den Charakter einer Revue.” Aber, “Das neue Ballett von
Richard Strauss.”
38 Jeffrey S. Weiss, “Picasso, Collage, and the Music Hall,” in Modern Art and Popular Culture:
Readings in High and Low, ed. Kirk Varnedoe and Adam Gopnik (New York: Museum of Modern
Art, 1990), 82–115. Weiss’s focus is on Picasso’s interactions with revue culture, and he argues
that Picasso’s aesthetic paralleled the juxtaposition of performance styles and media on revue
stages, serving “to integrate and reconcile serious aesthetic purpose with a subversive practice of
serious fun.” Ibid., 84.
39 “Noch im letzten Winter hoben in einer Ronacher-Revue allerlei appetitreizend entblößte
Eßwaren weiblichen Geschlechtes die erlesenen Beine. Freilich gingen die Dinge meist nur
episodisch, weit kürzer und mit weniger Gewicht vor sich. Ein abendfüllendes Verweilen im
Kreise trochener und flüssiger Süßigkeiten—das Backwerk als idée fixes sozusagen—dürfte
noch nicht dagewesen sein.” Korngold, “Schlagobers.” The “Etablissenment Ronacher” was
opened by Anton Ronacher in 1886 out of the remains of the Wiener Stadttheater, which had
suffered extensive damage in a fire two years previously. Although Ronacher gave up his
directorship in 1888 due to financial difficulties, the theater continued to carry his name. During
its heyday in the first several decades of the twentieth century, the Ronacher featured variety and
revue shows, operettas, touring dancers and singers (including Loie Fuller, Josephine Baker, and
the Comedien Harmonists), jazz bands, silent film stars, magicians and illusionists, as well as
athletes and acrobats. After years of neglect, the Ronacher has enjoyed a renaissance recently as
a variety theater and venue for touring Broadway and West End musicals.
40 “er, der Komponist des Zarathustra, des Heldenleben!” Kastner, “Schlagobers.”
41 Bechert, “The New Richard Strauss Ballet.”
42 Anon., “Strauss Ballet, Schlagobers, Gorgeously Staged, Proves Disappointing to Many,”
Musical Courier (June 5, 1924).
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43
For the background to Parade in Satie’s earlier modernist experimentations with popular
culture (specifically fashion), see Mary E. Davis, “Modernity à la mode: Popular Culture and
Avant-Gardism in Erik Satie’s Sports et divertissements,” The Musical Quarterly 83 (1999): 430–73.
44 Quoted by Rolland in Richard Strauss and Romain Rolland, Correspondence, Together with
Fragments from the Diary of Romain Rolland and Other Essays, ed. and trans. Rollo Myers (Berkeley
and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1968), 165.
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REST/LESS:
Performing Interactivity in Dance, Music and Text
Jamie Jewett, Brown University, Lostwax Productions
Copyright 2005, Jamie Jewett
Rest/Less is an interactive new media dance work designed to enter the dialogue around
interactivity and the arts. These issues include questions of dramatic viability, inherent
technical and aesthetic constraints, appropriate use, aesthetic interest and relationship to
creative process. The piece is based on an 87-page graphic poem written by poet and
playwright Thalia Field. There are two primary components in the creative process: the
composition - technical design, programming and implementation - and the
choreographic process in response to this composed environment.
Rest/Less, like many Dance and Technology works, was created using tools initially
developed in Computer Music. Primarily these tools are included in the
MAX/MSP/Jitter programming environment created by Miller Pucket. The program
uses pre-recorded sound samples for playback and as a basis for an analysis that produces
a virtual ‘wind’, which in turn, activates a series of virtual ‘wind-chimes’. These chimes,
gongs and bells are further acoustically manipulated to generate an audio environment in
real time. The video tracking component of the piece uses the Very Nervous System
(softVNS) extensions for the MAX/MSP/Jitter environment created by David Rokeby
to do an analysis of the incoming video frames from four cameras in order to determine
when specific areas of the field of view have been entered. These areas correspond to
specific areas of the graphically composed poem. Together these tools allow the
programming of a four-camera video tracking system that triggers a complex
environment of sound created in real-time with prerecorded sound samples and
computer-generated sound. The interactive computer system controls a projection
environment as well.
Overview of the Field
Perhaps there is no more compelling an issue in contemporary performance today than
the advent of technologically mediated work. The tremendous acceleration of cultural
change in the last century can be understood as a response to the onslaught of
technological innovation. While dance audiences seemingly shrink daily as the MTV
generation comes to its majority, I find myself asking potentially troubling questions
about the relevance of my chosen field to a world operating within the instantaneous
point-and-click culture of cable modems. At the same time, the advent of digital media
has made it possible for a rapidly growing number of artists from all genres to access
powerful audio and image producing tools. Thus, while ten years ago it was quite rare to
see a dance performance that included projected image, my own recent casual survey of
performances in New York’s downtown dance venues showed that well over 75% of the
works included digital video, and likely digitally produced audio as well.
One particularly interesting way to understand this work is as an extension of the classic
choreographer/composer relationship. The relationship between music and dance goes
back before the recorded history. As these forms have grown and morphed into the
concert hall based realms of classical music and classical ballet this relationship has stayed
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paramount. “The Firebird Suite” and “The Rite of Spring” are particularly well known
collaborations between Sergei Diaghilev's Ballet Russes and Igor Stravinsky. As Modern
Dance developed in response to ballet the relationship with music was carried forward as
well. Indeed, Louis Horst, who was Martha Graham’s accompanist, not only taught
choreography but also dictated that much choreographic craft should be musically based.
Interestingly, the single most influential and important voice of change in response to
Modern Dance, and in fact the midwife of Postmodern Dance was John Cage who
taught a class to a group who would become the Judson Church Group and included
such luminaries as Trisha Brown, Twila Tharp, Steve Paxton and others. “Astral
Convertible”, one of the first works that could be understood as interactive Dance and
Technology, was created by Trisha Brown in collaboration with Robert Rauschenberg
with composer Richard Landry, and lighting designer Ken Tabachnick. Another early
example of Dance and Technology is Léon Theremin who created interactive sound and
light environments for dancers. He eventually married a dancer, Lavinia Williams. Merce
Cunningham and John Cage also created interactive works. What is now considered
Dance and Technology generally comprises dance work where there is some component
that is digitally mediated, that is to say that in some way the computational power of a
computer is harnessed to create video, sound or other media element used in conjunction
with the performers. Thus the term New Media is also relevant, the ‘new’ part referring
to the digitally mediated component along with the possibilities and constraints called in
to play with the addition of a computer. I find terms such as New Media, Inter-media
and Multimedia to be used interchangeably to discuss similar works created with
computers. Dance and Technology is a particular subset of this work, as is Electronic
Music.
Interestingly, the ubiquitous technological and computing parts of contemporary theater
are not even considered technology in the theater, for example computerized lighting and
sound systems. As I mention above, easy access to digital video equipment is making the
use of projected material germane rather than unusual in contemporary dance.
Within this realm of contemporary dance, one can understand much of the discussion
around what is termed “Dance and Technology” as explorations of interactive systems.
This interactivity could be as simple as “I’ll press play when you do that…” or as
sophisticated as the real-time immersive spaces of Virtual Reality. Given this, there is a
growing interest in exploring the realm of installation art in relationship to performance.
This is a movement that arches towards sculpture as a field that has grown from being
primarily object-based to including broad interest in installation as a performance form.
In this sense Dance and Technology particularly troubles the digitally-mediated aspect of
a field that is fundamentally anchored in somatic experience. Available literature
exploring virtual reality and dance indicates that dancers exhibit much suspicion and
concern in response to virtual forms. There is fear that somehow computers and the
virtual will make obsolete the physical, and most central, aspect of their craft. Echoing
statements made by Kent De Spain and others, Susan Kozel writes in a 1994 Dance
Theatre Journal article that
The experience of dance refutes the implication that computerized
cyberspace brings a new fluidity or physical experience, instead, physical
experience can be seen as the paradigm which inspires the liberating
movement in cyberspace
The majority of these Dance and Technology works fall into one of two camps: the first
are explicitly interactive performance works, where a series of sensors, optical or
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otherwise, act as switches to control lighting, sound (often through the use of MIDI
systems), video, and other aspects of their environments; other works are installation
based and use similar tools to create specific environments (on the stage, in the studio or
elsewhere) that dance might then inhabit. Essentially, one might see these works as a
digitally-mediated extension of dance towards technology or conversely an extension of
technology towards dance.
The Palindrome Dance Company based in Nürnberg, Germany, is one example of a
company working with interactive principles. They use a variety different kinds of
sensors; some located on the body the others placed in the performance environment. In
one piece, EKG electrodes measure electrical signals produced by muscle contraction are
linked to a computer via a small transmitter worn at the waist. By locating these sensors
on different major muscle groups (thighs, abdomen and arms) various signals are
recorded. These signals in turn are converted during live performance to a sound and
light score. Different tones and volumes, or colors and light levels are produced
depending on the specific muscular contraction and its intensity. The artistic director
offers a web-based description of their repertory piece Heartbeat Duet.
In Heartbeat Duet two dancers wear chest electrodes and transmitters
while dancing. Each dancer's heartbeat is converted into a separate
musical tone. The rhythm of the heart is interesting to hear because its
beat is, of course, not completely even -- and yet it is a rhythm! The
piece is supplemented by a screen behind the dancers, which displays a
graph of their changing heart rates plotted against time. Interestingly,
the interactions with electrodes are not based on movement -- at least
not directly – but rather tension. After all, it is possible to contract your
muscles without moving. The responding media thus reveal what the
dancer kinesthetically feels, as opposed to what they would like to show.
The movements at the end of Heartbeat Duet, for example, are very
much like those at the start, yet because of the strenuous dancing they
have just done, their heart rates have more than doubled. The "heartbeat
music" continues to race even as the dancers' movements are calm.
Merce Cunningham is perhaps the best-known choreographer working with computerbased tools. Since the mid-eighties Cunningham has been using Lifeforms, software that
models human movement. He states:
My experience, particularly with Lifeforms, was that I kept coming up
with things quite by accident because I didn’t know how to use the
apparatus. And I wondered if they would be possible. So I would try
them out in class with students, and if one student [got] it, then I knew
it could be done by humans… so it added a speed to my technique, to
my company, I think, and a clarity about doing, say, one thing with the
legs and something else with the arms; [something] which I had gone at
in other ways, but Lifeforms opened up other possibilities.
Cunningham has worked with the media company Riverbed on two collaborations, Hand
Drawn Spaces, and Bi-ped. These works combine motion capture tools with threedimensional animations constructed from charcoal sketches to produce an entirely new
kind of work. The first work, Hand Drawn Spaces, is an installation on three large
screens. These virtual dancers seem to be moving forward and back of the plane of the
screen as well as in the space between them. A figure might spring from the right screen
towards the left, disappearing, only to reappear as it completes its trajectory. My own,
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personal critique of this work was that the dancing itself was more compelling than the
media aspects of the work. Indeed, this is a common issue, that one part of the piece,
media or dancing, is more compelling or successful than the other.
The last International Conference on Dance and Technology (IDAT) in 1999 was an
event attended by many of the primary players in the field and marked by great debate.
Sali Ann and Alan Kriegsman (1999) discussed the festival at length:
The conference had its ups and downs; many of the discussions were
provocative, informed, and useful. The opportunity to focus on
philosophical and aesthetic issues in the interstices of new media,
technology and dance often proved valuable. But, for the most part, the
artistic work that issued from experimental labs was clumsy, bland or
obscure--and at times either an uncomfortable fit or blithely unaware of
precedents, thereby naively reinventing wheels. This is not to say that
investigation of these new dance ''platforms'' isn't important. It is vitally
important. It's simply that for now we seem to be better at dance than at
technology. The promise of technology to serve dance and to embrace
dance values is much greater than its current capacity to leap beyond the
seductive lure of playing with new techie tools.
Birringer comments more directly on the debates, addressing the work of Susan Kozel
who, “declined to answer questions about the aesthetic direction of her process.” The
debate about the artistic integrity and value of the work presented then went on-line,
throughout an ongoing, list-serve, conversation between people who are interested or
active in dance and technology. Sparked by an initial message in response to IDAT ’99
whose subject line was “undemanding, unambitious, uninformed and uninspired”, artists
again proclaimed the necessity of making good, well developed work. This was a
demand for work that may involve technology but in service to the whole piece not just
for its special effects value alone.
Interestingly, as if to reassert the irrefutable primacy of the art of dance, the last evening
of performances included a solo by Sean Curran using the simplest black and white
projections like film titles, filmic references but no apparent technology as partner or
tool. Confessing later in the artists' panel, ''I don't own a computer,'' he spoke of the
influences of Chaplin and Keaton, and how inspired he was by their poignancy, irony,
pathos and humor. His own performance was received with an audible sigh of relief and
gratitude from an audience benumbed by continuous days of technological wizardry.
There have been any number of smaller Dance and Technology conferences since the
last IDAT but there has not been anything with the same kind of genre wide attendance.
More recently, in 2003, Troika Ranch, the foremost Dance and Technology Company in
the US, won the first-ever Time Out New York Audience Award at the Bessie’s (the New
York Dance and Performance Awards). In April of 2005, Trisha Brown, renowned
member of the ‘60s Judson Church group who for the last 35 years has been on the
cutting edge of the downtown New York scene mounted her newest work how long does
the subject linger at the edge of the volume . . . This piece uses motion capture technology as a
source for interactive animation and musical score. Other notable dance artists such as
Elizabeth Streb, Ralph Lemon, Bebe Miller, and Bill T. Jones have also used motion
capture and interactive elements in their pieces. As I noted above, the use of digital
video in contemporary dance performance is becoming completely germane, to the point
that it is not even flagged as dance and technology. Most venues now have their own
video projectors, or are scheming to get one, where as even 3 years ago the use of such
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‘advanced technology’ caused raised eyebrows and voices of concern at several of the
most important of the downtown dance venues in New York. Finally, the venerable
Dance Theater Workshop has created a digital fellows program and a “state of the art”
media lab for “creative and promotional uses”.
Rest/Less as Response and Question
Rest/Less is based on an 87-page graphic poem written by Thalia Field. Each page of
the original poem contains three grids (two cells by four cells) with phrases hand-scribed
on the vertical and horizontal lines that make up these grids. The reader chooses phrases
at will, compiling stanzas and creating a new, improvisational poem with each reading.
There were two significant aspects of translating this piece from a book to an interactive
performance work: composing the interactive installation and creating a performance to
utilize this installation. The installation consists of a grid of light traced on the floor and
a series of projection surfaces suspended around it. A given grid from the source text is
momentarily projected, as it dims the grid on the floor fades up. The reader/performer
crosses these projected lines creating an interactive “reading” (and writing) of the piece.
This kinetic installation creates unique poems that are simultaneously projected on multilayered scrim surfaces while a voice recites the corresponding passage (using a surroundsound system to localize the spoken passage in relationship to its position on the grid.) A
waveform analysis of the recorded text activates a series of virtual ‘wind chimes’ that
provided a dense and intricate sound environment for the work.
Translating the handwritten work of poetry into the kinetic work of dance examines ways
in which the “auratic” and unique art-object, in this case a handwritten poem, gets
translated through technology into an interactive form, while maintaining its organic
qualities. The original poem, because of its graphic geometric design, is highly
indeterminate in regards to its reading; the tracing of the poem’s “lines” is a literal
journey through an indeterminate graphic map of squares, grids and lines of text. The
poem is written to be non-recursive in this way, so that there is no possibility of
“retracing” one’s reading, and each reading, even on the page, produces a unique poem.
It is this aspect of the original poem which led to the possibility of uniting this organic
page-form with digital media and interactive technology, to “publish” the poem in a way
which demonstrated the intuitive indeterminacy of reading – both in page-based and
screen-based forms. The collapsing of the distance between these two reading
experiences is manifested by the simultaneous presence of the original poem and the
technological interface. In this way, I attempt to explore how poetry moves into the
social space of technological environments, while remaining a highly indeterminate,
private and imagination-rich experience; that these features are not newly part of
technology’s intervention in poetics, but that technology is a continuation of the poetic
mind and organic relationship of the artist, materials and audience.
The debate continues in the Dance and Technology community about the aesthetic
success of interactive works. Often the perception is that the dance component suffers
due to the amount of investment demanded in creating the technical aspects of such
work. Further, while these works may demonstrate new uses of technology, too much
emphasis is placed on the ‘gee wiz’ factor, a gratuitous display of technology without
appropriate critical rigor in the development of the entire experience. Additionally the
critiques have been offered that either the technology is being used in the same old ‘safe’
ways or failing to find depth in the exploration of cutting edge technologies. I was
interested in engaging these debates in my own work. Before the creation of Rest/Less,
my work had not been particularly interactive, save for interacting with closed circuit
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video. In this piece I endeavored to find a bridge between the interactive structure of the
text and an abstract narrative or through line to create an evening where the interaction
between dance and installation could become fused, interdependent, and aesthetically
satisfying.
This was a significant artistic and choreographic challenge, furthered by the source of the
work, the original text. The text itself presents a nonlinear and abstract structure; part of
the challenge was then to find a throughline so the work could have a dramatically viable
developmental progression. This development was in conjunction with thematic
progression in the musical component of the work. Thus the meaning of the text comes
through as an abstract atmospheric wash of sound, rhythm, and language rather than any
sort of clear specific or linear narrative. This presented my first true musical
compositional challenge, how to structure the chime components that they would
support and further the dramatic arc of the work. To this end I created a variety of
chime, gong and bell models and samples (this will be discussed later) to be driven by the
“virtual wind” created from an analysis of the spoken phrases as previously discussed. In
this way the larger soundscape of the work tried to become a sonorous field that the
poetic text weaves in and out of. While it seemed important that the interactivity of the
grid lines and corresponding playback of the recorded text have a direct and one-to-one
correspondence, the metaphor of the wind chime remains salient in the total sound field
and as such created a more extended sonic gesture. Therefore a series of random,
delayed, and extended actions nodded towards the large and small impulses in a wind
chime, and their attendant aftershocks.
Given this environment, and its progressions, the choreographic challenge was to make
some kind of performative sense of a journey through time in this particular space. The
graphic structure of the grid itself provided a strong point of physical departure, a point
of departure reinforced by the sonic interactivity. Functionally, the visual/physical
environment provided a significant artistic constraint. In order for the work to be
successful as a performance, the contemporary dance techniques, improvisation, and
choreography needed to energize the “readings” by adding an additional layer of physical
artistry and movement interest. It was important to keep the ‘hand-written’ nature of
the piece in the translation to performance values, to keep a relationship to the organic,
wobbly, semi-legible, quality of the original text.
Camera-Sensing Component
In many ways the camera-sensing system was the most difficult component of the entire
piece. One of the most difficult issues to overcome is the conical nature of a camera’s
field of view. Ideally the lines of the grid act functionally as walls and by breaking the
plane of a wall the mover triggers the given line. In practice the working space becomes
more like a three dimensional trapezoid, or a house with a mansard roof. So while the
dimensions of a given cell may be five by eight feet on the floor, the apparent size of the
grid to the video camera is considerably smaller at the height of a dancer. Obviously this
issue is exacerbated in venues with low ceiling height. For the proof of concept I used a
single 3-CCD mini-DV camera with a wide-angle lens. The wide-angle lens further
distorts the shape of the grid. I knew this would be an issue at HERE Center for the
Arts in New York where the grid height is 11 feet off the floor. In order to address these
issues I first tried a two-camera system using “Fire-I” firewire Internet cameras. I found a
different camera that allowed me to change lenses so I could use a wide angle in venues
with low grid heights and then change them out in venues with generous ceiling heights.
This worked better but was still going to be challenging under the constraints presented
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by the New York venue so I decided to attempt to get four cameras to work, which
finally I did.
Meanwhile, motion analysis was achieved using the programming environments of
“softVNS” and “Jitter” aspects of the programming environment. Jitter is an extension
of the object based Max/MSP environment that allows one to create a program that can
process video information in real-time. Max is the initial part of the programming
environment that was created to allow programmers and composers to control specific
music generating computers. Later, this environment was extended with the MSP set of
objects that allow for the programmatic control of audio material. SoftVNS is also a set
of additional objects that work in this programming environment. Originally the Very
Nervous System (VNS), was a hardware device, created by David Rokeby, for videobased motion tracking analysis. This was ported to a group of software tools be software
programming based tools that worked in the Max/MSP/Jitter environment. I use these
two programs to control the video cameras and perform the analysis. In order to get the
data from four cameras into the machine I use Jitter to allow me to specify which of the
four cameras I want to look at and then translate the incoming video information to use
in softVNS. I use relatively simple masking tools in softVNS to track when a given area
has been triggered. By comparing an incoming frame of video to the previous one we
can tell what if any change has happened in that specific camera view. SoftVNS looks
for this change in several specific regions simultaneously and if a change has happened in
one of these defined regions then that region has been ‘triggered’. Each of the 22 lines
of the grid is activated when triggered. A system of gates ensures that the given line will
not be immediately available to retrigger, causing a stuttered playback. This delay time is
a variable that is changed throughout the piece to create the desired temporal shifts and
overall density of playback. Once the trigger for a specific line goes through this gate it
then sends the corresponding number (1-22) through Open Sound Control (OSC-a
protocol that allows computers to pass information over internet or Ethernet) to a
second computer which executes the sound modules (text and musical) and the q-list
control for the piece. Qlist is a Max/MSP object that organizes the events of an entire
piece by moving through a list of specific cues. Each cue sets the value of variety of
user-defined variables and allows these values to change over time.
Sound Design and Composition
The sound design of the piece began simply with the text. I identified several readers who
would have some sensitivity to the text. I then selected which of the 87 pages of text to
record and assigned the readers specific pages of text. After recording and editing the
samples, I then spatialized their playback so that the audience would experience the
dancer’s location on the grid as aural feedback not just visual. Finally, I decided how
each grid would be used in the course of the piece and which dancer, or dancers, would
activate that particular language set.
Though this process allowed the text to be ‘read’, it also left a sound environment that
was relatively dry. There is not much color or range in the voices and it is easy for the
sound field to become quite dense and blurry. The text was intentionally recorded in this
way in order to allow the greatest flexibility for its use in the piece. In retrospect it might
have been better to record the voices with more intentional intonation. I decided there
needed to be an additional soundscape that the text would overlay. I have always enjoyed
the sound of gongs and bells and felt that using the idea of a wind chime would be an
interesting place to start. Wind chimes were particularly interesting as wind chimes do
not have a one-to-one correlation with the wind rather the impulse from the wind passes
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through the ‘filter’ of chance regarding the orientation of the chime when the wind
arrives, how strong the wind is and the ensuing complexity of physics that explain the
trajectories, delays, and forces at play. Though I did not model a wind chime in a
mathematical fashion, I did use the idea of such a modeling as my creative impetus. The
music is therefore created by analyzing the playback of a given sample (text phrase). A
series of random functions built into it that change where in the given audio sample of
text the analysis occurs and the specific parameters of the analysis. Six chime modules
use this playback of a given sample of recorded voice in different ways. Some of the
modules use resonator~ to synthesize a sound by taking the information from the
analysis as either a series of impulses of different magnitudes or as a stream of
information treated by the resonator~ object as noise producing a more windy sound.
According to the help file that comes with it, Resonator~ is a “Resonator filter bank A
bank of 2-pole resonating filters with common input (the inlet) and outputs summed
together (outlet)”. This MSP object, created by Adrian Freed who is part of the CNMAT
group at the University of California, Berkley, takes an impulse and uses that to ‘power’ a
resonance model defined by frequency, gain, decay rate triples. Other sound-generating
modules of the created ‘wind chime’ use the playback of prerecorded samples of gamelan
gongs and wind chimes, altered with a series of random delays and various playback rates.
The ‘tuning’ of the piece happens by choosing which of these chime modules to use so
the piece will have some arc and color to it.
Rest/Less Choreographic Process
The choreographic process for restless consisted of three primary parts: phrase
generation, construction of structured improvisations, manipulation and synthesis into a
whole. The phrase generation component consisted of creating and teaching six specific
movement phrases to the dancers. Some of the phrases were intentionally designed to fit
within one cell of the grid or some similar spatial constraint; other phrases were
specifically made without consideration of the space. Then the phrases were manipulated
spatially and temporally. Another process intentionally collided two phrases to create
duets, and then turned the two new duet phrases back into adulterated solos.
Several structured improvisations were created using two different kinds of scores. In
some of the improvisations certain rules were given, for example, the dancers were only
allowed to walk and not move when someone else was moving but there had to be a
person moving at all times. The dancers were asked to compose poems using the
phrases from specific grids and this improvisational aspect required the dancers to find a
way to physicalize the journey necessary to trigger the correct phrases in the correct
order. In this instance, the reading of the page-text and the performance of the dancetext are not that far apart, and the audience’s participation is what is new – both a
“watching and a listening” as a text is created, the dancer’s own ‘thinking mind and body’
foregrounded in the indeterminacy of outcome implied by the environment. What is it to
encounter the performance of someone else struggling through/thinking through a
problem? There is a heightened relationship to an outcome that is only partly knowable,
and partly meaningful. The presumption of failure is also present, that choices may result
in meaningless or not-obviously-meaningful phrases. The joint effort between audience
and performer to create meaning becomes a new kind of collaboration – made possible
in the tension between text and improvisation. The technological mediation in this
instance is of negligible importance, it is purely enabling.
Finding the accidental collisions between choreography and an (in this case literal)
underlying text could be initially understood in the context of Cage’s work with
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Cunningham, specifically in regards to the idea of ‘unimpeded interpenetration’. The
technological environment facilitates these fortuitous accidents and becomes therefore
essential to the production of the piece. The technologically mediated space becomes
something more like a new vocabulary for the dancers rather than an entirely new
language. The challenge for the dancers became how to fulfill the relatively complex
choreographic phrases while at the same time dividing their attention between their
movement and the need to listen to and respond to the textual environment.
In the end, the choreographic process became the final gesture of the compositional act
as individual phrases, unison, counterpoint and instrumentation in the choreographic
dimension became symphonic gesture. Furthermore, the process of deciding which grid
should be used at specific junctions of the piece, as activated by given movement phrases
and specific dancers, further unified the compositional/choreographic act with the act of
reading/writing. The wind/chime/gong score became a useful dramatic negative space to
the textual space, and the way the dance, text and movement flowed in and out of their
various priorities and necessities makes an interesting perspective on awareness and
response. The greater sonic environment created a space of rest in relation to the aural
realization of the text, at the same time it serves as a shifting mode of propulsion for the
piece, giving a voice, which while still technologically mediated, is not based in the same
kind of one-to-one interactivity as the text phrases.
Finally these choreographic interactions were fit into an abstract narrative. The piece
opens with four travelers passing through what seems to be a train station. We hear the
sounds of trains arriving and departing ghosting through the soundscape over the course
of the piece. The travelers enter one by one, encumbered by their luggage and seemingly
accidentally happening upon the installation – as if indeed it was installed in a public
space (and ideally, the work would be presented in a museum, gallery or similar space so
that the public might interact with it at will, allowing a performance to periodically
energize the environment with a more virtuosic, crafted, and prepared responses.) After
their initial discovery of the grids, the cast uses the idiom of abstract post-modern dance
to relate to this place. In addition to this abstract and virtuosic movement lexicon,
significant qualities of “play” mark the interaction – both with the space itself and with
the other performers. This breadth of movement, coupled with the variety of sonic and
interactive possibility, allowed for an evening of coherent yet not monochromatic
interactivity.
Conclusion
Rest/Less takes the challenge of poetry and postmodern dance and attempts an
interactive solution where the technological components essentially fulfill the sound and
movement needs of the piece as it organically developed from the original text.
Rest/Less might raise questions about how technology and interactivity change the piece
from other similar works of post-modern dance theater. Though it is easy to forefront
the technology in the discussion and more difficult to address the movement itself, one
might still ask what is really ‘new’ in this work or in Dance and Technology as a whole.
Certainly there were specific technical breakthroughs and insights but much of the color
of the work is derived from the original author’s ideas about how we relate to text and
the act of reading. Indeed, I would say that this was the most challenging aspect of the
piece for the dancers – trying to pay attention to this act of ‘reading’ and the meanings
offered by the texts while simultaneously trying to address the choreographic demands.
This echoes comments often heard in discussions of performative use of interactivity –
that there is a significant difference in the experience of performing when there is an
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interactive element. We are then left wondering if this difference is legible to the
audience or if dancing to prerecorded music essentially ‘feels’ the same. Does this mean
that in all Dance and Technology there is nothing really “new” apart from the overall
dramatic questions of the pieces – do those questions change in kind? Or is the use of
technology simply a means to ask those same questions about basic experience,
awareness, and storytelling? Perhaps we could understand the use of technology as a way
to at once continue the exploration of contemporary dance and dance theater while at the
same time bringing in questions from the mediated society we live in.
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Appendix One: Sample Page
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Making Schoenberg Dance
Author/Choreographer: Rebecca Lazier
Copyright 2005, Rebecca Lazier
It is an immense and welcome challenge to articulate in words the theoretical constructs
of my creative process. I found myself gesturing at my computer, if only I could write
this, I would think as I danced at my desk. The process seemed to defeat the idea of
intuitive creation, yet, I soldiered on feeling I had a valid viewpoint to offer.
Choreographers can say things about music in their work. In each of my pieces I seek
ways to reframe questions encountered choreographing with music scores or in
collaboration with composers; creating Vanish, a dance for seven to Schoenberg’s String
Trio, was no exception.
Arnold Schoenberg’s 1947 String Trio is a bewildering entity. To a choreographer, the
music presents an unfathomable number of choices, primarily, where to start? The Trio
articulates an array of unusual, and improbable, dilemmas of sound, syntax, and structure
to ponder, and after listening to the music repeatedly, the choreographic possibilities
grew exponentially. In search of a beginning, I turned to the Trio’s score, history, and
scholarship –in addition to dancing in the studio - for help to uncover the multifaceted
nature of the music. The Trio is a widely retrospective work, with allusions to twelve
tone structure, which precariously balances contrasting impulses. These discoveries
propelled me to re-think traditional and contemporary choreographic processes as a
source from which I could generate new methodologies of articulating movement
vocabulary and choreographic syntax. Later, once the material was created and I was
seeking ways to link the phrases, Schoenberg compelled me to ask, is the act of creation
more driven by structure or intuition?
The Trio was composed during Schoenberg’s convalescence from a nearly fatal heart
attack, and draws upon this experience to form a loose narrative. Michael Cherlin’s
description of the music brings to life the fascinating dichotomies I could hear but not
translate into words. He writes:
The Trio is extraordinary in the degree to which extreme contrasts and
even apparent non-sequiturs seem to fracture its surface. The Music is
full of abrupt and striking changes of texture and affect as musical ideas
are broken off, interrupted by other ideas that are themselves
interrupted in turn… .In surprising ways the Trio seems to alternately
remember and then abandon the musical languages of its historical
antecedents. In sum, within the Trio, a radically new musical discourse
confronts a host of historical references.
On the one hand, how can Schoenberg’s “historical references, formal elements, and
sweetness of tonality” (Cherlin 559) be expressed choreographically? On the other hand,
how does one dance Schoenberg’s “radical new musical discourse…[with its] tenuous
connections to the past”? (Cherlin 559) The Trio is unlike any other Schoenberg
composition, yet, it is composed of references to, and recollections of, his previous
musical theories and practices and is interspersed with his experiences, memories and
current perceptions. My initial dilemma was to question how Schoenberg’s early
composition which experimented with emancipating pitch from diatonicism, would
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translate into dance. His experiments were born from the desire to “liberate the twelve
notes of the chromatic scale,” in order to find a democracy of sound. (Perle 1) How
could one democratize the body and movement? If this democracy was possible in
movement – attempts to make the elbow as important as the eye, or to give each
movement equal value - would it be desirable? Would liberation and democracy be
possible within the movements themselves, the sound, and within the movement
phrasing, the syntax? Further, if this democracy was physically achieved, how would it
work as a complete structure? If everything is equal and uniform there is no structure, no
change. However, turning again to the score we see that Schoenberg fractures this
polemic in the Trio, which fragments and interrupts itself continuously, thus rules out the
possibility of the choreography being solely an experiment in the democracy of
movement. In order to create parallels between Schoenberg’s musical evolution and the
evolution of the moving body and dance composition, I was required to create broader
choreographic constructs that consisted of many voices and many experiments.
In dance, our body’s potential to move forms the basis upon which we create physical
languages. If anatomy dictates the framework of this language, similar to the phoneme in
speech, or pitch in music, we must recognize that the foremost limitation confronting the
desire to create new movement languages is our neuromuscular patterning. As Lulu
Sweigard states in Human Movement Potential, “These patterns are both our greatest
freedom, and our greatest liability.” How can we abandon movements and styles of the
past if it is all our body knows? The uses of traditional techniques translate into historical
references that are immediately recognizable by an audience. While aesthetically I enjoy
these movements, I do so only in relationship to their ability to be simultaneously
abandoned – similar to the Trio. If a dance phrase I create by accumulating improvised
movements into a collection is an example of vocabulary and syntax being fully
controlled by my own wired logic, and hence controlled by my own previous experiences,
then what controls can I place on the process to broaden my vocabulary and disrupt
personal syntax? The moments of aural confusion I perceive during the Trio call for
movement patterns that do not yet exist, that push the edge of physical possibility and
are more than a reflection of self. At the same time, the Trio inhabits sections of blissful
tonality, identifiable rhythms, and translucent successions of sounds. These sequences
call for a progression of movement that allows a physical idea to be recognized and
pushed forward in the tradition of theatrical concert dance. For each facet of the Trio, I
needed to find specific methods of building the dance that challenged my movement
patterns and choreographic syntax to match the Trio’s references to, and abandonment
of, tradition.
Even though one person created the Trio, it’s multiple and distinct voices pushed me to
create choreography that embodies contributions from different people. To echo
Schoenberg’s use of sounds of the past, I must use recognizable movement patterns and
phrasing. Yet, Schoenberg’s musical past also requires democratized movement
vocabulary and syntax. I chose to reflect the sounds of the present in the emotional tone
of the movement, and through the words and images used to invoke the movement. I
synthesized these multiple viewpoints to create five movement structures where one of
the elements, movement itself or the syntax, was placed beyond my willful control: either
in the hands of chance, or in the bodies of the dancers. The overall structure of Vanish
evolved from the music’s thematic ideas of reprise and recollection, of holding onto the
past and ultimately, of letting go. The impetus to develop independent processes from
musical corollaries, which change throughout the dance, was to create enough diversity
of material to stand up to, and hopefully challenge, the music.
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Process #1: Twelve Tone Movement Structure
Schoenberg’s codified system of composing in twelve tones inspired the first experiment
with movement syntax in Vanish. The rules of his system are clear, Daniel Albright
writes: “A piece of music should be governed in every detail, except perhaps rhythm, by a
single sequence of the twelve notes of the chromatic scale, the so-called tone row; and no
note may recur until the row has completed itself. The row may be segmented and
arranged into any pattern of chords….” (Albright 34) Creating a twelve note system in
dance would offer a method to break not only my own embodied traditions of
movement syntax, but also challenge what is defined as ‘traditional’ syntax in dance. In
choreography, Merce Cunningham was the first to attempt to liberate movement from a
standardized order of movements by using chance methodologies. Here we find an
interesting inversion of Schoenberg’s twelve tone method with Cunningham’s use of
chance. In pure twelve tone composition the creation of the row is the aspect of
composition most influenced by chance operations, thereafter the ordering and
structuring of the rows is entirely prescribed. Conversely, in Cunningham’s initial
experiments (which have evolved with his recent uses of technology) he created the initial
phrases, then allowed their manipulations to be dictated by chance methodologies.
Although they evolved from vastly different inquiries, these processes share a desire to
liberate sound from music and movement from meaning. Thus, I sought inspiration from
Cunningham and Schoenberg to create the first movement structure.
In the Twelve Tone Movement Structure I abstracted the Trio’s themes into single words
that formed the kernel of twelve improvisations I performed: near-death, transience,
flight, hover, shiver, slide, propel, crash, soar, fling, tender, and explode. I assigned each
dancer a number from one through seven and instructed them to ‘capture’ the movement
in my improvised sequence that correlated with their assigned number. They were free
to perceive which movement matched their number. They set the movement, defined it
physically, and remembered it. Each time I repeated this process and changed the word,
I re -assigned the numbers of each dancer to disrupt any sense that movements in one
place of the improvisation would be similar. The dancers linked these very disparate
movements, often they were in air one moment and earthbound the next, and then
learned the seven completed twelve tone phrases. This structure aimed to generate
movement sequences that held values similar to twelve tone music: no repetition and a
democracy of tonality. I valued the physical effect of surprise and interruption, and
perceived a sense of movement dissonance. The movement vocabulary was created by
the dancers’ interpretation of the choreographer’s movement and the syntax was
developed by chance. The musicality of the movement phrases evolved from the
movements themselves and the stylistic choices I layered onto the dancers’ performance,
and altered when aligned to specific musical sections. During the complete Vanish these
twelve tone phrases are manipulated in space, time, and by groupings.
Video Clip #1
Process #1: Twelve Tone Movement Structure
Music: Part I, Measures 1-51
Time/Place in Choreography: Opening 1.47 minutes
This is an example of the first two 12 tone phrases danced by the entire company in
changing spatial relationships.
Notes on viewing
•
Entire company enters with one tone row.
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•
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Then two dancers stay and two tone rows are juxtaposed
New dancers feed into the structure repeating either tone row 1 or 2, in opposite
facings
Builds to 4 dancers on stage simultaneously dancing the two rows; double duets
Builds to having all 7 dancers on stage.
Fermata
Process #2: Catching Phrase, an idea structure
Schoenberg uses the three instruments of the Trio in very individual ways; similarly, I
drew upon the idiosyncrasies of the dancers to parallel expressionism of the score.
(Although, treating all of the bodies the same would be more democratic.) Each dancer
was asked to run across the stage space, ‘catch’ something of any shape or size and then
continue running off. The word ‘catching’ served as the inspiration for the dancers to
create their own movements without visual information from the choreographer, hence,
the movements were infused with individual perceptions, memories, and psychology. I
then willfully linked these movements, choosing the syntax. This structure was devised to
contrast the explosive nature of the phrases created from the Twelve Tone Structure and
was inspired by the lyrical sequences in the score, specifically measures 133-147, the
opening of Part II, which I will show you in a moment.
Video Clip #2
Process #2: Catching Phrase, an idea structure
Music: Middle of Part 2, Measures 159-169
Time/Place in Dance: Go to 9:53 on QuickTime Stream
Unison Moment in Part II
•
Discuss contrast in phrasing to 12 tone.
•
Deconstruction at end foreshadows ending of piece
We also developed a partnering version of the “Catching Phrase” by having one dancer
perform the phrase one movement ahead of the other. In the complete Vanish the
partnering version of Catching is seen before the ‘pure’ version.
Video Clip #3
Process #2 B: Partnering Version of Catching Phrase
Music: Opening of Part 2, Measures 133-147
Video Clip #4
Process #2 C: Partnering of Catching Juxtaposed against Twelve Tone Phrases
Music: Part 2, Measures 148-158
Time/Place in Dance: Follows Previous Clip
Phrase #3: Rhythmic Structure, Solos
Dancers were taught a rhythm from the score from measures 85-87, and asked to create
solos based on this rhythm. The music dictated the rhythmic syntax of the dance, but the
movement choices were entirely made by the dancers. The dance phrases are performed
prior to, during, and after the rhythm is heard in the music, thus becoming a separate
layer of visual and kinetic rhythm.
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Video Clip #5
Process #3: Rhythmic Structure, Solos
Music: Episode 1, Measures 82-101
•
Transition from previous section the dancers use their solos to travel
•
You see the solos simultaneously
•
Christopher begins his solo before the music rhythm is heard
•
The rhythm is aligned with Jennifer’s solo, the 2nd solo
•
The 5 remaining dancers finish their solos, as the music varies and develops.
Phrase #4: Ode to Lucinda, structure based on physical limitation
I used a strict corporeal constraint to create the movement of this phrase; all movements
were to follow a homolateral pattern, the organization of the body through the midline,
pitting one side against the other, to force the choreography into new physical territory.
This syntax of the phrase was built to follow the principal line in measures 186 and 187.
These measures are in 12/8 time, which is divided into 4 dotted quarter notes, giving it a
feeling of a driving three; each movement takes the duration of a dotted quarter. It is
seen in a grid, in unison, and it’s retrograde serves as the transition from Episode II to
Part III, from the upbeat to the recapitulation.
Video Clip #6
Process #4: Ode to Lucinda, structure based on physical limitation
Music: Measures 184-197
•
Grid/Cannon: 11:30
•
Unison: 12:14
•
Retrograde: 13:11
o Material not seen in any other section of dance, the music of Episode 2 is
not used in recapitulation.
Phrase #5: Choreographer’s Phrase
The Choreographer’s Phrase was developed when I generated the movement and syntax
without constraints, external structures, or input from the dancers. It was built
movement by movement as an expression of, and response to, the personal narrative in
the music. It juxtaposes scale, dimension, and time, and serves as a unifying factor in
Vanish.
Video Clip #8
Process #5: Choreographers Phrase
Music: End of Episode 1, Measures 112-132
This phase is also done in solo form, and moments are deconstructed, isolated and then
developed.
Now, what does one do with all of this material? At first, the structures, textures, and
rhythms in the Trio served as a departure point for creating the physical language of
Vanish. Then, I returned to the score to provide a means of how these fragments could
relate to one another. The music is structured in five sections played continuously: Part
1, Episode 1, Part 2, Episode 2, Part 3. Again, I turned to those more experienced at
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musical analysis for insight into the compositional mechanisms of the Trio. Richard
Kurth writes, “Reprise plays a major role in the String Trio, but the [] intense
developmental variation of motivic ideas create the impression of multiple modes and
temporalities of recollection [] the piece thereby acquires a quasi-narrative character in
which reprise is a renewal and reenactment of narration, an act of reopening, rather than
one of closure and resolution.” (140) How could I order the material to correspond to
the musical overlapping of ideas, the interplay of phrase structures, and the constant
evolution and regeneration? Here, unlike the process used for generating movement, my
method was not to answer this question and form concrete plans to follow, instead, I
held the question in my mind while intuitively making choices about progression,
development, and thematic expression, which all culminate in the final contour of
Vanish.
I will now show the last moments of the Trio, the recapitulation, but before I do I would
like to read one last quote I encountered long after Vanish was choreographed and titled:
This recapitulation is surely one of the strangest in all of music. It is far
too truncated to provide architectural balance in the classical manner.
Nor does it resemble the symmetrical designs of Liszt or Bartok, if only
because it involves the entire Trio (except for the Second Episode, which
can hardly be repeated, since it functions as upbeat to the recapitulation
itself.) I would suggest that Schoenberg has reconceived the idea of
recapitulation. No longer a matter of formal balance, it has become
invested with a psychological aura. The unprecedented idea occurs to
Schoenberg to play the Trio twice: once as a narrative, and once as memory….
Unlike a classical recapitulation, which transposes everything into the
tonic (or with reference to the tonic), Schoenberg remembers the Trio
as it happened… It is precisely because this piece has been so
powerfully ordered, because the end had seemed so secure, that these
last seconds are so wrenching.
Boykan
I struggled to create the ending for a longtime, there were many versions that preceded
this one. It was as if I was searching for some “tonic,” some way to neatly compact all of
the themes, to bring together all of the diverse ideas into a singular statement. But, reworking the dance material over and over it became clear this approach was impossible,
and not at all the intent of the music, or the intent of the new entity of the dance. I had
felt the music slip through my fingers, like mercury sliding off a surface, and was unable
to hold onto anything but a sensory memory; a still reliving of the violence that had
passed. In the end, the traces of movement will vanish, the traces of sound will vanish,
and so too will traces of life.
Video Clip #9
Recapitulation
•
Reprise of Part One: shortened from 51 measures to 24
•
Dance: Reverse Groupings, instead of soloist moving then group, group moves
while soloist remains. This sets up the structure of individual against group.
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Reprise of Episode 1: jumping forward through ideas. Condensing measures and
time.
Dance: Highlight individual against group: Individuals are lingering in moment
from Twelve Tone solo, while group is continuing in the phrase. (In Episode 1,
rhythm solos are performed against a still group.)
Measures: 267-281
•
Reprise of Part 2
•
Dance: Re-introduction of Catching Phrase material, layered against
Choreographers Phrase
Final Moments: Measures 282-293
•
Music: 282-293
•
Dance: Blends Catching Deconstruction (Recalls same movement from
correlating measures 159, in Part 2) and Individual Tones
In the Trio Schoenberg comes through the limits of his methodologies to rediscover
intuition and the unconscious; he finds that it is more than structure that pushes creation
forward. (Albright 28) Likewise when creating Vanish, it was only once I had sublimated
all of the movement developed from these processes that I was able to free myself and
be driven by vision. The creative act itself is one of intuition, of instinct. Yet these
instincts have been created from the culmination of experiences: sensory, physical,
emotional, intellectual. How are we to know exactly what we are responding to in each
moment: The cold air in the studio that day, the hard floor, the argument, the love affair?
The web of organization is there driving creation forward, triumphant, as if to say, “you
cannot get in my way.”
A final question: If I were to recreate this dance, would I recreate the process, with new
dancers interpreting my movements and creating new phrases of their own? Four years
later my own movement vocabulary has evolved, perhaps it is more free, perhaps it is
more confined. Would I again build new vocabulary to redefine syntax? Does Vanish
exist now in the score of ideas and processes, or in the choices that were made with this
material? And, are these truly separate these entities? Schoenberg could not have
composed the Trio any other moment in his life, the references to his brush with death,
the playful toying of his own methodologies, and his return to expressionism all point to
a specific time and place. Would a dance created with same process, with the same music
be the same Vanish? After all, despite the finely tuned details and the exacting structure,
Vanish, like the Trio, is a bewildering entity.
Works Cited
Albright, Daniel. Representation and the Imagination. Chicago: University of Chicago
Press, 1981, 11-51.
Boykan, Marin. “The Schoenberg Trio: Tradition at an Apocalyptic Moment.” Music of
My Future: The Schoenberg Quartets and Trio. Ed. Reinhold Brinkman and
Christoph Wolff. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2000, 161-172.
Cherlin, Michael. “Memory and Rhetorical Trope in Schoenberg’s String Trio.” Journal
of the American Musicological Society, Vol. 51, No. 3 (Autumn, 1998): 559-602.
Hitchcock, Wiley H. and Stanley Sadie, ed. The New Grove Dictionary of American
Music. London: Macmillian Press Ltd, 1986.
Kurth, Richard. “Moments of Closure: Thoughts on the Suspension of Tonality in
Schoenberg’s Fourth Quartet and Trio.” Music of My Future: The Schoenberg
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Quartets and Trio. Ed. Reinhold Brinkman and Christoph Wolff. Cambridge:
Harvard University Press, 2000, 139-160.
Milstein, Sylvina. Arnold Schoenberg: notes, sets, forms. Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 1992.
Peles, Stephen. “Schoenberg and the Tradition of Imitative Counterpoint: Remarks on
the Third and Fourth Quartets and Trio.” Music of My Future: The Schoenberg
Quartets and Trio. Ed. Reinhold Brinkman and Christoph Wolff. Cambridge:
Harvard University Press, 2000, 117-138.
Perle, George. Serial Composition and Atonality: An Introduction to the Music of
Schoenberg, Berg, and Webern. 6th ed. Berkeley: University of California Press,
1991.
Schoenberg, Arnold. String Trio. Long Island City: Bomart Music Publications, 1950.
Schoenberg, Arnold. Style and Idea. New York: Philosophical Library, 1950.
Sweigard, Lulu E. Human Movement Potential: Its Ideokinetic Facilitation. London:
Harper & Row, 1974.
Vaughan, David. Merce Cunningham: Fifty Years. Ed. Melissa Harris. New York:
Aperature Foundation, 1997.
Bibliography
Bernstein, Leonard. The Unanswered Question: Six Talks at Harvard. The Charles Eliot
Norton Lectures, 1973. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1976.
Fraleigh, Sondra Horton and Penelope Hanstein, ed. Researching Dance: Evolving
Modes of Inquiry. Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1999.
Meyer, Ester da Costa and Fred Wasserman, ed. Schoenberg, Kandinsky, and the Blue
Rider. London: Scala Publishers, 2003.
Marcia B. Siegel. “Visible Secrets: Style Analysis and Dance Literacy.” Moving Words:
Re-Writing Dance. Ed. Gay Morris. New York: Routledge, 1996, 29-42.
Jordan, Stephanie. “Musical/Choreographic Discourse: Method, Music Theory, and
Meaning.” Moving Words: Re-Writing Dance. Ed. Gay Morris. New York:
Routledge, 1996, 15-28.
Reynolds, Nancy, and Malcom McCormick. No Fixed Points: Dance in the Twentieth
Century. New Haven: Yale University Press, 2003.
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The Prince of the Pagodas, Gong and TabuhTabuhan: Balinese music and dance, classical
ballet and Euro-American composers and
choreographers.1
Alessandra Lopez y Royo, Roehampton University
Copyright 2005, Alessandra Lopez y Royo
Balinese music and dance in The Prince of the Pagodas
The Prince of the Pagodas is a 20th century ballet, premiered in 1957, with choreography by
John Cranko to a score composed by Benjamin Britten. It was subsequently rechoreographed and restaged by Sir Kenneth MacMillan in 1989. Cranko’s original
version no longer exists, apart from a 1957 black and white film of a rehearsal of a ‘Pas
de Six’ from the ballet. Therefore I shall be referring throughout to the ballet by
MacMillan and in particular to a recording of the Royal Ballet performance of 1989, in
London Covent Garden, broadcast on television in 1990, noting where possible its
divergence from Cranko’s version.
The issue of the influence of Balinese gamelan music in Britten’s opus and the
importance of The Prince as a starting point in this process has been researched and
studied in detail by Mervyn Cooke (1998) among others. It is not my intention therefore
to duplicate such an analysis. I will instead focus on the citations of Balinese dance
which appear in MacMillan’s choreography. Their presence raises a series of
interrelated questions pertaining to the formal structure of the ballet, as also its sociohistorical context.
To situate The Prince one needs to address issues of artistic influence, of cultural
appropriation and of transformation, as also issues of homosexuality, homoeroticism,
orientalism and the ‘other’. To foreground them, I will contrast The Prince with Gong,
one of Mark Morris’ recent pieces, made for American Ballet Theater. Gong was
choreographed by Morris in 2001 to music by Colin McPhee, Tabuh-Tabuhan, a piece
which McPhee composed following his Balinese experience. Prior to making Gong
Morris had already choreographed for his own company to Javanese gamelan music by
American composer Lou Harrison. The interconnection between Britten, McPhee,
Morris and Harrison will become more obvious if one considers the gamelan’s
significance as a gay marker among 20th century North American composers (Brett 1994,
238)2.
I will not go into the details of the Prince of the Pagodas history. It will suffice to say that
Cranko based his choreography on an 18th century fairy tale by a Madame D’Aulnoy
entitled Le Serpentin Vert (The Green Snake). It is a fairy tale of likely eastern origin. The
Prince is about the gentle Princess Belle Rose’s magic journey to Pagodaland, following
her evil sister Belle Epine taking over the kingdom, which the Emperor their father had
attempted to divide unequally between them. Belle Rose, together with the Fool, a
faithful servant, is transported to Pagodaland, in Cranko’s version lured by the vision of a
prince, in MacMillan’s in search of the Prince to whom she was betrothed, now turned
into a green salamander by Belle Epine’s curse. After encountering the green
salamander in the course of her journey they return together to her father’s kingdom.
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Belle Rose rescues her ailing father, at the mercy of Belle Epine’s cruelty, with the help
of the salamander, who saves her from being killed. Through her love (and her kiss), he
becomes human once again, and the two marry and live happily ever after.
The salamander is an alchemic symbol, a lizard connected with fire, by which it can never
be burnt; hence by association, the salamander has the quality of fire. The fantastic
journey of Belle Rose is one of self-discovery and of gaining maturity. Pagodaland, the
land of the salamander, stands for a mysterious and tantalising, erotically charged Orient
and is a trope of sexual awakening.
In 1955-56 Britten and his life partner Peter Pears embarked on a world tour and
stopped in Bali on their way to Japan. Here Britten took to Balinese gamelan music, to
which he had already been introduced by McPhee in 1939. Britten worked whole
sections of gamelan music into his Prince’s score, especially audible in the dance of the
green salamander, but also present elsewhere in the ballet. Though I cannot go here into
the details, for which I can refer you to Cooke (1998), it should be noted that The Prince
was not given fully formed to Britten for him to compose the score but it was a
collaborative effort from the start, contrary to popular opinion.
Cranko was reportedly not fully satisfied with his choreography. Nor was, later,
MacMillan, with Cranko’s, and his own. MacMillan took up the project at the end of the
1980s, wishing to present a three act ‘traditional ballet’ at Covent Garden, after a gap of
some years and he completely re-choreographed Cranko’s work. MacMillan was drawn
to Britten’s music, but disliked the story line, which he would have liked to change and
had little regard for Cranko’s fairy tale (MacMillan in Bailey 1990). It is of course
impossible to ascertain fully whether anything Cranko did was kept in any form in
MacMillan’s version, but we can assume that the two choreographies are altogether
different, on the basis of MacMillan’s comments.
The writings about MacMillan ‘s Prince are intriguing. Deirdre McMahon for example
believes that “Britten’s score fails to provide the sort of dance momentum [MacMillan]
needs” and uncovers MacMillan’s self referencing in the choreography, suggesting that
“playing the reference game helps MacMillan to paper over the cracks”, though not
completely (McMahon 1990,37). Altogether McMahon shows little understanding of the
score and antipathy towards the ballet. She does not comment on the elements of
Balinese music in Britten’s work and draws a veil of silence on the snippets of Balinese
dance which can be found in the ballet. Other critics tend to follow suit.
My comments on the choreography are confined to what can be observed in the 1990
video-recording. In Act 1 the scene is set at the Emperor’s court and we are introduced
to the King of the East, one of the suitors. The music references kecak3, with a ‘cak—
cak’ rhythm. A group of courtiers, turned into monkeys by Belle Epine’s magic, is seen
manhandling the Emperor. The commonplace western understanding of kecak as
‘monkey dance’ – a misnomer as kecak has nothing to do with monkeys, bears this out.
A few moments later the King of the East, dressed in an obviously oriental costume,
holding a mirror which characterises him as vain, begins to dance and performs Baris4
movements, down to executing a Baris turn – the foot is not pointed but lifted flat to the
side as one would do in Baris. Movements of the hands and fingers accentuate the
Balinese dance borrowing. 5
Later, in Act 2, we see the green salamander in a solo.
The music is used as background, rather than being integral to the choreography. There
is an attempt to reproduce Balinese gamelan sounds but the dance does not relate to the
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music as it would if it were Balinese dance. In Bali music emphasises the movement and
viceversa and the correlation between the two arises out of a dialogic relationship
between choreographer and composer. The whole body responds, part by part, to the
musical phrases. This relationship is absent in The Prince, even when Balinese dance is
quoted, as in the case of the King of the East. The dance of the salamander has no
obvious Balinese reference, although there is a definite attempt to make it oriental.
MacMillan’s green salamander/prince dances at times in a snake-like fashion, with clear
neck movements. His plié is deep and there are sharp, un-balletic breaks in his phrasing.
It is baffling that the Balinese dance borrowings in the ballet have remained invisible to
critics and reviewers of MacMillan’s restaging to this date. Was it due to an inability to
identify the borrowings? Or was it an intentional act of dismissal?
Savarese’s 1992 analysis of European theatrical history and its continuous interaction
with Asian theatres could be of help here to understand the issues involved. The Prince of
the Pagodas needs to be inscribed in a series of transactions and encounters, which
permeate the history of theatre in its broadest sense, and is thus inclusive of dance and
music, in both Europe and Asia. However, such transactions have to be uncovered and
addressed. An acknowledgement of the fluid hybridity of much of the western musical
and dance experience, informed by the metaphors of travel, remains mandatory, if we are
to create new perspectives on the history of dance and musical performance which
endeavour to dissolve deeply rooted misconceptions about ‘purity’ and ‘originality’.
The lack of recognition of the Balinese elements marks the Britten/Cranko/MacMillan’s
endeavour as appropriative in a rather negative sense. The authorial intention remains
immaterial. It is the silence and disengagement of the critics (and of the audience they
influence through their writings) that reconfigure the effort as insidiously appropriative.
The notion of appropriation is a slippery one and the issues surrounding it are indeed
complex. I will for now forego its discussion, turning to Gong, and will come back to it
at a later juncture.
Gong, gamelan music and Euro-American modernist queer composers
American choreographer Mark Morris created Gong for American Ballet Theater in 2001
and in 2002 the Royal Ballet obtained it for its repertoire and performed it during the
2002-2003 season6. Dance scholar Beth Genné has written a long review-appraisal of
Gong, as performed by the Royal Ballet, published in 2002 in the Dancing Times and
accessible online. Genné’s review is an important piece of writing as she comments on
the relationship between Gong and Tabuh-Tabuhan, the piece composed by Colin McPhee
which Morris used for his choreography. Unlike other reviewers, Genné provides some
context to enable an appreciation of the piece and to situate it. She indicates what the
role of the gong is in the gamelan ensemble, giving the reader a clue as to why Morris
chose to name his piece Gong. This is because McPhee’s orchestral piece, based on
Balinese sonorities and tonalities, achieves the effect of recreating a gong sound at the
very end. Morris captures the vibrations of a gong in his last section through a brilliant
interplay of separate actions: his dancers turn their back to the audience and disappear
into darkness as the lights go out and the curtain is lowered (Genné 2002, online).
Tabuh-Tabuhan was composed by Canadian born McPhee in 1935-36. He and his wife
anthropologist Jane Belo lived in Bali, where he had gone to study gamelan music after
hearing some recordings, until 1938, when he left the island abruptly, in all likelihood
because of the Dutch homosexual witch-hunt to which German painter Walter Spies, a
friend of McPhee, had already succumbed – McPhee had had some liaisons with Balinese
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boys7. McPhee died in 1964 and soon became something of a legend in the EuroAmerican gamelan world.
Listening to music, any music, was how Morris grew up. And non-western music
certainly had a strong impact on him, as he spent some of his formative years on the
West Coast, where composers such as Lou Harrison were at the forefront of the North
American gamelan movement. Being openly gay mattered to Morris when he began
choreographing in the early 1980s and he brought his activism into his work. As a
choreographer Morris is known for the way he relates the dance to the music, the way he
deploys a queer sensibility in the staging of dancing bodies (Burt 2001, 222-226), the way
he crosses the East-West boundary almost as a matter of course.
Gong, says Mark Morris, is not “an ethno-choreographical exercise” and he had no
intention of “decorating classical ballet with movements taken straight from Balinese
dance” (Morris as quoted in Genné 2002, online), though there is a vaguely Balinese feel
to the piece. The colourful tutus of the women in the ensemble, of simple design,
contribute to project each dancer as bell shaped, visually highlighting the connection with
a gamelan, whose sound is said to be reminiscent of bells.
To understand the fascination with the gamelan among modern North American and
European composers one needs to examine the issue of gamelan and queer musicality in
some detail. For this, I draw on Colonialism and Homosexuality (2003) by Aldrich, which
discusses the colonizing experience of homosexual men, showing that like that of their
heterosexual counterparts, it was inscribed within the same paradigm of political and
economic exploitation. The homosexuality of the colonizer and the homoerotic desire
for the colonized (countered by deep homophobia) were predicated on the colonizer’s
race, age, and class and were not free of the opportunism which characterized colonial
exploitation. The ‘going native’ of a number of white homosexual men, and their
consequent repositioning within the normative of the colonial, was often triggered by
empathy resulting from homosexual attraction. Inspired by his reading of Edward Said,
Philip Brett suggests in his seminal essay on Britten that projection of homosexual desire
onto the ‘other’ would be articulated musically by embracing the music of the ‘other’ – a
‘going native’ stimulated by homoeroticism. It is precisely this homoerotic quality which
marks McPhee’s and Britten’s fascination with gamelan sounds (Brett 1994, 235-56). It
is only later into the 20th century that there would be a shift, with the affirmation of gay
identity, the emerging of gay and queer consciousness and the attendant recognition of
one’s own ‘otherness’.
Playing the gamelan and indeed composing music for the gamelan, in Java and Bali, does
not denote homosexuality. But the gamelan was appropriated, on the West Coast,
among composers, as a gay marker, undoubtedly because one of its most prominent
devotees, the composer Lou Harrison, was also a known gay activist who explicitly
identified with the ‘other’ through his musical choices (Brett and Wood 2002,19).
Thus in Mark Morris’ use of McPhee’s music one can see a coded acknowledgment by a
queer choreographer of the legacy of McPhee, a gay man, responsible for introducing
the gamelan in American music, and for the impact this had on the 20th century
American musical landscape. The gamelan was taken up by a community of gay
composers, with far-reaching consequences in terms of establishing a queer musical
sensibility, one which consciously moved away from the western European art music
tradition, its perceived hard sonority and its ‘masculinity’. In contemporary American art
music the gamelan sound is queer8.
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But what is appropriation?
I referred earlier to The Prince as being susceptible of being interpreted as appropriative
and negatively so. Indeed some critics have viewed Britten’s close imitation of gamelan
music as an act of plagiarism (Cooke 1998,245).
Both Prince and Gong shed light on the cultural process of appropriation with reference to
music and dance and in particular, to what is regarded as permissible when indulging in
appropriative behaviour. Any discussion of appropriation needs to foreground its
entanglement on one hand with issues of ownership, copyright and intellectual property
rights, on the other with the issue of the right to safeguard cultural property (Giollain
2002, 100-111). Culturally, the negativity of appropriation and the notion of intellectual
property are a Euro-American, modernist formulation, a fact we should not lose sight of.
Appropriation has been condemned as exploitative and morally, if not artistically, wrong,
especially when viewed in terms of the unequal relationship between the hegemonic and
the subaltern. Appropriation has also been seen as a threat to the authenticity of the
‘original’, emphasising the superiority of the former over any derivative ‘copy’.
However, Walter Benjamin reformulated in 1934 the role of the copy as a reactivation of
the reproduced object through the very act of reproduction, thus questioning entrenched
notions of originality and authenticity. Benjamin’s essay as also the ‘ready-mades’ of
Dadaist artist Marcel Duchamp had a profound influence on the development of
Appropriation Art, whose aim was precisely to question authenticity and originality and
the purpose of contemporary art (Krauss 1985).
Postmodern critiques have dispelled the aura of negativity surrounding appropriation by
making us recognize that appropriation is potentially a two way process of “exchange and
creative response… […] in its play of improvisation appropriation generates new
meanings for a new context” (Ashley and Plesch 2002, 6). Thus Bakhtin’s utterance as
response to another utterance, the basis of his notion of dialogue; Kristeva’s
intertextuality; and the hypertext of contemporary internet usage rely on appropriation as
a praxis.
Appropriation however should not be equated with plagiarism. There is arguably a fine
line between the two and this is why I feel obliged to reiterate my earlier comments on
the need for critics and commentators of The Prince to acknowledge the Balinese sources
of both ballet and music. It is not the endeavour as such, but the lack of
acknowledgment, that is problematic.
Ashley and Plesch’s remarks on new meanings for a new context also, and very
significantly, bear upon the overlooked element that links The Prince of the Pagodas, Gong
and Tabuh-Tabuhan: the gamelan and the negotiation of (homo)sexuality. Queering the
gamelan is also culturally appropriative, but it is an appropriation which affords a
decentering and destabilizing of heterosexuality and its normativity. Through a staging of
sexuality, it acts as a corrective to the perception of a projected neutrality of music and
dance, normally upheld as a basis for the exercise of power, a notion which queer
scholarship has attempted to subvert over the past decade.
Thus rather than viewing The Prince and Gong solely as appropriative, in greater or lesser
degree, it might be more useful to think of them as a translation. They both attempt to
translate gamelan music and Balinese dance to a Euro-American audience, they are both
connected to the queer subjectivities of their composers and they are both informed by
their queer sensibility, attempting to counter the atonal and dissonant, hence masculine
and straight, music of their time. And, the process is one of gain, rather than loss:
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…It is normally supposed that something always gets lost in translation;
I cling, obstinately, to the notion that something can also be gained.
Salman Rushdie, Imaginary Homelands
References
Aldrich, Robert (2003) Colonialism and Homosexuality. London:Routledge
Ashley, Kathleen and Plesch, Véronique (2002) ‘The cultural processes of appropriation’
Journal of Medieval and Early Modern Studies 32,1 pp 1-17
Bailey, Derek (1990) [See Out of Line]
Benjamin, Walter 1892-1940 (1999) Illuminations. trans. Harry Zohn, London: Pimlico,
pp. 211-244
Brett, Philip (1994) ‘Eros and Orientalism in Britten’s Operas’ in Philip Brett, Elizabeth
Wood and Gary C. Thomas Queering the pitch: the new gay and lesbian musicology
London: Routledge
Brett, Philip and Wood, Elizabeth (2002) ‘Lesbian and Gay Music’ Electronic Musicological
Review, vol. 7
http://www.rem.ufpr.br/REMv7/Brett_Wood/Brett_and_Wood.html
Burt, Ramsay (2001) ‘Dissolving in pleasure: the threat of the queer male body’ in Jane
Desmond Dancing Desires. Choreographing Sexualities on and off Stage. Wisconsin:
University of Wisconsin Press
Cooke, Mervyn (1998)Britten and the Far East Woodbridge/Aldeburgh: The Boydell Press
and The Britten –Pears Library
Dibia, Wayan and Ballinger, Rucina (2004) Balinese dance, drama and music. Singapore:
Periplus Editions
Genné, Beth (2002) ‘Gong. Mark Morris at the Royal Ballet’ Dancing Times
http://www.dancing-times.co.uk/dancingtimes200210-1.html
Giollain, Diarmuid (2002) ‘Copy wrong and copyright: serial psychos, coloured covers
and Maori Marks’ Cultural Analysis 3, pp 100-111
Hubbs, Nadine (2004) The Queer Composition of America’s Sound Berkeley/Los
Angeles/London: The Univeristy of California Press
Krauss, Rosalind (1985) The Originality of the Avant-Garde and other modernist myths
Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press
MacMahon, Deirdre (1990) “MacMillan at sixty’ Dance Theatre Journal 7,4 pp 34-37
MacMillan, Kenneth (1990) The Prince of the Pagodas Royal Ballet video-recording, BBC2 ,
Roehampton University, ERA licence ( original 1989)
Morris, Mark (2002) Gong. American Ballet Theatre, video-recording, Mark Morris
Dance Company
(1990) Out of Line. A portrait of Sir Kenneth MacMillan. Video-recording. Producer/Director
Derek Bailey. BBC TV
Savarese, Nicola (1992) Teatro e spettacolo tra Oriente e Occidente. Bari: Laterza Editore
Notes
1
This is a short version, presented at the Sound Moves conference, of a longer paper to be
published in the spring issue 2006 of Indonesia and the Malay World, Routledge-Taylor and Francis.
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Lopez y Royo
2
This should not be understood as referring to people playing gamelan or indeed to ethnomusicologists, but only to a particular group of composers and their compositions, as will
become clear from the ensuing discussion.
3 Kecak is a dance performed by groups of men who rhythmically chant the syllables ‘Cak-cak’
and move their bodies in unison. It was fashioned in the 1930s under the direction of German
expatriate Walter Spies but it was inspired by earlier trance dances (Dibia and Ballinger 2004,92)
4 Baris is a warrior ritual dance, performed by men (Dibia and Ballinger 2004,81)
5 I am most grateful to Miss Ni Madé Pujawati for helping me to identify specific dance phrases
and for demonstrating them at the Sound Moves conference
6 I have seen the Royal Ballet performance live and also the video-recording in their videoarchive at the Royal Opera House. I have also viewed a video-recording of Gong as performed
by American Ballet Theater. I am grateful to Mr Mark Morris for allowing me to have my own
copy of the video-recording to work from.
7 It is understood that these boys were below the age of consent but in this paper I will not
pursue the issue of McPhee’s alleged paedophilia, though I feel obliged to make a note of it.
8 Here one also needs to refer to the work by Nadine Hubbs on gay modernists and American
music (2004) in which she argues for a distinctly queer sensibility in the work of many American
modernist composers, at a time of intense homophobia.
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A musical exploration of Doris Humphrey’s
Passacaglia, with reference to how musical
interpretation can influence directorial
interpretation and performance of a dance work
Lesley Main, Middlesex University, UK
Copyright 2005, Lesley Main
This paper will consider the music-dance relationship within the specific context of a
major modern dance work. Doris Humphrey choreographed Passacaglia in 1938 to J.S.
Bach’s Passacaglia and Fugue in C Minor. She had a well-documented association with
Bach’s music throughout her choreographic career. In the case of Passacaglia, evidence
also indicates that her creative process was influenced by Leopold Stokowski’s orchestral
arrangement of the musical work. The paper will incorporate a brief
historical/contextual overview of Humphrey’s creative process in 1938 and the musicdance relationships generated through both music and orchestration. Evidence will be
presented to illustrate that, in broad terms, choreo-musical relationships existed on two
levels, in a structural relationship between choreography and music, and in a dynamic
relationship between choreography and orchestration, with the juxtaposition of these
relationships being an intrinsic aspect of the interpretive process. Reference will be made
to an interpretation of Passacaglia that I first staged for the Humphrey Centenary in 1995
and again in Italy in 2005. The central focus of the interpretation was the ‘sound’ created
by the Stokowski orchestration. Exploring the dance from this musical perspective has
produced a very different version of the work from my past reconstruction-based
stagings to the more traditional organ arrangement.
Dance writers over time have consistently acknowledged that Passacaglia represents the
mature development of Humphrey’s choreographic philosophy1. Humphrey had an ongoing relationship with Bach, as she turned to his music with more regularity than any
other composer throughout a career that began, as an independent artist, around the time
of Air for the G String in 1928 and culminated with Brandenburg Concerto thirty years later.2
With Passacaglia, however, there is a distinction, and this relates to the scale of musical
complexity Humphrey took on. Humphrey created the work to the 1922 orchestral
recording by Stokowski, although performances by the Humphrey-Weidman Company
were accompanied by piano. She later used this recording in rehearsal in 1955 with the
Juilliard Dance Theatre and for a performance at Connecticut College in 19573.
Humphrey’s original programme note describes the work but also gives an indication of
her thoughts on the music and its influence on her creativity :
An abstraction with dramatic overtones. The minor melody, according
to the traditional Passacaglia form, insistently repeated from beginning
to end, seems to say “How can a man be saved and be content in a
world of infinite despair?” And in the magnificent fugue which
concludes the dance the answer seems to mean - “Be saved by love and
courage”….[The dance was inspired by] the need for love, tolerance and
nobility in a world given more and more to the denial of these things.
Doris Humphrey Collection, folder M109
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In a further comment she observes :
I picked Bach for music because I still think he has the greatest of all
genius for these very qualities of variety held in unity, of grandeur of the
human spirit, of grace for fallen man; not only this, but I sincerely
believe the music has movement in it, based on dances of forgotten men
and women who are the authors of much of the music of this or any
other age.
reprinted in Cohen, 1995 : 256
It is the latter part of this statement that gives meaning from a directorial perspective.
The reference to ‘the music having movement in it’, for example, could create an
additional layer of dynamic possibility if the director consciously interprets what is heard
in the music in conjunction with what is read from the notation score. More recent
commentators have noted the significance of the music and musical recording used in the
production of this work. Jordan presents a convincing argument as to why directors
should acknowledge the music (Jordan, 1993 : 185), and Fraleigh notes that “the dance
draws a great deal upon the particular version of Bach’s music used” (Fraleigh, 1996 :
214).
In her analysis of Passacaglia, Jordan suggests that the work has origins in two periods “a 1938 piece remembered by its choreographer in the 1950s” (Jordan, 1986 : 217). It is
the later version that became the basis for subsequent productions through the
Labanotation score written in 1955 by Lucy Venable. Jordan’s analysis cites comments
from original cast members Beatrice Seckler, Nona Schurman and Charles Weidman,
whose collective view was that the later version was not the work as they knew it (Jordan,
1986 : 217). This is not unusual as Humphrey was known to make changes to works she
brought back into the repertory, and quite radical changes in some cases, with Water
Study and The Shakers being two further examples4. In contrast to Water Study,
however, where the structure of this dance differs significantly between the early and
later versions, the structure of Passacaglia was essentially the same in both versions
(Jordan, 1986 : 217), and one could conclude that this is so because of the music, and,
specifically, the close relationship between the musical structure and Humphrey’s
choreographic structure.
The following table illustrates the structural relationship between choreography and
music, and how Humphrey layered her choreographic structure over Bach’s musical
structure. The work is in 3/4 tempo, with the Passacaglia section musically arranged in
twenty one phrases of 8 bars. The Fugue form, following musical convention, is more
asymmetric. Bach adopted a structure comprising twelve phrases of differing length and
a coda. The table indicates the musical phrases by number with the choreographic action
alongside. For the Fugue, the number of bars in each phrase is also included. Individual
roles are identified by letter in the Labanotation score, and these are also incorporated in
the table.
Passacaglia
Phrase
1
2
3
4
Choreographic action
Unison hold, upstage facing
C turns
CD travel
Unison turn, downstage facing
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5/6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
Fugue
Phrase (bar no.)
1 (5)
2 (7)
3 (5)
4 (6)
5 (6)
6 (11)
7 (12)
8 (13)
9 (12)
10 (10)
11 (16)
12 (14)
Coda (7)
Main
CD, EF double duet
A and B, solo/duet
AB state processional
AB diagonal theme, group processional
AB side leaps, group processional
AB upstage/downstage tilts, group hold
AB processional leap and tilts, group processional
Bell theme, B and A with JL
AB duet, group canon
‘Lyric’ variation, CDEFG
Turn variation, A
Jump (‘Men’s) Variation, ROP
‘Chicken’ variation, CDGL
Processional in canon, AB and group
Bell turns, Unison
Bell turns and transition into Fugue, Unison
Choreographic action
K solo, with FGQ
O solo, with PC
L solo, with RE
G solo, with BFJD
B solo
Walk on diagonal, BRL
B solo, Leaping quartet, FGJD
A with RL, group in canon
Falling trio on boxes, CEP
A with group falling in canon
AB, with group
Bell turns in canon, AB with group
Final tilts/falling, AB with group
Stokowski was renowned for his transcriptions of Bach’s music, having attempted close
to forty compositions over his career (Johnson, Decca : 1973). He was discredited for a
long time by musicologists because of the idiosyncratic nature of his arrangements. This
is reminiscent of the criticism Humphrey herself was subjected to over her choice of
music, although that objection was not to Stokowski specifically5. More recently there
has been a perceptible softening towards Stokowski’s practice as evidenced through his
published recordings and the fact that record companies are continuing to re-release
these periodically. In the notes that accompanied the 1973 recording of Bach
Transcriptions, the conductor observes that :
Bach himself was the greatest transcriber of another’s music, particularly
Vivaldi, who was a totally different kind of composer. So the freedom of
his thought encourages me to be a little free sometimes. I’m sure he
wouldn’t mind me orchestrating his keyboard pieces. He might not like
the way I did it, but he wouldn’t mind the principle.
Johnson, Decca : 1973
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Stokowski’s description of the musical work is also revealing and there are parallels with
later observations by various dance commentators on Humphrey’s choreographic work6.
Stokowski notes that :
The Passacaglia and Fugue in C Minor begins quietly and gradually mounts
up to a lofty height of noble emotion - creating in us a state of exaltation
in which we inwardly perceive a glorious vision. It is in music what a
great Gothic cathedral is in architecture - the same vast conception - the
same soaring mysticism given eternal form. It is one of the most divinely
contrapuntal works ever conceived.
Johnson, Decca : 1973
Of particular interest here is the language and how this compares with Margaret Lloyd,
for example, writing after the first performances of the dance. She commented that
“Doris made a serene and noble work of it… she simply needed music of a lofty serenity
for what she wanted to express” (Lloyd, 1987 : 108). Ernestine Stodelle refers to
Passacaglia “resembling the architecture of a resplendent cathedral’ (Stodelle, 1974), and that
the dance contained “lofty philosophical concepts” (Stodelle, 1995: 262). In fact the
‘lofty’, ‘noble’ and ‘cathedral’ descriptors appear in many accounts of this dance,
including Humphrey’s own programme note from 1938 (DHC, folder M109). It has not
been possible to locate the original source in order to date Stokowski’s remarks.
However, given that his orchestration was carried out in 1922 (Jordan, 1986 : 213) and
existed before the dance was created, it is possible that his thoughts on the work predated and perhaps even influenced Humphrey in her own thinking. She is known to
have corresponded with Stokowski at various times in the late 1930s and early 1940s, and
had in fact worked in opera with him as early as 1930 (Cohen, 1995 : 93). Humphrey
also asked him to conduct the work in performance in 1940, but he was unable to do so
because of prior commitments (DHC, folder C466).
From my perspective, it makes great sense that Humphrey created this work hearing the
‘sound’ of the Stokowski orchestration. Her passion and respect for Bach’s music is well
documented. However, the connection to Stokowski has not been considered in any
great depth, other than in Jordan (1986, 1993), or in specific relation to directorial
interpretation. The act of interpreting the ‘sound’ has given me a creative relationship
with the vocabulary that had not been possible with the organ version. Jordan observes
that Stokowski’s interpretation is ‘flamboyant’ (Jordan, 1993 : 185). The adjective that
comes most strongly to me is that it is ‘wild’, because it is at the same time exhilarating
and unpredictable through the ever-changing textures and dynamics, some of which
verge on the uncontrollable. There is a direct parallel here with Humphrey’s
Apollonian/Dionysian philosophy of an underlying grounded ness coupled with
complete abandon. There is both ‘colour’ and ‘drama’ in the Stokowski orchestration,
and these aspects are intertwined in what I call the ‘sound’ of the music.
The ‘sound’ gives the dance a dimension that I had not experienced before, and
identifying this has been liberating and revelatory. The combination of orchestra and
orchestration blends seamlessly with the Humphrey principles of suspension and whole,
expansive movement. As one example, the orchestration becomes more luminous and
layered throughout the opening four variations and is quite a contrast to the more
ponderous chordal sounds produced by the organ. The opening bar of Variation 4
creates a sense of unified optimism, through the dual aspect of the strings picking up the
theme and a purposeful increase in tempo, at the very moment, choreographically, the
group moves as one for the first time. The movement is a unison pivot turn, as the
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group revolves from facing upstage to downstage. Whatever the accompaniment, this is
a powerful moment for the ensemble, as the combination of the movement with
resulting colour change, as the two-sided costumes reverse, produces the sense that this is
the start of something significant. Stokowski’s orchestration gives this moment a greater
resonance than the organ in two specific contexts. From the dancer’s perspective, the
pivot turn feels more uplifted and energised by adopting the dynamics produced by the
sound of the strings. This heightened sense of suspension is manifested both aurally and
visually for the audience, and increases the impact of the first sighting of the ensemble
and the possibilities of who or what this group might be.
A survey of available recordings will show that the time frame of the musical work, for
organ or orchestra, ranges between eleven and fifteen minutes, with the majority being
eleven or twelve minutes. The Stokowski orchestration is at the slower end of the
spectrum, perhaps because the stylistic aspects of his interpretation have resulted in
decreases in tempo within a number of variations in the Passacaglia and generally
throughout the Fugue. One example, early in the dance, comes in the final two bars of
Passacaglia 8, as the two soloists execute a forward lunge to respective downstage corners
then pivot around and upward in an expansive suspension before releasing into a falling
run which brings them back together in centre stage. The climactic moment here is on
the suspension, which occurs on bar 7, count 3, as Stokowski pauses for some time at
this high point. His pause on that particular note and count is ideally matched with
Humphrey’s suspension. It is an exhilarating passage to dance because of this synthesis,
and not simply for that moment alone, but also because of what precedes and follows.
The dancer is both musically and choreographically drawn up to that climactic point
through a deceleration in tempo, and then allowed to fall out of it in a corresponding
acceleration which creates a seamless flow into the next suspension, which leads into the
next variation. This example illustrates the choreo-musical relationship in its dynamic
context, between choreography and orchestration and is a recurring feature throughout
the work. When this same movement is danced to the organ, the suspension does not
have as much time to breathe and fully expand as it could because the tempo remains
constant throughout the variation. This also has implications for other aspects of the
phrase. The steps into the lunge, for example, do not have the decelerando Stokowski
provides, but retain the tempo of the movement that precedes this, which is the first
occurrence of the ‘Processional’ walk. The run out of the suspension, likewise, maintains
the tempo. The constancy in tempo and lack of dynamic contrast - in comparison with
what can be produced by the orchestration - produces a quite different movement
experience, to dance and to view, and this is reflective of the whole work as much as it is
for this particular variation. The organ has the capacity to slow down and to increase
volume, but this is not evident in the recordings I am familiar with. Overall, the organ
version produces a feeling of gradual progression in contrast with the dramatic points of
climax throughout which have been created by Stokowski.
The drama and scale of Stokowski’s sound makes it important that the dancing can
match this. One idea given to the dancers was that of ‘getting inside’ the sound, and
using and embodying its dynamic to counter the danger of becoming submerged by it.
In actual fact this was not that hard to achieve on a dynamic level because of the qualities
inherent in Humphrey’s style, and in the particular vocabulary of Passacaglia with its
emphasis on lyrical movement and phrasing. This is evidenced through the recurring
motifs that employ variations of curved, expansive motion. There is a preponderance of
fluid transitional movement within individual phrases, and more generally in the
transitions from one variation to the next. The greater challenges lay in the relationship
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between timing and technical execution, and there are numerous places throughout the
dance where this has to be addressed, in comparison with previous productions to the
steadier tempo of the organ.
In general terms, the consequence of dancers losing tempo is disruption to phrasing, flow
and unison, which is significant in a work where the music-dance relationship is intrinsic
to its success. Furthermore, when dancers stay in unison but lose the tempo collectively,
the effect is equally disruptive because of the visual jarring this produces in relation to
flow, phrasing and design. One example is Passacaglia 18, a quartet for four women.
When the music-dance relationship is intact, the eye is drawn to the overall spatial design
and to how the movement is unfolding through space. When that relationship is
disrupted, the sense of the ‘whole’ is similarly disrupted. This example is a useful one
because it highlights a problem the contemporary director must address. Dancers have
to keep a number of contrasting works in repertory at the same time. They are not going
to have time to ‘live’ with the music in the same way a director can. A certain familiarity
will come through performing the work over time, however, the dancers also need to be
given sufficient musical signposts during the rehearsal process. In the case of this
particular quartet in my 2005 staging, the solution came in identifying that the dancers
should follow the flute line rather than the more emphatic bass line because the flute
emphasises the pick up on the first step of each bar whereas the dancers had been losing
the tempo and rhythm of the choreography by going with the bass.
There are places throughout the dance where the dancers need to be made aware of
specific musical issues such as the mid-phrase ritard – a device Stokowski uses liberally.
In Passacaglia 9/10, the first instance of the ‘Processional Walk’, a 9 count phrase is
repeated five times. The dancers need to know that the third repetition is going to slow
considerably during counts 4, 5, 6, and that the tempo will pick up swiftly going into the
fourth and fifth repetitions. A slightly different example is Passacaglia 11, where the
choreographic suspension into the next phrase has to come at a specific point. The
musical tempo slows down so that the counts become obscured. The dancers are
directed go with the timpani roll and to pick up the suspension on the oboe entry in a
‘rising’ sense, much like the violin/pivot turn juxtaposition in Passacaglia 4.
The examples given here demonstrate the kinds of issues the directorial process must
address when approaching this work from a musical perspective. Exploring the dance in
this way has produced an interpretation that is distinctive from my past reconstructionbased stagings. The increased range of music-dance interactions that have been made
possible have created new insights into the dance work and serves as an illuminating
illustration of the mutual impact one art form can have in conjunction with another.
Bibliography
Cohen Selma Jeanne (1995) Doris Humphrey - An Artist First, Centennial Edition, New
Jersey : Dance Horizons
Fraleigh, Sondra (1996/Ist edition 1987) Dance and the Lived Body, Pittsburgh :University
of Pittsburgh Press
Hausler, Barbara (1996) ‘Packaging Doris Humphrey or A Question of Form :
NonaSchurman Shares her Thoughts on Doris Humphrey’s Choreography’ in
‘Humphrey Centennial Edition’, Dance Research Journal, 28, no. 2, Fall, 40 – 48
Humphrey, Doris (circa. 1920 - 1959) Collected Letters and Writings, Doris Humphrey
Collection : Dance Collection, New York Public Library
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Johnson, Edward (1973) Bach Transcriptions (sleeve notes), London : Decca Record
Company
Jordan, Stephanie (1986) ‘ Music as Structural Basis in the Choreography of Doris
Humphrey, with Reference to Humphrey’s Use of Music Visualization Techniques
and Musical/Choreographic Counterpoint and to the Historical Context of her
Work’, unpublished PhD Dissertation, London University, Goldsmiths’ College
Jordan, Stephanie (1993) ‘The Musical Key to Reconstruction’ in Palfy, Barbara ed.
Proceedings of the Conference - Dance ReConstructed, New Jersey : Rutgers University,
185 – 190
King, Eleanor (1978) Transformations : A Memoir by Eleanor King / The Humphrey-Weidman
Era, Brooklyn : Dance Horizons
Kriegsman, Sali Anne (1981) Modern Dance in America : The Bennington Years, Boston :
G.K. Hall
Lloyd, Margaret (1987/1st edition 1949) The Borzoi Book of Modern Dance, New Jersey :
Dance Horizons
Main, Lesley (2003) ‘The Dances of Doris Humphrey – an Investigation into Directorial
Process and Co-Authorship’, unpublished PhD Dissertation, Roehampton
University, London.
Siegel Marcia B. (1981) The Shapes of Change, Boston : Houghton Mifflin
Siegel Marcia B. (1993) Days on Earth, New Haven : Yale University Press
Stodelle Ernestine (1974) ‘Lyricism and Logic Rejoined’, New Haven Register,
Connecticut, February 3
Stodelle Ernestine (1995) The Dance Technique of Doris Humphrey - and its Creative
Potential / 2nd Edition, London : Dance Books
Notes
1
see Stodelle, 1974, 1995; King, 1978; Kriegsman, 1981; Siegel, 1981, 1993; Lloyd, 1987;
Hausler, 1996; Cohen, 1995.
2 her other Bach works were Gigue (solo - 1928); Gigue (trio - 1929); Decade (1941); Four Chorale
Preludes (1942); Partita in G Major (1942).
3 a silent film recording of this production is housed in the Dance Collection at the New York
Public Library.
4 analyses of these works and the respective Labanotation scores can be found in Main, Lesley
(2003) ‘The Dances of Doris Humphrey – an Investigation into Directorial Process and CoAuthorship’, unpublished PhD thesis, Roehampton University, London.
5 for references to the criticism of Humphrey’s use of Bach by John Martin and others, see King,
1978; Lloyd, 1987; Siegel, 1993; Cohen, 1995
6 including Stodelle, 1974, 1995; King, 1978; Siegel, 1981, 1993; Jordan, 1986, 1993; Lloyd, 1987;
Cohen, 1995; Fraleigh, 1996
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Meglin et. al.
Music of the Body: Modern Minuets and
Passepieds far from Passé
Dr. Joellen A. Meglin, Dr. Edward D. Latham, Dr. Matthew Greenbaum, Hwan Jung
Jae, Ok Hee Jeong, Sue In Kim, Seónagh Odhiambo
Temple University
Yo-Yo Ma’s Inspired by Bach documents on DVD a series of artistic collaborations in
which the courantes, sarabandes, minuets, and gigues of Johann Sebastian Bach’s six cello
suites inspire a garden designer, a choreographer, a Kabuki artist, ice dancers, and several
filmmakers. It is but a recent example of a recurrent phenomenon in which thoroughly
embodied music—the music of what were originally dance forms—evokes new creations
in physical space and energy.
Bach himself witnessed versions of these dances at court.1 Presumably, they originated
first in the French provinces, Spain, Scotland, Germany, and beyond, only later being
“refined” by aesthetic tastes of the French court. In the 20th century they were
appropriated again by American modern dancers in the 1920s and afterwards to give
form to their emergent art. In this latest guise, the “pre-classic dance forms,” as they
were called by Louis Horst, bespoke new times and aesthetics, even as they referred to
forms of the past. They were accepted in democratic and Depression Era America,
suspicious as it was of aristocratic culture, because the dances’ connection to the
people—the European peasantry—could be invoked. Doris Humphrey’s Partita V in G
Major, premiering in December, 1942, was one work in this vein whose reason for being
lay in its folk-like simplicity, its formal architecture, and its unabashedly joyful connection
to the music.
In our presentation we propose to give an analytic framework to the dialogue between
the past and the present embodied in particular dances, a dialogue recursively nested in
the dialogue between music and dance. We employ multiple strategies of inquiry—
historical, theoretical, and experiential—to explore the domain between disciplines, as
well as the bridge between the past and the present. In a three-dimensional matrix, we
compare the documents of music and dance notation alongside the embodied experience
of contemporary dancers to constitute meanings.
Because the concept of embodiment is central to our inquiry, the processes of dance
reconstruction are integral to our analysis. Thus, our music theorist witnessed our
rehearsals as Humphrey’s Partita evolved; our dancers and experiential inquirers actively
reconstructed the dance themselves; and our dance historian—myself—served as coreconstructor and dance analyst. Our program shall consist of a minuet, a passepied, and
half of a gigue from the Baroque dance repertory, as well as the Minuet, Passepied, and
Gigue from Humphrey’s Partita. To finish, you shall hear Matthew Greenbaum’s Squire
Allworthy’s Minuetto (2004), a contemporary composition, and we shall invite your
choreographic imaginations to play.2
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Meglin et. al.
A Dance Historian’s Insights
Copyright 2005, Joellen A. Meglin
We would like to demonstrate, first, a minuet, the queen of 18th century dances. In 1725
in Le Maître à danser, Pierre Rameau devoted 5 chapters to its steps, arm movements,
figures, and manner of deportment.3 As late as 1762, in A Treatise on the Art of Dancing,
Giovanni-Andrea Gallini, dance director at the Royal Theatre in the Haymarket, devoted
an entire chapter to “the utility of learning to dance, and especially upon the minuet.”4
The longevity and popularity of this dance in court circles inspired a huge repertory of
minuets, intended for choreography and abstracted from choreography altogether. Our
example of a minuet is a theatrical dance choreographed to the menuet rondeau from
André-Cardinal Destouches’ 1701 tragédie lyrique, Omphale: Entrée pour un homme et
une femme, Dancée par Mr. Balon et Mlle Subligny a l’Opera d’Omphalle .5
[Emboldened words in parentheses or otherwise signify dance steps, figures, or whole
dances performed in lecture-demonstration format.]
The minuet’s pointillist articulations (pas de menuet), swerving syncopations (pas de
menuet + contretemps de menuet) (shifting accents from 1 and 3 to 1 and 4), gracious
decorum, undulant and zigzag figures—the famous “S” and “Z” (sibilant signs of
exoticism in 18th century literature)—as well as its sublime spirals, which naturally invite
inversion, lent themselves to musical invention.
Note the perched balances on the beat (pas balancés) at the opening and close of Figure
1 counterpoised by landings on the beat (demi-contretemps, tombé, jeté). In fact, this
minuet develops the contretemps motif in a variety of one-legged hops. Note in Figure 4
alone, four variants: demi-contretemps with turn, contretemps de chaconne, contretemps de gavotte,
and contretemps battu with turn in an oscillating pattern. Note as well the pirouettes in
Figure 1, restated in Figure 6, around a stable axis contrasting with mobile figures.
Doris Humphrey’s subjectivity is obviously different, imbued with its own time and
place. Her technique of the body with its core initiation, breath rhythms, fall and
recovery, and off-balance yielding to gravity certainly differs from the peripheral
initiation, vertical, on-axis, restrained decorum of Baroque dance. (As an aside, one
could compare their uses of succession, opposition, suspension, rebound, and motor
rhythms.) Nevertheless, reconstruction of the Minuet from Humphrey’s Partita and
analysis of the Labanotation score of the dance reveal some kindred elements.6 Note the
set of staccato perches in the opening and closing phrases (Motif 1.1, mm. 1-4, 97-104);
the turning one-legged hops that oscillate along a spiral floor pattern (Motif 3.1, mm.
33-34, 37-38, 41-42); also, the spiraling turn on-axis and off-axis (Motifs 4.1 and 4.4,
mm. 46-47, 53-56).7
Obviously, the meanings of these two minuets are radically different, or are they? Do
traces of meaning linger in the music? Did Humphrey hear the gracious
acknowledgment of presence, the essentially social presentation of the dancer, and the
invitation to join in the dance in Bach’s minuet? Inscribed in the spiral of the Baroque
minuet is the relationship between partners. In Humphrey’s dance the solo dancer
invites the spectators (symbolized by dancers sitting in chairs on the stage) to partner her
in the dance. At the very core of Baroque dance is the 17th century concept of sociabilité,
not to mention the presentation of the courtier before the Présence and the court.
Humphrey’s Partita celebrates a 20th century vision of human community through active
participation in that democratic equalizer—the dance.
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Next we demonstrate a passepied that comprises the first four figures of a popular court
dance of the period, La Bretagne, dance nouvelle presentée a Madame la Duchesse de Bourgogne, to
music from André Campra’s 1704 tragédie lyrique, Télémaque.8 The first two figures of the
dance establish a circular symmetry of time and space, as one partner leads from the
inside track a clockwise circle, and then the other reciprocally leads a counterclockwise
circle. The third and fourth figures similarly reveal complementary relations, even while
the distance between the dancers contracts and expands (Figures 1-4).
The very first phrase of Humphrey’s Passepied consists of a series of arcs, transposed
from one plane to another for a single dancer (Motifs 1.1 and 1.2, mm. 1-4). When
another dancer joins her, what were merely implied circles become complete and
symmetrical (Theme 4, mm. 25-28 and Theme 5, mm. 33-40). Theme 3 (mm. 17-22)
creates a counterbalance of arcs and much of the connective material of the dance
consists of circular paths in space. Of course, in Humphrey, sudden direction reversals
and orientations of dancers in space create dynamic energy within this symmetry, or
spatial harmony.
For a gigue, we show the first two figures of Gigue à deux to the air “Gigue de Roland”
from Jean-Baptiste Lully’s 1685 opera Roland.9 Springing and bounding movements
(contretemps ballonnés, jetés, and pas de sissonne) caper and advance toward the Présence, then
peel off into a series of steps that travel sideways (pas de bourrée and contretemps de chaconne),
producing a “D” figure that skitters along the floor (Figures 1 and 2). Figures 3 and 4
reiterate the traveling theme and amplify the stationary theme with pas de bourrée emboîtés
and jetés chassés. It is if one were caught between two desires: to spring in the vertical
plane and to travel in the horizontal plane to meet one’s partner. This very interplay
might echo the transformation of the traditional folk jig into the figured court dance.
Note, as well, the hemiola implied as the six-beat measure divides here into 2 and there
into 3.
We shall see how Humphrey’s Gigue juxtaposes aerial movements and floor skimming
runs. (See Chart 1. Sample Page of Dance Analysis: Gigue from Partita.) We shall even
see a “D” figure slightly askew. Benches are arranged one behind another, and the
dancers remain seated until they are called into action. Thus, a stationary theme of
sitting—remaining still until one takes one’s turn—is counterpoised with a revolving
galaxy of bodies. Those who were spectators become active participants in the dance—a
model of participatory democracy. In addition, as the choreographer reconfigures
shapes—akin to chords in their vertical ramification—she shifts accents from 1, 3, and 5
in Theme 1, to 1 and 6 or 1 and 4 elsewhere.
Pre-Classic Dance Forms
While the dancers change, let me say that my study of late 17th and early 18th century
dances of French court and theater came long after my study of what were known in
modern dance circles as “pre-classic dance forms.” I was introduced to the latter in a
college dance composition course around 1970. We used Louis Horst’s books, including
Pre-Classic Dance Forms, and Doris Humphrey’s The Art of Making Dances. Before Baroque
dances were actually reconstructed in the United States in the 1970s by Wendy Hilton,
Shirley Wynne, and others, they were known largely as musical entities, and
choreographic vehicles for the imagination of aspiring modern dancers, à la pedagogy of
Louis Horst, modern dance’s mentor.
According to dance historian Janet Mansfield Soares, Horst first began teaching preclassic dance forms in 1928 at the Neighborhood Playhouse School of the Theatre,
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although it was not until the summer of 1935 at Bennington College that he named his
course “Pre-Classic Dance Forms.”10 In 1932 Agnes De Mille joined the studio staff at
the Neighborhood Playhouse and was put in charge of “the classes in pre-classic
dancing.”11 That same year Horst lectured at the New School, while a group of his pupils
from the Neighborhood Playhouse illustrated these “antique dances.”12 In 1934 in the
first issue of the journal that he published, The Dance Observer, Horst wrote “A Preface to
Pre-Classic Dance Forms.”13 Articles on the dance forms themselves appeared over the
next three years, and in 1937 he published his book on the subject.
“Modern composers,” wrote Horst in his book, “in their return to architectural principles
after the bathos of romanticism, again are writing Pavanes, Sarabandes, Passepieds,
Gavottes, etc. These include such names as Satie, Fauré, Debussy, Ravel, Prokofieff,
Honegger and Schoenberg. True, they are of modern harmonic texture, and of larger
dimension, no longer the rather trite two-part form of the originals, but considering the
evolution of music and thought since the sixteenth century, they could not be
otherwise.”14 The 1937 edition of the book was lavishly illustrated with period prints and
photographs of contemporary choreographers in costume performing their creative
versions of the forms, not to mention complete musical examples.15 Horst included two
addenda: in the first he quoted from historical sources to describe specific movements
from the forms; in the second he cited 11-12 musical examples, both contemporary and
of the period. He also kept a special set of files of examples for his students and
protégés, to help them envision through musical analogy what forms the new modern
dance might take.16 Pre-Classic Dance Forms remains a testament to Horst’s pedagogical
mission in the modern dance.
Indeed, choreographers from Martha Graham, Hanya Holm, and Sybil Shearer to Agnes
De Mille and Ruth Page made their pre-classic dances, learning the lessons of musical
structure even while instilling them with their own styles of movement. (See Chart 2.
Partial List of Choreographies of Pre-Classic Dance Forms by American
Choreographers.) Humphrey was the most prolific in this genre. While some sought
character study and satire of mincing steps and mannered movement, she sought deeply
analytical structure: spatial architecture and formal harmony.17 Partita was her
culminating statement in which she applied many of the precepts and themes she had
explored in earlier pieces.
Doris Humphrey’s Partita V in G Major
In 1942 in the midst of a war-ravaged world, Doris Humphrey choreographed Partita V
in G Major to Johann Sebastian Bach’s music of the same title. The famous dance critic
and champion of modern dance John Martin criticized her choice of Bach’s music
because he believed that the music was so complete in itself that it dominated the
choreography and the choreographer’s impulses.18 To his review, Doris Humphrey
responded in a letter, which he published in part in his column. She introduced her
subject thus:
Dear John:
I read your most provocative article about the Bach program, now on
view at our studio, and I think that it calls for a reply, if only to clarify
my point of view about which you seem to be a little vague. We are
going to disagree violently in the matter of dancing to Bach, but as we
are in perfect accord on fundamentals in general, I’m sure we’ll still be
speaking at the end of this. . . .
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Humphrey went on to speak specifically about Partita:
Next we come to the Partita in G Major. Now that is a piece which is
out of line somewhat, if you will, in the progression of the behavior of
Man, but it is in there for two reasons—recreation for me and the art
lovers for whom Bach says he wrote it, and also because I am showwoman enough to know that a suite of dances like that is a necessary
balance on the program. If it doesn’t prove to be a recreation for all the
art lovers who come to the performance, that is a matter of personal
taste, and possibly faults in the performance or choreography.
However, I defend the idea of composing it at all on the grounds that
Bach, whose humble admirer I am, thought it was fun to do a set of
these Partitas on odd Sunday afternoons, and three centuries later
people, and even dancers, are entitled to have fun, too; that having fun
to the same music is legitimate, as it was built on the rhythms and
shapes of folk dances, by people with legs and feelings and impulses like
ours; that the dance is an invention around the music, as the music was
an invention around the original folk forms.19
Thus, we see the Partita’s reason for being. This dialogue between choreographer and
critic touched upon an aesthetic fault line: the modern dance required a new music to be
created for its new organization of movement; and yet, the modern dancers should
emulate the structures of folk dance forms (or pre-classic forms in Louis Horst’s school)
in order to give formal organization to their inchoate impulses and undisciplined
expression.
Indeed, in 1928 on the occasion of a folk dance festival sponsored by the English Folk
Dance Society (founder, Cecil Sharp), in an article subtitled “Folk Origins of Recent
Art,” John Martin had extolled the virtues of young choreographers learning folk forms:
“convincing dancers that it is profitable to look back frequently at sources would reduce
substantially the plethora of pseudo-creativeness.”20 He proceeded to a short history of
Western folk dance, court dance, and ballet, revealing that even the gavotte was once “a
dance of the people,” and the quadrille, which left its imprint on the first ballets, was
originally a Norman peasant dance dating back to the 10th century. Thus, Martin gave
historical cachet to the European dances of court and theater inasmuch as he
conceptualized them as abstractions of indigenous forms of plain folk.
For the American modern dancers these forms were structures into which human
experience could be poured for ideological reasons: because they originated with the
people.21 Humphrey was well equipped to import the structural eloquence of folk dance
into the modern dance on account of her years of study with Mary Wood Hinman at the
Francis W. Parker School in Chicago.22 Now the dancers are ready and we shall see how
in Partita Humphrey used the Baroque dance/motor rhythms and spatial gestures and
figuration embedded within Bach’s music to convey a particularly American notion of
folk—generic, abstract, melded in the melting pot; once more, how Bach’s harmonic and
formal structures were put in service of a utopian vision of community in the dance.23
A Music Theorist’s Insights
Copyright 2005, Edward D. Latham
In examining the relationship between the choreography and the musical score, rhythm
and meter are typically considered paramount. What is compelling about the work of
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Doris Humphrey in Partita, though, is the way in which she responds to the other musical
elements—harmonic progression, cadence, voice-leading and thematic development—
that comprise Bach's primary musical materials. The three movements of Partita that have
been reconstructed and are being performed here today illustrate Humphrey's kinetic
translation of both horizontal or temporal aspects (sequence and dissonance resolution)
and vertical or spatial aspects (registral expansion and contrary motion) of Bach's music,
and they raise the possibility that Bach's music was itself a response to the aural and
visual representations of these spatial and temporal phenomena that he witnessed in the
court dances of his time. In his review of Partita, George Beiswanger deemed it “a happy
piece of just dance that one can take (or leave) without getting serious about the question
of Bach.”24 It is our contention, however, that the two approaches (movement for its
own sake and movement as a serious exploration of musical structure) need not be
mutually exclusive. Rather, it is precisely by getting serious about the question of Bach
that Humphrey is able to most effectively convey her message to the audience.
Musical and Gestural Invitations in the Minuet
Bach begins the Minuet with a series of “inviting” gestures, drawing the listener into the
music. After an initial arpeggiation of the tonic G-major triad that opens up a registral
space of almost two octaves and concludes with a half cadence to the dominant, he uses
a long descending-fifths progression to modulate from G major to D major. Motion by
fifths is traditionally depicted in music theory as movement around a circle—the socalled “circle of fifths”—and Humphrey's use of “spiraling” gestures here suggests a
similar interpretation of the sequence. After the opening phrase is repeated, Bach begins
to move away from the new D-major tonic, tonicizing E minor and A minor with applied
dominant seventh chords. These tonicizations embed the earlier descending-fifths
progression at a deeper structural level—the keys E and A, a fifth apart—and Humphrey
continues to use spiraling gestures in her choreography. When the complete descendingfifths progression returns in E minor in the middle of the Minuet, Humphrey's use of
nested spirals (the dancer curling inward while moving toward the center in a floor
spiral), highlights a particular feature of these sequential passages: if we see the musical
texture as a single voice, we see that Bach cycles through all three notes of each triad in
the sequence before moving on to the next one, creating a “cycle of cycles.”
Humphrey appears to be keenly aware of the harmonic impetus created by the sequences
throughout the Minuet. She also responds to individual issues of dissonance resolution
that affect the music's forward progress. When Bach uses a pedal tone to temporarily halt
the harmonic momentum, Humphrey uses an on-axis spiral that concludes with the
dancer standing motionless, hands behind her back. Bach, seeking a re-transition to the
home key of G major, “freezes” the harmony on a second-inversion D-major triad that,
preceded as it is by an applied dominant seventh chord, simultaneously creates harmonic
stasis and ambiguity: it could lead to the home-key tonic as a neighboring chord, or it
could serve as a cadential six-four in the key of the dominant. Bach then prolongs the
sense of ambiguity and structural upbeat, by repeating the four-measure pedal tone
passage a whole step lower. The soloist remains stuck in the same spot during the entire
prolongation; then, as Bach pulls the music forward once more by introducing a
dominant seventh in third inversion that must resolve down by step in the bass,
Humphrey gives the soloist an off-axis rotation that disrupts the temporary stasis and
compels her forward once more.
This unique moment in the minuet is accentuated by Humphrey's lighthearted use of a
“clap-drop” gesture to prepare for the return to motion. As if to announce her wish to
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return to G major, the soloist claps her thigh and drops her weight toward the floor—the
only instance of such a gesture in the Partita—and the evaded cadence ensues in the
music, restoring the home key. The “clap-drop” is both humorous and revealing—it as if
the soloist, aware that both she and the music are “stuck,” claps her leg to try to put it in
motion. The Labanotator, Els Grelinger, advises the soloist to perform these gestures “in
a playful way with the groups sitting on the side as an audience.”25 (The dancers perform
the Minuet from Partita.)
Balancing Relationships in the Passepied
If the Minuet reveals Humphrey's sensitivity to harmony, the Passepied demonstrates her
equal attentiveness to cadence and voice-leading. The opening sixteen-bar phrase creates
constant forward progress through a remarkably high number of cadential disruptions,
including evaded cadences that move through the tonic without resting on it, and a
deceptive cadence to the submediant. Combined with the elided repetition of the
opening theme, these disruptions create a sort of harmonic moto perpetuo in the
opening of the Passepied, and Humphrey responds by putting dancers A and B in
constant, joyful motion as well, exhorting the other dancers to join them. Bach's use of
an anacrucis, an inverted mordent, and an arpeggiation of the tonic in the opening
measure activate the Passepied's musical texture and constitute a musical “greeting” that
leads directly into an opposition: the upper voices of m. 2 resolve down as suspensions,
while the bass resolves up as the leading tone. Humphrey's use of sudden changes of
plane creates a counterbalancing “seesaw effect” that captures the contrary motion
created by these opposing resolutions, and visually demonstrates their relationship to one
another.
The effect of this confluence between aural and visual balancing is heightened in mm. 3340, where Humphrey uses similar reversals of direction for both dancers in
complementary symmetry during several prominent instances of contrary motion in the
music. In m. 33, the seventh of the dominant resolves down by step in the bass, while its
third (the leading tone) resolves up by step to the tonic, and in mm. 34-35, Bach creates a
voice exchange between the melody and the bass that is echoed twice more in mm. 37
and 39. Perhaps the most intriguing example of Humphrey's awareness of the
relationships created by voice-leading in contrary motion is her decision to use the same
choreography for mm. 25-28 and mm. 81-84. On the surface, these two passages are
completely different in Bach's music: mm. 25-28 are a repetition of the opening theme
leading to a deceptive cadence, while mm. 81-84 are a sequential re-transition to the
home key of G major. In terms of contrapuntal structure, however, the two passages
have one thing in common—a dependence on contrary motion. The melody of mm. 2528 outlines a stepwise descent of a sixth from B to D, while the bass ascends by step
from E to B. Measures 81-84, on the other hand, contain a series of voice exchanges and
other instances of contrary motion. Humphrey's use here of a complete thematic
restatement, a comparative rarity in the Partita, suggests that she was responding on some
level to the underlying emphasis on the contrary motion relationship that links these two
seemingly disparate passages. This is a connection that likely would have gone unnoticed
without Humphrey's influence, and it is therefore an example of the choreographer as a
music analyst. (The dancers perform the Passepied from Partita.)
Building Community in the Gigue
Of the three movements, the Gigue, being a three-voice fugue, provides the most clearly
defined and recognizable musical structure. It is perhaps not surprising, then, that during
its first half Humphrey sets each entrance of the subject and answer with a readily
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identifiable dance theme that includes an iconic “heart-shaped” gesture of the arms—a
kinetic valentine to the other dancers and to the audience. What is striking, however, is
Humphrey's intricate response to the other, more subtle elements of the Gigue's fugal
structure. Having given the fugal subject its own choreographic motive, she then assigns
recurring motives to both the countersubject and the cadential extension that follows it,
creating a complete visualization of the exposition's three featured elements. A fourth
motive, involving arrested, off-balance turns, is used for sequential passages in the music,
recalling the similar use of spiraling gestures in the Minuet.
As in the previous dances, Humphrey demonstrates her keen insight into other aspects of
the Gigue's musical structure, as well. Despite the fragmented repetition of the fugal
subject in mm. 23-25, she deliberately avoids using the “heart-shaped” motive,
emphasizing the transitory nature of the sequential fragments as distinct from entrances
of the complete subject. Moreover, during the repetition of the cadential extension in the
following measures, she delays the arrival of its accompanying motive until mm. 28-29 in
order to accentuate a form of invertible counterpoint between the bass and melody.
Finally, when Bach brings back the original subject in stretto with the second-half subject
in mm. 78-81 and mm. 87-91, Humphrey reprises the “heart-shaped” motive to make the
hidden reference to the Gigue's opening clear to the audience. Humphrey wanted her
Partita to be an opportunity for the dancers “to move harmoniously with one another,” in
order to demonstrate what a community “can achieve by the coordination of its parts
and the mutual cooperation of individuals.”26 By the end of the Gigue, she has achieved
that goal, producing a joyful, light-hearted work that has gotten serious about the
question of Bach in the process. (The dancers perform the Gigue from Partita.)
Reflections on the Process of Reconstruction: The Meanings Multiply
Sue In Kim, Copyright 2005
Throughout this project, I have realized how my personal experience has influenced my
dancing and reconstructing, and thus I have learned that human beings play great roles in
dance inscription and reconstruction. I was trained as a ballet dancer, and I believe that
experience has shaped my understanding of movement and music. Last summer, I
thought that I and my body remembered what I had reconstructed the previous spring. I
trusted the memory engraved on my body. However, this fall, in the process of
instructing my dancers, I kept going back to the score in order to answer their questions.
I found that I had remembered the movement quite differently. My memory worked by
selecting what was important information and ignoring what was not. It seems my body
has its preferences.
My sense of counting also relates to my ballet training. I had a hard time with a moment
in the Gigue when the choreographic counts did not seem to match my ballet music
sensibility. The music seemed to suddenly stop in the middle of a measure, while the
choreography kept going. I had to listen to the music repeatedly to figure out how to
dance the movement.
As a reconstructor, I need to be aware of my preferences and prejudices. We four
reconstructors each have our own styles, and dancers also show their own movement
styles. Even though several reconstructors might have the same interpretation of the
notation score, their demonstrations appear to be different.
I believe that notators also leave some human traits in a dance inscription. Nelson
Goodman suggests that a dance score should carry the essence of the dance,27 yet it is
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not easy to figure out who determines what exactly the essence of the dance is. The
choreographer, dancers, consumers of a dance, and the notator might contribute to
forming the essence based upon tacit understandings.
Today’s tacit understandings would probably be different from those of other times in
history. I believe an understanding of the contextual situation is crucial to reconstructing
a dance, because it reveals the conventions of the time and place. For example, because a
clear distinction between music and dance is familiar to us today, we sometimes are blind
to the fact that they have existed side by side in the past. In my own research on Le Ballet
de la Nuit (1653), in which Lully, Moliére, and Louis XIV appeared as dancers, I question
whether the dancer has been erased from music, literature, and history—where these
three historical figures are known only as a musician, a playwright, and a political leader.
Even pondering who dancers were and what kind of tacit understandings they had, I
cannot truly dance a dance as they danced it.
Ok Hee Jeon, Copyright 2005
During the reconstruction process, I noticed several differences between this experience
and my experience as a classical ballet dancer. First of all, I realized that the teaching and
learning processes were related to reconstruction itself. In ballet I would learn the totality
of movement and then clarify the details over rehearsals. Here, however, the
reconstructors would explain the use of each body part and then build it up into a whole
sequence. I think we understood the dance from the segmented information on paper
before having a total image, so we taught the dancers that way. The second difference has
to do with counting. In ballet, I used to rely on rhythm or melody rather than on
counting. For example, when I learned movement sequences from Swan Lake, I naturally
connected my movement with the melody. However, in reconstruction, I had to ignore
the melody in order to adjust to the proper count. As a result, the movement became a
bit mechanical or robotic until I finally understood the whole piece. The third difference
has to do with demonstration of the movement. Although reconstuctors paid more
attention to verbal explanation than to their own physical demonstration, correct
demonstration seemed to be more crucial than meticulous explanation. Dancers
absorbed information with their eyes more than with their ears. This suggests that
reconstruction calls upon the reconstructor to understand the dance not only with
his/her mind but also with his/her body. Therefore, I think the reconstruction process
itself influences not only the processes of teaching and learning but also the subtle quality
of the dance.
As the reconstruction progressed, I understood that the dance faithfully reflected the
fugue structure of the music: dancer A starts and the remainder of the dancers follow. As
the dancers separate and group with others, they crisscross in space like a handful of glass
beads in a box. However, the structure also reveals hierarchy. While A embodies the
theme, corresponding to the main themes in the music, the remainder of the dancers
seem to be variations or reverberations of A. However, the last sequence in which
everybody does the heart shape movement in a circle produces a strong feeling of power,
unity and community.
I made certain cross-cultural comparisons with my Korean heritage. First, the heart shape
with two arms is a well-known decodable symbol of love in contemporary Korea.28
However, I wonder whether its meaning in American culture in the time of Humphrey
was the same as in Korea. If Humphrey intended a meaning related to love to be
transmitted to the audience, this dance is indeed about communal unity, for the heart
shape is shared by all dancers at the end. Second, when B walks on the chairs with the
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assistance of A and D, it reminds me a women’s folk dance in Korea, ganggangsuwolrae, in
which one lady walks on the sequenced backs of other women with two assistants at the
climax. Compared with this, Partita has more intricate meanings in terms of gender and
hierarchy because B is male. Although A is the main dancer throughout the piece, B
rather than A stands up surrounded by two female dancers in the climax. In summary,
meanings emerge not only from the structure of the dance, but also from one’s cultural
background, as well as from prior professional experience.
Hwan Jung Jae, Copyright 2005
From my perspective as a reconstructor and performer of the Gigue, Doris Humphrey
visualizes the music with an analytical interpretation of structure. To do so she adapts the
musical techniques of Bach’s counterpoint, especially canon and polyphony. Humphrey
uses an individual dancer as a melodic line. Just as melodic material added above or
below another melody can create counterpoint, movement of one dancer can be
entwined with that of another to create choreographic counterpoint.
Humphrey strives for mathematical structure. With seven dancers, she plays with figures
by using many possible permutations. She divides the group into 1-1-1-4, 1-6, 3-3-1, 3-22, 1-2-2-2. The numbers in each formation are elaborately calculated. Although the
numbers change, the formations themselves continue or progress with new members.
Humphrey also emphasizes the structure of the dance, ceaselessly changing formation in
architectural ways. To diversify formation, Humphrey often simplifies the movement.
Some phrases consist of just simple steps.
According to Plato, art imitates ideas. Pythagoras insists that music mimics the celestial
bodies and that the beauty of music comes from its mathematical character. I think the
formations and floor patterns of Humphrey’s Gigue could be regarded as symbols of
planetary motion. Dancers ceaselessly change formation using symmetrical and
repetitious movements. There is endless creation/formation and also death and
extermination—like the providence of Heaven. At the beginning of the Partita, six
dancers make two symmetrical circles doing repetitious movements. Just like the earth’s
revolution and rotation, dancers draw a large circular floor pattern while turning round
and round, holding hands. Further, the heart-shaped motif in the Gigue could represent
the earth. The round shape of arms imitates the round shape of the earth; the slightly
inclined body posture, the inclined axis of the earth; and the rotation, the earth revolving
on its axis. Later, the off-axis turning reinforces this image.
I think the Gigue represents the political idea of democracy in dance. As in a democracy,
a dancer contributes to and functions as a part of a group, yet he/she also remains an
individual. In the Gigue, there is no classified movement or classified role. There are
hardly any gender differences in movement beyond some reinforced jumps for male
dancer B. In spite of A’s conspicuous position, the content of her movement is almost
equivalent to that of other dancers. A is closer to the leader of the corps de ballet than
the principal in the classic ballet. Here, I think, lies the democratic principle in the dance.
The dancers’ positions are different, but their autonomy and significance are equivalent.
On another note, Humphrey’s democracy in movement reminds me of the anonymity of
democracy. An individual dancer functions as an element in the harmonic whole rather
than a unique character.
Seónagh Odhiambo, Copyright 2005
Humphrey said that dancers are “the blessed ones”—blessed because in dance we are
“actually moving living breathing in harmony with each other.”29 Dancers’ stories are
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human, visceral, and connect us to a continuum between past, present, and future. As I
hear stories of the past from Humphrey teachers, I know it is important to do the work
of dance reconstruction. But this experience can also be daunting for a dancer, since
Humphrey represents a sort of mythological figure in dance circles.30 Because of the aura
that surrounds Humphrey, I was plagued by concerns about the “authenticity” of my
danced representation of Humphrey’s technique throughout this process. Despite this
fact, her legacy also came alive for me through the process. I found myself drawing upon
her technique and philosophies often in my creative process as a reconstructor, and even
as a choreographer outside of this process.
Reconstruction is about being humble enough to sense the past in my body and about
being respectful of those who gave us our movement traditions. Reconstructing the
Partita was like putting together pieces of a puzzle, which felt awkward at times, but
would eventually lead to the intricate pattern we weave on stage. As reconstructors we
first made stilted connections from body shapes written on a page in Labanotation to
coherent phrases that glided through the stage in precise patterns. We set these
movements to music much later. This was strange for me, since it contrasts a great deal
with the way I usually remember movement as a modern dancer. Often I learn
movement that is connected to music, which I then associate with particular musical
counts or counted phrases. Later, I apply other layers to the movement phrases. For
example, I usually overlay a story, which accompanies the movement phrase and helps
me remember it. Then, I apply an emotional motivation that is based on what I
understand the entire dance to be saying. All of these layers operate simultaneously as I
dance on stage.
Since I did not associate the movement with musical counts at first, I began with
movement. The movement felt awkward at first, since the phrases involved challenging
Humphrey oppositional movement. To find my movement intention, I researched the
themes Humphrey usually used in her dances. For example, as Humphrey dancer Nona
Schurman stated, Humphrey’s dances are “all about the same thing, it’s an affirmation of
faith in our ideals.”31 In Humphrey technique classes we were also told that movement
could not exist without motivation. I felt the influences of these Humphrey teachers
upon my perceptions as we reconstructed, since my research into Humphrey’s themes
connected with what I had learned in technique classes.32 For Humphrey, dance was
always an affirmation of existence, an expression of life and death. For me, as I imagine
for Humphrey, the theme of the dance became an affirmation of life, as well as an
affirmation of the artist who is dependent upon her community and her audience.
I experienced each section of the Partita differently in relation to this theme, but here I
focus on the Minuet. Even though I dance a solo part, the part of “A” in the minuet, this
is where I feel least alone. Here I am an artist, expressing a human experience that is the
individual’s relationship to her community. I am grateful to the other dancers and the
audience. This gratitude is present in the way I hold my hand (soft and not hard), in the
quality of energy I give to the dancers sitting on the benches, and in the greeting I give to
the audience. After I greet the others in the initial 24 measures, I playfully interact with
dancers and audience. I am unique, but I consciously exist within a larger whole that
includes everyone in the theatre. I feel a responsibility to bring a positive contribution to
those present. Whereas “B” is my important partner in other sections, as I dance A’s solo
in the minuet, B becomes secondary. I am giving to all the cast members and the
audience equally.
135
Meglin et. al.
After I began teaching the Minuet to dance majors this fall, I finally deepened my
understanding of musical connections in the piece to the point where I felt performance
ready. In fact, it was partly teaching this dance to others in rehearsals, as well as the reality
of our pending performance, that caused me to consider movement and music side by
side. Eventually, I was able to connect the musical motivations mentioned in rehearsal,
such as the harmonic transition initiated by the “clap drop.” However, as I overlaid this
musical motivation, I was still consciously connected to my emotional motivations for
dancing, as I believe Humphrey would have wanted me to be.
136
Meglin et. al.
Chart 1. Sample Page of Dance Analysis: Gigue from Partita
“The music is in fugal form and the dance was constructed to go with it. The phrases
should be clearly seen and correctly timed with the music.”33
M 1-2
M 3-4
M1
M2
M 5-6
Theme 1 Soaring and fond heart (A)
Motif 1.1 Soaring and side collapse: “Arms form a heart shape.”
Motif 1.2 Pirouette and jig leap
Motif 1.3 Ground bass undercurves (A)
Theme 1 (B)
M 7-8
`
Theme 2 Skimming run into layback (single file formation) (A,
B)
Motif 2.1 Skimming run (beats 1-5)
Motif 2.2 Layback/suspension with arm shifting planes and fall (beats
4-6)
Motif 1.3 Ground bass undercurves (A, B)
Theme 1 (C)
M 9-12
M 12
Theme 2 Skimming run into layback (A, B, C)
Motif 2.3 Cadence (B, C)
M 13-14
Theme 1 Soaring and fond heart (A)
M 15-18
M 15
M 16
Theme 3 Turning on a tilted axis (A)
Motif 3.1 Quick turn arrested in uplift
Motif 3.2 Hand across heart (wrung arm motif) into suspended
diagonal fall
M19-20
M 21-23
M 22-24
M 24
Theme 1 Soaring and fond heart (A, B, C)
Motif 1.3* Ground bass side steps and ¼ turn (A, B, C)
Motif 3.3 Hip shift to stand (D, E , F, G)
Motif 1.3** Ground bass walking (A, B, C, D; A continues this motif
through M 27)
M 25-27
Theme 3 Turning on a tilted axis (E + F + G accumulate in
canon)
Motif 1.3*** Ground bass backward striding (B, C, D)
M 28-31
M 32
Theme 2 Skimming run into layback (A)
Motif 1.3**** Ground bass pas de bourrée (B, C, D, E, F, G) into
Motif 1.3** Ground bass walking
Cadence (All)
M 33-64
A near exact repeat with dancers switching parts
M 65-66
Theme 4 “Mazurka step” in canon
137
Meglin et. al.
Chart 2. Partial List of Choreographies of Pre-Classic Dance Forms by
American Choreographers34
Choreographer
Title of
Choreography
Composer
Martha Graham
Sarabande and
Courante
Gigue
J. S. Bach
Agnes De Mille
Ruth Page
Martha Graham
Martha Graham
Agnes De Mille
Hanya Holm
Ruth Page &
Bentley Stone
Sybil Shearer
Sybil Shearer
Thalia Mara
Premiere
?
J. S. Bach (Fifth
French Suite,
orchestrated by
Wallingford
Riegger)
?
Feb. 5, 1931
Lehman Engel
Feb. 18, 1934
Humoresques
(Gigue)
Transitions
(Sarabande)
Phantasy (Gavotte)
Incident with the
Spanish
Ambassador
Sarabande
Gavotte
Oct. 5, 1932
Arnold Schoenberg
(Canaries,
Galliarde)Byrd
Feb. 18, 1934
Feb. 3, 1935 (New
York)
?
J. S. Bach
ca 1935
Jan. 31, 1938
Sarabande
Passepied
Gigue
?
?
J. S. Bach
Oct. 21, 1941
Oct. 21, 1941
Feb. 11, 1945
Doris Humphrey’s Choreographies of Pre-Classic Dance Forms35
Choreographer
Title of
Choreography
Composer
Premiere
Doris Humphrey
Doris Humphrey
Bourrée
Gigue
Apr 5, 1920
Mar. 24, 1928
Doris Humphrey
Doris Humphrey
Doris Humphrey
Doris Humphrey
Rigaudon
Sarabande
Gigue
Courante (from
Antique Suite)
Suite in E
(Sarabande, Gigue)
Passacaglia in C
Minor
Partita V in G
Major
J. S. Bach
J. S. Bach (First
Partita)
Edward MacDowell
Rameau-Godowsky
J. S. Bach
Green
Albert Roussel
Aug. 8, 1933
J. S. Bach
Aug. 5, 1938
J. S. Bach
Dec. 27, 1942
Doris Humphrey
Doris Humphrey
Doris Humphrey
138
May 14, 1928
Oct. 28, 1928
Mar. 31, 1929
Aug. 2, 1929
Meglin et. al.
Notes
I am grateful to the staff at the Bibliothèque Nationale Paris for their help during my research.
Thanks also to Donald Gillthorpe for his assistance with the musical examples, to Nathalie
Harrap, Active Languages Ltd, for proof reading my transcription of Rouché’s mise en scène and
providing an additional translation to my own, and above all, to the Music department at
Lancaster University, for funding my research trip and to Deborah Mawer for her continual
enthusiasm and encouragement.
1 See Leslie Hirt Marck, “French Baroque Influences on Johann Sebastian Bach’s ‘Six Suites for
Violoncello Solo’ with an Emphasis on French Court Dance and Suite V,” [Dissertation],
University of Washington, 1998.
2 Matthew Greenbaum (PhD City University of New York), Professor of Music Composition at
Temple University, studied with Stefan Wolpe and Mario Davidovsky. He is the recipient of
awards and fellowships from the American Academy of Arts and Letters, the Guggenheim
Foundation, the Martha Baird Rockefeller Fund, and the New York Foundation of the Arts. His
works have been presented by the Darmstadt Summer Festival, the Leningrad Spring Festival,
the Jakart Festival (Indonesia), the Fromm Foundation, Meet the Composer/Readers Digest
Commissioning Fund, and the Houston Symphony among many others. Recordings labels
include CRI and Centaur (swordfis@temple.edu)
3 Pierre Rameau, Le Maître a danser; facsimile of 1725 Paris edition (New York: Broude Brothers,
1967).
4 Giovanni-Andrea Gallini, A Treatise on the Art of Dancing; facsimile of 1762 London edition
(New York: Broude Brothers, 1967).
5 The source for our reconstruction of this entrée from Omphale is A Work Book by Kellom
Tomlinson: Commonplace Book of an Eighteenth-Century English Dancing Master, A Facsimile Edition, ed.
Jennifer Shennan (Stuyvesant, NY: Pendragon Press, 1992). The choreography by LouisGuillaume Pécour was notated by Raoul-Auger Feuillet in his Recüeil de Dances published in 1704.
Reconstructed by Joellen A. Meglin, the piece is performed by Ok Hee Jeong and Sue In Kim in
costumes by Heidi Barr to a recording on Baroque flute performed by Eve Friedman.
6 Partita V, Op. 1 in G Major, choreography by Doris Humphrey, music by Johann Sebastian
Bach, notation by Els Grelinger; premiered in 1942, notated as taught by Doris Humphrey in
1950; in Doris Humphrey: The Collected Works, Vol. 1 (New York: Dance Notation Bureau Press,
1978).
7 Partita V, pp. 211, 217, 213-214.
8 The source for our reconstruction of La Bretagne is Orchesography; or, The Art of dancing by
characters and demonstrative figures [translated from Feuillet] by John Weaver (ca. 1715). Pécour
choreographed this dance and Feuillet published it in his Recüeil de danses de bal pour l’année 1705
published in 1704. Reconstructed by Joellen A. Meglin, the piece is performed by Hwan Jung
Jae and Sue In Kim in costumes by Heidi Barr to a recording on Baroque flute performed by
Eve Friedman. For the longevity and popularity of La Bretagne, see Gallini, p. 177.
9 The source for our reconstruction of Gigue à deux is Recueil de dances, composées par M. Feuillet,
Maître de dance (Paris, 1700) in Raoul-Auger Feuillet, Choregraphie ou l’Art de décrire la dance,
facsimile of 1700 Paris edition (New York: Broude Brothers, 1968). Reconstructed by Joellen A.
Meglin, the first two figures of the dance are performed by Ok Hee Jeong and Sue In Kim in
costumes by Heidi Barr to a recording on harpsichord performed by Suzanne Reine.
10 Janet Mansfield Soares, Louis Horst: Musician in a Dancer’s World (Durham: Duke University
Press, 1992), pp. 67-69, 218. Horst also taught at the Perry-Mansfield School and Sarah
Lawrence College and advised numerous concert dancers so his influence was widespread.
139
Meglin et. al.
11
John Martin, “The Dance: British Style,” New York Times, Aug. 21, 1932, p. X5 (ProQuest
Historical Newspapers).
12 “Music Notes,” New York Times, Dec. 23, 1932, p. 21 (ProQuest Historical Newspapers).
13 The Dance Observer, vol. 1, no. 1 (February, 1934).
14 Louis Horst, Pre-Classic Dance Forms (New York: The Dance Observer, 1937; republication,
Brooklyn: Dance Horizons, 1968), p. 5.
15 The photographic illustrations reveal Angna Enters in Pavana; Berta Ochsner in Courante;
Martha Graham in Sarabande; Agnes De Mille in Bach Gigue; Doris Humphrey and Charles
Weidman in Minuet; and Arthur Mahoney in Bourrée.
16 Manuscript and printed scores (or copies) of compositions from 16th-20th century
composers, including samples of an Allemande, Bourrée, Canaries, Chaconne, Passacaglia,
Courante, Galliard, Gavotte, Gigue, Louré, Minuet, Passamezzo, Passepied, Pavane, Rigaudon,
and Sarabande. Louis Horst, [Collection of Dance Music], New York Public Library of the
Performing Arts.
17 Horst himself advises, “the best use to be made of [the minuet] by the student in dance
composition is for the development of a delicate satiric vein, produced through the smallest
possible movements,” Pre-Classic Dance Forms (p. 68).
18 Doris Humphrey: An Artist First, An Autobiography edited and completed by Selma Jeanne Cohen
(Pennington, NJ: Princeton Book Company, 1972), p. 178.
19 Doris Humphrey’s letter in its entirety is reproduced in Doris Humphrey: An Artist First, pp.
254-256.
20 John Martin, “The Dance World and Music Afield,” New York Times, Apr. 22, 1928, p. 118
(ProQuest Historical Newspapers).
21 The irony, of course, was that it was the academic formality of the court that made the figures,
the underlying spelling out of space, de rigueur. Such spatial enhancements, as well as
academically codified embellishments (beats in the ballet) accorded well with the court culture—
I shall beg the question of which came first, the music or the dance. One could also analyze the
(European folk dance based) pre-classic dance craze among American modern dancers as a
reaction against the African American jazz dance craze among the dancing public. The
Charleston, the Black Bottom, and the Lindy Hop had hit the public by storm in 1923, 1926, and
1927 respectively.
22 For Humphrey’s studies with Mary Wood Hinman, see Doris Humphrey: An Artist First, pp. 1115, 32, 35, 89, 97, 234-236. Ironically, as a child Humphrey’s first public performance on stage
included a dance to Paderewski’s “Minuet” directed by Madame Josephine Hatlanek (pp. 13-15).
23 The source for our reconstruction is Partita V, Op. 1 in G Major, choreography by Doris
Humphrey, music by Johann Sebastian Bach, notation by Els Grelinger; premiered in 1942,
notated as taught by Doris Humphrey in 1950; in Doris Humphrey: The Collected Works, Vol. 1
(New York: Dance Notation Bureau Press, 1978). Restaged by Joellen A. Meglin from the
Labanotation score by arrangement with the Dance Notation Bureau, and co-reconstructed by
Hwan Jung Jae, Ok Hee Jeong, Sue In Kim, Joellen A. Meglin, Seonagh Odhiambo, and Jessica
Van Oort, sections of the piece are here performed by Hwan Jung Jae, Ok Hee Jeong, Sue In
Kim, and Seonagh Odhiambo to a recording on harpsichord made by Masaaki Suzuki.
24 George Beiswanger, quoted in Selma Jeanne Cohen, introductory notes to Partita V, Op. 1 in
G Major, in Doris Humphrey: The Collected Works, p. 189.
25 Els Grelinger, Partita V, Op. 1 in G Major [Labanotation score], in Doris Humphrey: The Collected
Works, p. 210.
26 Doris Humphrey, quoted in Cohen, introductory notes, Doris Humphrey: The Collected Works,
pp. 189, xiii.
140
Meglin et. al.
27
See Nelson Goodman, Languages of art: an approach to a theory of symbols (Indianapolis: Bobbs &
Merrill, 1968), p. 212.
28 The heart shape with two arms of one or two people functions as a popular cultural symbol of
communication in Korea. Rough Cut (2005), a dance on Korea as a part of the city portrait series
by Pina Bausch, also adopts this motive, which reveals the familiarity of this physical code for
Koreans.
29 Doris Humphrey, “New Dance,” Folder 22, Addresses, essays, lectures by Doris Humphrey, New
York Public Library for the Performing Arts.
30 Marcia B. Seigel, “Humphrey’s Legacy: Loss and Recall,” Dance Research Journal 28:2 (Fall
1996): 4-9.
31 Nona Schurman quoted in Barbara Hausler, “Packaging Doris Humphrey or a Question of
Form: Nona Schurman Shares her Thoughts on Doris Humphrey’s Choreography,” Dance
Research Journal 28:2 (Fall 1996): 40-48.
32 Some teachers I have trained or studied with knew and studied with Humphrey or worked
under her in the Limòn Company, including Jim May, Ann Vachon, and Jennifer Muller.
33 Els Grelinger, Partita V, Op. 1 in G Major, p. 242.
34 This compilation came from a database search of the New York Times in ProQuest Historical
Newspapers for the years 1928-1945, using the search terms “dance” and “gigue,” “sarabande,”
“passepied,” etc. In addition, I searched the on-line Dance Collection Catalogue at the New
York Public Library for 1927-1943 and Dance on Disk 2004. See also, Marian Horosko, Martha
Graham: The Evolution of Her Dance Theory and Training (Gainesville: University Press of Florida,
2002), pp. 262-263; Andrew Mark Wentink, “The Ruth Page Collection: An Introduction and
Guide to Manuscript Materials through 1970,” Bulletin of Research in the Humanities (1980), pp. 109,
112. Janet Mansfield Soares notes that Mary Wigman had used the old dance forms in Suite in
Old Style and Dance Suite (choreographed in 1920-1923) and that Louis Horst was aware of these
experiments (p. 69).
35 See Christena L. Schlundt, “Chonology,” in Doris Humphrey: An Artist First, ed. Selma Jeanne
Cohen (Pennington, N. J.: Princeton Book Company, 1995): 274-286.
141
Minors
Paul Dukas’s La Péri as Interpreted by Two Balletic
Collaborators
Helen Julia Minors, Lancaster University
Copyright 2005, Helen Julia Minors.
The aim of this paper is to utilise the evidence contained within the annotated scores of
two balletic collaborators for two versions of Dukas’s La Péri in order to answer the
following interdisciplinary questions: How do the artistic collaborators of specific ballet
productions perceive Dukas’s music as able to communicate a plot in balletic terms?
How do the interpretations within these choreographic scores inform upon a musical
analysis of this poème dansé, La Péri; conversely, how does a musical analysis inform on an
interpretation of these scores?
The starting point of this exploration is with Dukas himself, who stated that ‘where
drama and music merge, one needs on first hearing a little knowledge of the poem […]’.1
This is relevant because both scenario and music existed before the dance, both written
by Dukas2; moreover both music and dance have the same programme with which to
direct their individual interpretations. The scenario is concerned with Iskender’s search
for the flower of immortality, Iskender being the mythological representation of
Alexander the Great. He finds the flower in the hands of a sleeping Péri. Iskender steals
the flower, then the Péri wakes and screams, proceeding to seduce Iskender in a
desperate attempt to regain her flower.
Analytical Method
In her book Moving Music Stephanie Jordan proposes ‘a theory of interdependence and
interaction between dance and music’,3 her examination of the relationships that exist
within ballet implies a multi-layered practice including all aspects of gesture, in other
words design, scenario and all other aspects of staging a work must also be considered
alongside music and dance to enable correspondences between every aspect of the whole
to be drawn out. As Nicholas Cook remarks in Analysing Musical Multimedia, there are
numerous interactions between media, ‘every medium is experienced in the light of every
other.’4 Media relationships need to be evaluated, for example, Daniel Albright describes
media correspondences in terms of how they form ‘dissonance’ or ‘consonance’.5 Each
media should be explored because a different understanding of the correspondences is
gleaned depending upon which perspective is taken, that is, which media we see imposed
upon another. Musical scores are an important source in dance-music scholarship.
Utilising primary source material from specific balletic collaborations enables an
interpretation to be made, not of the actual performance, but of specific collaborators’
readings of the work ― an interpretation of an interpretation. As such this paper is only
a starting point in exploring La Péri; I explore one dancer’s interpretation, one artistic
director’s reading, and my own understanding of the evidence. With a summary of the
scenario established the evidence will, to follow Cook’s axiom, shed light from the dance
and stage direction onto the music and conversely from the music onto the dance and
stage direction.
142
Minors
The Evidence
The first choreographic primary source is a piano reduction of La Péri annotated by the
premiere danseuse Natasha Trouhanova (1885–1956) during the rehearsals for the 1912
premiere.6 The second choreographic primary source is also a piano reduction score,
with detailed annotations made by Jacques Rouché (1862–1957), who heading the Théâtre
des Arts (1911–1914) staged La Péri in 1912, and then later as the director of the Opéra
(1914–1945) he produced this detailed score in 1935 and prefaced it with a mise en scène.7
Additionally, this score includes Dukas’s hand written comments that refer to the
scenario, dated 9th February 1935, only months prior to his death.
The focus of Trouhanova’s annotations is upon the progression of the scenario and
character interaction. Trouhanova makes links between the scenario and the music by
figuring the scenario that prefaces her score with numbers that make specific
correspondences between lines of text and sections of music (example 1: Trouhanova’s
choreographic score, figured scenario). Her dance is linked to the music through
annotations that refer to the progression of the plot, the two characters’ movements and
their emotional states. Trouhanova, therefore, perceives precise correspondences
between the media of poetry and music.
Rouché’s version of La Péri is referenced in the Bibliothèque nationale’s catalogue as a
‘new version proposed by the author’, but as yet, no evidence as been uncovered to
confirm that this version was performed.8 Within his score Rouché notes that it is to be
a ‘2nd version’, suggesting there were differences between this and the 1912 production.9
The focus of Rouché’s score has some notable differences from that of Trouhanova: as
premiere danseuse she noted much about the movement of her character the Péri and the
expression of the scenario; Rouché as artistic director, incorporated a mise en scène
referring not only to the movement and emotions of the characters and to the
progression of the scenario with specific sections of the music, but also to the costumes,
décor, lighting and the rise and fall of the curtain. Rouché’s score does include
comments concerning the scenario but it is not as formalised as Trouhanova’s numbered
correspondence. The most noticeable difference between these two scores is that
Rouché and Dukas added a chorus of dancers called les Péris, seemingly to retain the
momentum of the action. Later productions added a group of Péris for similar reasons,
as in the Sadler’s Wells production of 1956, choreographed by Frederick Ashton.10
Example 1: Trouhanova’s choreographic score: figured scenario.
Number
Lines of the scenario
+1
Line 5: ISKENDER leaned silently over towards
the sleeping one and, without awakening her, he
steals the flower.
2
Line 6: Once stuck between his fingers, the flower
blooms like the heavens at noon on the forest of
Ghilan.
Line 7: But the PÉRI, opening her eyes, clapped
her hands together and gave a loud cry.
Line 9, with a line down to, and encompassing,
lines 13–15: [9] However ISKENDER, considering
the flower, admired his own image which surpassed
even the delights of Gurdaferrid. [13] Thus, the
3
4
143
Corresponding
bar(s) of the music
b. 66
b. 71
b. 81
The figure is written
at the top right of
page 11 which
includes bars 89–94
5
6
7
8
9
Minors
servant of the Purs knew that this flower of
immortality was not intended to be for her. [14]
And for her to regain it, she flew forward as lightly
as a bee. [15] Whilst the Invisible Lord moved
away from her, divided was the lotus flower
between the thirst for immortality and the delight
of his eyes.
Line 17: Approaching ever nearer, until her face
touched the face of ISKENDER.
Line 18: And at length he returned the flower to
her without regret.
Line 19: Then the lotus seemed like snow and was
gold like the summit of Elbourz in the evening sun.
Line 20: Then the figure of the PÉRI appeared to
be based in the emancipated light of the chalice,
and soon nothing was visible, except a hand raising
the flame flower that erased itself in the heavens.
Line 21: ISKENDER saw it pass.
b. 266
b. 290
b. 295
b. 297
b. 314
Case Study 1: Similarity between Trouhanova’s and Rouché’s
interpretation
Perhaps the most notable similarity between the readings of Trouhanova and Rouché can
be found at bar 111, where Dukas noted Danse. This is the start of the middle section of
the work and holds importance to Dukas. In a letter to the conductor Guy Ropartz, who
was planning a performance of La Péri in Strasbourg, Dukas remarks upon his own
conducting of the work and gave the following advice to Ropartz:
I warn you… against the vigorous observation of my metronome
indications… In every case there is one of them that I ask you not to
take to the letter: it is that of the Danse itself. It invites one, I feel, to
take its true movement only after a few measures and to leave at the start
(having founded it in the previous movement) a little indecisive character,
as of something which is suggestive, and only strengthens itself and
becomes clearer gradually. Otherwise it is unbearable.11
La Péri is subtitled poème dansé, a danced poem, yet Dukas refers to the middle section
starting at bar 111 as ‘the danse itself’, distinguishing it from the beginning of the work.
Likewise, Trouhanova makes such a distinction ― she sets apart a single line of text from
the rest of the scenario: ‘But the Péri danced the dance of the Péris’.12 This is done not
by numbering it and linking it to the score, but by numbering the surrounding text and
underlining the previous sentence: ‘divided was the lotus flower between the thirst for
immortality and the delight of his eyes’.13 As such Trouhanova differentiates a single line
from the whole. The catalyst for character interaction and dance has been Iskender’s
crime, the theft of the Péri’s flower. Trouhanova perceives the danse as the start of the
Péri’s seduction, and as such the opening of her dance as the Péri: the programme is
informing Trouhanova’s understanding of the music and dance. A further correlation
exists between Dukas and Trouhanova in that she notes above bars 111–113 that in the
‘first measures’ she is to ‘gesture without dancing’,14 so, as the musical tempo settles, her
gesturing forms into dance.
144
Minors
The significance of this section of music and dance is confirmed in Rouché’s remarks
also, he incorporates a separate essay concerning the middle and largest section of the
ballet, the danse. Rouché refers back to the 1912 production: ‘The awakening of the Péri,
and what follows, is like the original until the Dance.’15 The difference at the danse is
with the interaction of the Péris, which he believes allows for ‘more choreographic
variety’.16 As Dukas and Trouhanova, Rouché refers to movement from bar 111,
stipulating that ‘it is essential that Iskender does not dance otherwise the poem loses all
meaning: the role is of pure gesture.’17 As tempo settles, Trouhanova in her role as Péri
gestures and begins to dance, Iskender, at least in Rouché’s reading, remains in gesture, as
such a physical contrast is created between the two characters. It is clear from Rouché’s
mise en scène that the meaning he interprets within the poem corresponds closely with the
dance and music.
The plot has a change in direction at bar 111, as seen in the evidence of both balletic
collaborators. Musically there is a new section; Dukas introduces what seems initially to
be a new theme (example 2: Paul Dukas’s La Péri: bars 111–113), however upon closer
examination it has characteristics of the first of the two main themes of this work. As
other musicologists from Samazeuilh (1913) through Favre (1969) to Palaux-Simonnet
(2001),18 I perceive two principal themes that correspond closely to the two characters of
Iskender (double dotted rhythmic features and ascending triad) and Péri (descending
conjunct melodic line repeated down in sequence). Dukas retains the characteristic
orchestral sonorities of this work for the danse: flute and upper strings employ the theme
in unison, along with a close harmony horn chorus articulating the same theme. Dukas
responds thematically and instrumentally to the scenario; a musical analysis of the work
suggests that the combining of the distinct sonorities of flute and violin are linked to the
Péri and that the trumpets and horns represent Iskender. Both sonorities and so both
characters are present at the start of the danse. The meeting of two distinct instrumental
groupings mirrors the start of character interaction.
145
Minors
Example 2: Paul Dukas’s La Péri, bars 111–113.
Case Study 2: Difference between Trouhanova’s and Rouché’s
Interpretation
There are numerous differences between the interpretations of Trouhanova and Rouché.
One example of a difference in focus, detail and collaborative priorities occurs on page 8
of their piano reduction score (bars 61–70). Rouché refers to the scenario and Iskender’s
downstage movement, but Trouhanova’s remarks are more detailed. In addition to her
music-scenario figuring system Trouhanova made some small sketches within her
choreographic score, one of which occurs at the bottom left of page 8. This sketch is a
detailed floor plan seemingly indicating the movements of both Péri and Iskender
(example 3: Trouhanova’s sketch: a transcription of the implied movement). It is
possible to infer its meaning in light of the written remarks and number correspondence
on the same page. The plan coincides with Trouhanova’s first music-scenario
numbering, at the moment where Iskender steals the flower (bar 66). This crime brings
about the Péri’s initial interaction with the scene; realising Iskender’s felony was the
instigation of character communication Trouhanova produced detailed notes to plan
both her and Iskender’s movements, providing today, evidence of their likely movements
(I do not say dance as it has been made clear in the first example that Trouhanova’s
rendition as Péri gestures until bar 111, labelled danse, and that Rouché classifies
Iskender’s role as pure gesture at the danse).
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Example 3: Trouhanova’s sketch: a transcription of the implied
movement.
The pencil sketch seems to indicate that the Péri is situated front left (the scenario tells us
that the Péri is asleep), and that Iskender should end at the right front stage. An arrowed
figure circles around itself, winding from front to back left: Iskender moving towards and
around the Péri perhaps before committing his crime. It can reasonably be assumed that
the larger dark mark at the top left of the sketch is an arrow indicating the direction of
the movement. It leads into a motion which is at a 45 degree angle continuing
downstage right, superimposed with semi-circular shapes that divide the line equally into
three. The joins of the semi-circles are numbered, signifying a sequence of events. At
first glance this sketch may seem to be a rough drawing intended to be used as an aidmemoir, however, on closer inspection the almost equal spacing between the curves and
repetition of them implies significance: perhaps a single movement is repeated three
times.
Such a movement from back to front stage, sweeping from left to right and curving to
three points of potential action would create a kind of crescendo in dance terms; the
dancer would emerge and gain the focus of the audience. The emergence is likely to
represent Iskender’s success and thrill at possessing the flower. Moreover, the repetition
of a single movement represented by three semi-circles paces Iskender’s crescendo to
prominence.
How does the above description of her sketch compare to Trouhanova’s written
annotations on the same page? Trouhanova’s comments refer to the scenario and her
movements (example 4: Trouhanova’s choreographic score, bars 61–70); her
interpretation focuses on the temporal nature of the media (plot, music and dance) all
move and co-exist in one moment in time, as such her linking of one to the other effects
the pacing of the plot. Trouhanova notes that there is to be ‘maximum movement’,
which leads to her first numbered correspondence, where Iskender is to ‘stop’ (bar 66).19
Text, as well as diagram, refers to the movements of the characters. The Péri remains
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asleep and stationary, whereas Iskender is the focal point and moves across the stage.
The sketch bears much likeness to Trouhanova’s notes: he is ‘turning round in half
movements’, this could reasonably be presented by the semi-circular shapes.20
Example 4: Trouhanova’s choreographic score, bars 61–70.21
Location
Trouhanova’s annotations
Across the top of the page
[…] et l’entourant de ses mains comme un oiseau
qu’on capture, il est tire [?] doucement devant lui –
│la fleur │
[…] and holding it in his hands as if capturing a bird, he
brings it gently towards him –
│the flower │
Top right below the above
note
Diagonally above bar 61 →
down to middle of piano
stave bar 62
Above bar 66 first beat
(léger tressaillement de la Péri)_
(slight shudders of the Péri)_
[blue crayon] Maximum jusqu’au mouvement →
[pencil] laves sommeil de la fleur
Maximum movement [danced movement through to the
performance direction, mouvement du début] → rouses the
sleeping flower
○ Arrêt ↓
tôt de la Péri, retournant dans une
½ immobilité –
early [appearance] of the Péri, turning
○ Stop ↓
around [on the spot] in half movements –
Bar 66, below the first stave
and above the section stave,
first beat
1
Above bar 67, last beat
[underlined in red] Elle tend un main
Above bar 70
She stretches out a hand
et étage descend
Bottom left of the page
and moves down stage
[Trouhanova’s sketch] Ce strie [?] de l’arbre
This ridge of the forest
The moment of dramatic suspense as Iskender moves towards the flower (according to
Trouhanova’s annotations) occurs when the music, with a brief return to the opening
sonority and embryonic fragments of bars 1–5, begins again at bars 62–64: as the music
starts again it ‘rouses the sleeping flower’ and so the awakening of temptation and desire
begins.22 Iskender stops at bar 66 as the music temporally halts: a pianissimo tonic E
major chord with flattened seventh is articulated in lower strings, harp and horn; the
effect of stopping is created by switching the sonorous palette to upper tremolo strings
playing on the fingerboard, over the retained tonic pedal in divided double basses. The
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juxtaposition of these two sonorities seems to symbolise the positions of the two
characters. Iskender’s movements have progressed from a ‘maximum’ state (bar 62), to
an abrupt ‘stop’ (bar 66) and then restarted, matching his internal emotions as he gains
the courage to steal the flower and as he celebrates his prize; both musical and physical
movement represent the scenario.
Physical movement corresponds to the music in that Dukas changes time signatures
throughout this section: 6/8 is established before bar 61 (the first bar of page 8), bar 65
changes to 9/8, reverts back to 6/8 immediately in the next bar, and back to 9/8 for bar
70. The time signature changes alter the progression of the music as Iskender stops and
starts and moves in half motions. Bars 65 and 70 are in juxtaposition to the sustained
glistening quality of this section and both are in 9/8, temporally extending their existence.
The switching of time signatures and musical material may relate to the two blocks
Trouhanova draws into her sketch. These blocks may be a physical barrier between the
characters at this moment of apprehension and subsequent thrill.
Conclusions
Both Trouhanova and Rouché perceive a similar narrative within the given scenario, in
terms of understanding the danse as the central section where seduction and character
interaction takes place. Furthermore, both observe the difference between gesture and
dance: Iskender does not dance in Rouché’s interpretation; his role is essentially that of
gesture. The Péri does not begin to dance until after bar 111 (danse) according to
Trouhanova, opting to mime without dancing at first. Movement is used to emphasize
the difference between Iskender and the Péri and also creates varying states of media
correspondence, whether it be media similarity or media difference.
The critic and friend of Dukas, Robert Brussel, remarked that: ‘La Péri is a danced lyric
poem, […] a freely developed musical work that for the first time is intimately wed to a
mimed action.’23 The evidence within these two choreographic scores supports Brussel’s
remarks as both link scenario to the music and both refer to physical movement at
specific moments. Trouhanova’s numberings are integral to her understanding of La Péri
illustrating her perception of the progressing narrative alongside the music, as well as the
stopping and starting of physical movement in correspondence to the music, as at bars
61–70. Rouché foregrounds many parameters of the balletic media, including the musicscenario connections, the meaning of the poem and characterization through means of
distinct movements, in other words, dance versus mime. Rouché’s detail to
characterization and gesture are significant in terms of how he has interpreted La Péri;
through considering all media and their best usage he has found much media
correspondence.
The evidence has enabled an interpretation of how music and dance correspond and how
these media relate to the scenario from the stance of both dancer and director.
Trouhanova and Rouché perceive numerous media-correspondences; though there are
similarities there are also significant differences of interpretation. A pluralistic view of
multimedia correspondences is therefore viewed both as complementary and inevitable.
Notes
I am grateful to the staff at the Bibliothèque Nationale Paris for their help during my research.
Thanks also to Donald Gillthorpe for his assistance with the musical examples, to Nathalie
Harrap, Active Languages Ltd, for proof reading my transcription of Rouché’s mise en scène and
providing an additional translation to my own, and above all, to the Music department at
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Lancaster University, for funding my research trip and to Deborah Mawer for her continual
enthusiasm and encouragement.
1 Paul Dukas, ‘Le Théâtre lyrique’, 1893, in Revue d’histoire du théâtre, 1 (1978), 58: pour s’intéresser
vraiment à une œuvre dans laquelle fusionnent le drame et le musique, il faut à première audition
en connaître au moins un peu le poème et la partition…
2 It is thought that Dukas wrote the scenario for La Péri, as noted in Havergal Brian, ‘Paul
Dukas’s La Péri’, Musical Opinion (August, 1935), 930–1.
3 Stephanie Jordan, Moving Music (London: Dance Books, 2000), 64.
4 Nicholas Cook, Analysing Musical Multimedia (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998), 135.
5 Daniel Albright, Untwisting the Serpent (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 2000).
6 Paul Dukas, La Péri, poème dansé, réduction pour Piano par Léon Roques (Paris: Durand, 1911).
Exemplaire de N. Trouhanowa, sur lequel la danseuse a porté en russe ou en française, de
nombreuses indications sur la chorégraphie. Res. A. 734. Bibliothèque musée de l’opéra, Paris.
La Péri was performed alongside Vincent d’Indy’s Istar, Florent Schmitt’s La Tragédies de Salomé
and Ravel’s Adélaïde ou le langage des fleurs on 22nd April 1912 at the Théâtre du Châtelet in a
concert entitled: Concerts de Danse donnés par Mlle N. Trouhanowa. The works were
conducted by their respective composers and performed by the orchestra of the Concerts
Lamoureux, choreographed by Ivan Clustine and organised by Jacques Rouché. Trouhanova’s
score is annotated in both French and Russian; both convey the same information. The French
is used in this exploration as that is the language which Dukas would have used.
7 Paul Dukas, La Péri, poème dansé, réduction pour Piano par Léon Roques (Paris: Durand, 1911).
Cette partition est annotée par Rouché à l’encre noire et à l’encre rouge. Nouvelle version
proposée par l’auteur à février 1935. On a joint la mise en scène. A. 734.C2. Bibliothèque
musée de l’opéra, Paris.
8 A. 734.C2: Nouvelle version proposée par l’auteur…
9 A. 734.C2, mise en scène: 2éme Version.
10 Gervase Hughes noted that this production is the most notable for the inclusion of ‘subsidiary
ballet-dancers’ but does not comment, perhaps not knowing, that Dukas himself had endorsed
such an approach. Indeed he lists wrongly that the premiere occurred in 1911. Gervase Hughes,
Sidelights on a Century of Music 1825–1924 (London: MacDonald, 1969), 104.
11 George Favre, Correspondance de Paul Dukas (Paris: Durand, 1971), 135: Je vous mets… en
garde contre l’observation rigoureuse de mes indications métronomiques… En tout cas il y en a
une que je vous prie de ne pas prendre à lettre : c’est celle de la Danse proprement dite. Il
convient, selon moi, de ne prendre le vrai mouvement qu’après quelques mesures et de laisser au
début (en le fondant dans le mouvement précédent) un caractère un peu flottant, comme de
quelque chose qui s’esquisse, et ne s’affermit et se précise que graduellement. Autrement c’est
insupportable.
12 Mais la Péri dansa la danse des Péris.
13 [P]artagé entre sa soit d’immortalité et la délectation de ses yeux.
14 Res. A. 734, 14: premières mesures gestes sans danser.
15 A. 734.C2, mise en scène: Le réveil de la Péri, et ce qui suit, comme dans la version primitive
jusqu'à la Danse.
16 A. 734.C2, mise en scène: plus de variété chorégraphiques.
17 A. 734.C2, mise en scène: il est essentiel qui Iskender ne danse pas sans quoi le Poème perd
toute signification : le rôle est de pure mimique.
18 Gustave Samazeuilh, Paul Dukas (Paris: A. Durand et fils, Editeurs, 1913), Georges Favre,
L’Oeuvre de Paul Dukas (Paris: Durand, 1969) and Bénédicte Palaux-Simonnet, Paul Dukas ou le
musicien-sorcier (Genèva: Editions Papillon, 2001).
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19
Res. A. 734, 8: maximum jusqu’au mouvement → […] arrêt. Trouhanova’s score is
predominantly annotated in pencil, occasional significant points are underlined in red crayon,
‘maximum jusqu’au mouvement’, however, is written in blue crayon.
20 Ibid.: retournant dans une ½ immobilité.
21 Trouhanova uses French as a second language and her annotations are, at times, difficult to
read. As such a certain amount of inspired guess work has been involved in deciphering her
text.
22 Ibid.: → laves sommeil de la fleur.
23 Robert Brussel, ‘Les Théâtres’, Figaro (24 April, 1912), 4, cited in English translation in Lynn
Garafola, Legacies of Twentieth-Century Dance (Middletown, Connecticut: Wesleyan University Press,
2005), 155.
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Lost Lyricism: The Change in Ballet Class
Accompaniment
Kyoko Murakami
Copyright 2005, Kyoko Murakami
Today, I want to talk about some broad changes of piano accompaniment for the ballet
class in the 20th century with the focus on the 1920s and ‘30s. Although the history of
ballet education spans centuries and any changes in the training had been constantly
debated, research into class accompaniment has been strangely neglected. Considering
the power of the accompaniment in a class, or the importance of the music in ballet as an
art form, this is a regrettable situation. Surely there must be reflections of ballet training
in the accompaniment music and vice versa. My aim for this paper is to illustrate some
evidence of the change in class accompaniment whilst introducing a new view to ballet
training or its history from a slightly different angle.
It is not widely known that until the beginning of the 20th century, class accompaniment
was still provided by the Violin. We can see evidence for this in some pictures such as the
Bournonville School in 19151. Therefore, it sounds plausible that the dance historian
Joan Lawson is correct when she wrote that the Russian choreographer Gorsky who
became the director of the Bolshoi ballet school in 1915 banished the fiddle when he
took over the school in Moscow2. However, it is unfortunate that there is little material
explaining when the change occurred, and what was the driving force behind this shift
from violin to piano.
Today, it has become natural to view the piano as the instrument for ballet class
accompaniment, rather than the violin. In fact today, the piano accompanies dance
classes in general. Not only for ballet classes, but for contemporary dance classes as well.
Before starting to talk about the change in ballet accompaniment, we will begin by
considering the context of this shift from violin to piano. In doing so it would be helpful
to first look at the characteristic differences between the violin and piano.
An obvious difference is that the violin is a string instrument, while the piano is a
percussive instrument. When a piano creates sound by hitting the strings, it is never able
to produce an increase in volume during one note. Thus to have certain qualities, the
piano needs technical manipulation. For example, to create smoothness or continuity, the
piano needs to have the help of a sustaining pedal or sometimes needs to set a climax in a
phrase to make a flow in a tune. It requires much more mechanical and calculative
intention. On the other hand, the violin is naturally melodic but has limits to its harmonic
sound compared to the piano.
So how did the ballet class work with the violin? Let’s look at Vestris’ class3 in 1826, as
an example of the use of violin. Although this piece of music is borrowed from the
records4 of the 19th century French ballet master, Michel Saint-Léon’s5 class, Jurgensen
who has reconstructed the Vestris’ class believes that this music has the right quality6.
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Music for the Développé exercise of Vestris
‘Méthode de Vestris’(1826), reconstructed by Knud Jurgensen, in
Bournonville Ballet Technique, Fifty Enchainements (1992, 15)
Earlier I mentioned that the limitation of the violin as a strings instrument is that it is not
able to create harmony. But what we see here is a very simple tune and a very modest
expression that shows a long phrase and a clear sense of continuity without having a
significant climax. This is something that the violin can accomplish well. Another point
to notice here is the fermata on the end of the first phrase, which breaks up the pulse.
There is other evidence of violin accompaniment quality from the class of the ballet
master Enrico Cecchetti who taught Anna Pavlova and the Ballet Russe. The Pavlova
Book is a collection of about 50 pieces of class accompaniment music written in
Cecchetti’s hand and given to Anna Pavlova in 1908; these manuscripts have only the
melody line and it would be fair to say that they were played by the violin, as not only are
they single stave, but they also have up and down bowing instructions. These give us a
good clue as to what Cecchetti used to play, whistle or sing.
An interesting point about the Pavlova Book is that many of the pieces lose the even
pulse by frequent use of the fermata as seen in the example below. The fermata is also
common in Vestris’ class music, and its effect is to break up the even pulse in music, this
gives the music a chance to follow the movement. By playing the violin himself, the
teacher can take advantage of this. Half a century later, Balanchine said that “music puts
a corset on dance”7 referring to the strict meter or metrical framework that music can
offer, but this does not seem to occur here; music follows the timing of the dance
movement with loyal subordination.
Renversé music in the Pavlova Book
If we think about the fact that the piano was already used for rehearsals but the class
stayed with the violin for a while, we should see that the violin has a strong advantage
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over the piano. If the quality evident here was important for the ballet class at that time,
it is understandable that the violin was preferred.
Let us leave this for now, and take another point of view. If we assume the transition
term was between 1900 and 1930, very interesting things were taking place historically. In
Russia there were two key reformers, Gorsky in Moscow and Fokine in St.Petersburg,
and there was a movement to integrate art forms by groups such as “Mир искусствa [Mir
Iskusstova, The World of Arts]”. The Ballet Russe gave their first performance in Paris in
1909 and made a major impression around the world. The choreographer/teacher Fedor
Lopukhov, who advocated the dance symphony, also demonstrated his strong interest in
the correspondence between dance and music. He enumerates twelve rules8 of dance
symphony construction in his writing and shows his strong recognition of music, which
Jordan points out, is similar to the theory of Dalcroze.9 In Europe, Isadora Duncan also
became famous for her free dance springing directly from the music of great composers.
These new developments made people recognise the position of music in ballet as an art
form. The symphonic sound on stage, which had started in Tchaikovsky’s time, became
familiar by that time. Visualisation of the music had been advocated, and debates began
about the difference between subordinating and integrating the music. Of course the new
way of thinking on stage did not mean that the ideas of daily class music were affected in
the same way, but it is possible that ideas about class music were somehow influenced.
The class accompaniment switched to the piano against this background.
So, how much did the contextual condition affect class music? Two well-known ballet
syllabuses had been set up around this transition time - the Cecchetti Method and the
Royal Academy of Dance (RAD); these can provide some useful examples.
Prior to the Cecchetti syllabus, the RAD syllabus started with piano accompaniment
from the beginning of its life in 1921. Although the texture has few overlapping voices, it
still has a very clear and lyrical melody line without big drama, which is common in the
music of Vestris’s class or the Pavlova book.
Tendu music from 1924 RAD syllabus
The Royal Academy of Dancing, “Specially selected music for the Advanced Syllabus”
(1924, 1)
The Cecchetti society published their first piano music in 1930 and most of it is drawn
from 72 pages of hand manuscript given by Maestro Cecchetti to Margaret Craske in
192710. Ross Alley, former editor of the Cecchetti Syllabus music, believes this
manuscript was originally for the violin accompaniment like the Pavlova Book. Certainly,
so far as the beginning is concerned, we may say that both syllabuses began with the
melodic quality of violin accompaniment.
What is interesting here is the similarity of music choice in both syllabuses as we can see
in the following list. Not only the same composers used but they even use the same tune:
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the famous Cecchetti port des bras tune “Wiegenlied” by Schumann was used for the
“Arabesques” exercise in the 1924 RAD syllabus (“Specially selected music for the
Intermediate Syllabus” 1924, 12).
Composers used in RAD and Cecchetti Syllabi
RAD 1924
Cecchetti 1930
Brahms-Moszkowski
Schumann
Schubert
Strauss
Beethoven
Chopin
Brahms
Delibes
Gounod
Nicolai von Wilm
Tchaikowsky
C.B.
Anton Strelezki
Rossini
Adam
Mozart
Schumann
Bach
Strauss
Rubinstein
Tchaikowsky
Moszlowski
Rubinstein
Beethoven
Weber
Chopin
Highlighted composers
Pauer
A. Rosenthal
J. P. Rameau
Eric Coates
are common to both
syllabi.
In both of the syllabi,
Schuman and Strauss are
repeatedly used
Schubert
Mari Paldi
Handel
The first Cecchetti piano music was not published until soon after the death of Maestro
Cecchetti in 1928. It is possible that that the RAD’s choice of music, which contains
many German compositions which were popular at that time, could have affected the
Cecchetti society’s music choice, but that the Cecchetti society could not change anything
during Cecchetti’s lifetime, hence the delay in publication. The RAD, which did not have
a single power like the Cecchetti Society, had more freedom to modernise by adopting
new trends.
However, one significant difference developed. Although both of the syllabuses
developed toward a symphonic trend, the RAD still kept the singing quality as we saw
earlier, while the Cecchetti music started to choose something else over the legato quality.
Let’s have some examples. The Cecchetti syllabus has a few tunes inherited from the
Pavlova book. If we compare the Renversé music from the Pavlova book with (see
earlier example) with a 1930 piano version of the same tune, we can see that the fermata
and upbeat have disappeared.
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Renversé music from Cecchetti Majors Syllabus 1930
“Music for the Exercises for Training in Classical Ballet According to the Method of
Maestro Cav. Enrico Cecchetti” (1930), Theatre museum London
This makes the music more square, very “metronomic” in its melody part, and by adding
an accompanying part, when the left hand plays quarter notes, the sense of the even pulse
is even more emphasized instead of free rubato which the violin accompaniment had.
This might be regarded as better phrasing as “a piece of music” if this was not a dance
accompaniment. It is possible to look at this as a result of the issue of the “equality of
two arts”, which pays more importance in music. In other words, by that fashion,
accompaniment music also required its own musical quality not just as an accessory for
dance.
This 1930 syllabus also contains an interesting comment by Beaumont11, explaining the
change from the 1927 version:
In the main, the original music has been simply rehermonised. But,
where the same melody was used for more than one exercise, other
melodies of the same rhythm and number of bars have been chosen
from classical music and substituted for it.
Although this suggests a lack of variety in previous versions, considering the thick sound
throughout, variety might not be the main point of this change. It would be appropriate
to look at this as also a strong influence from the symphonic trend. Here, we should
think about the extreme differences in musical quality between the original lyrical Italian
melody piece and the symphonic arrangement. If we compare the same tune for the plié
exercise from the Pavlova book and 1930 piano version, one has a singable, melodious
quality; the other demonstrates the same tune but with large chords and additional
accompaniment part creates thick textures.
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Plié music from the Pavlova book
Hand written Manuscript by Enrico Cecchetti, Theatre museum London
Plié music from 1930
“Music for the Exercises for Training in Classical Ballet According to the Method of
Maestro Cav. Enrico Cecchetti” (1930), Theatre museum London
This made the quality of the music completely different although it is rhythmically similar
or even the same tune, as Beaumont states. It is in fact impossible to keep the same
legato as before because of the octave and the large chords in the melody part. This
could mean the thick sound is preferred over the legato quality.
The 1956 version had gone back to the single voice melody, which Beaumont said was
“to be loyal to the original” (1958) but with the same left hand beat, the elastic pulse or
the free rubato never came back.
On the other hand, the RAD music, which initially seemed to succeed to carry the violin
quality to piano accompaniment, also shows some loss of the legato quality in later
editions. Let’s see the example.
Although the 1924 syllabus has thick texture in its sound, it has a clear melodic part in its
overlapping few voices and does not have the same rhythm for all parts.
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Frappé music from 1924 syllabus
The Royal Academy of Dancing Specially selected music for the Advanced Syllabus (1924, 3)
In contrast, the 1957 music shows the frequent occurrence of series of block chords,
which might be rhythmically appropriate for the movement but sound more percussive.
(See: The Royal Academy of Dancing, Intermediate Examination Girl’s Syllabus, 1957,
6)
Both in the Cecchetti and RAD syllabi, by using the thick texture of chords on the piano,
ballet accompaniment gained colour or drama but sacrificed the lyrical, flowing lightness
of the violin. This is an unavoidable result of intrinsic differences between the piano and
the violin, but we should consider the paradoxical possibility that the fashion of the
symphonic sound preferred the thick harmony driving the shift from the violin to the
piano. Some ideas I came across in this study clearly show the importance of harmony
and explain why Gorsky banished the fiddle from the class, such as the twelve rules of
Lopukhov. Piano accompaniment was influenced by the symphonic trend, which was the
fashion in the 1930s and might affect other musical factors such as rhythm in this case.
The thick chords preferred in this fashion might have created the by-product, the
percussive, rhythm- orientated accompaniment style, without being conscious of this.
This has been extended to modern playing even more. Today it is not that unusual to use
much stronger rhythm and sometimes the pianist even claps or taps in the middle of a
tune. Since it changed to the piano from the violin, the accompaniment in a class had
changed a great deal.
I did not have enough time for this today but many more things, such as changes in ballet
towards different physical technique like higher extensions or the appearance of recorded
music etc. need to be discussed at the same time. After all, class accompaniment never
exists in isolation; it should follow the class and also lead the class, each affecting each
other.
Throughout this study there has always been the history of ballet training appearing and
disappearing behind the music. I am certain that looking at ballet through class music is a
very interesting prospect and we should be aware that we could learn much about ballet
from that. This study has only just started and the main primary source relies on my
experience and research into the ballet syllabus music. The topic of this research has
received little attention in the past, but should be investigated and analysed in depth in
the future. It would be highly beneficial to the understanding of the development of
dance education if this topic was fully researched and documented.
Notes
1
Jurgensen, Knud (1992) Bournonville Ballet Technique, Fifty Enchainements, London: Dance
Books, cover
2 Lawson, Joan, A History of Ballet and its Makers (London: Dance Books, 1973, 90)
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3
‘‘Méthode de Vestris (1926)’’ from Jurgensen, Knud (1992) Bournonville Ballet Technique, Fifty
Enchainements, London: Dance Books, 15
4 Four Volumes of Collections of Exercises, Enchaînement, Entrées and Pas. (1829-1836), Paris
Opera Library
5 19th century French ballet master, also Arthur Saint-Léon’s father
6 Bournonville Ballet Technique (1992, 14)
7 Balanchine quoted in Guardian, 20th June, 1963
8Detailed in Fedor Lopukhov: Writings on Ballet and Music, ed. Stephanie Jordan, trans.
Dorinda Offord (Madison, Wisconsin: University of Wisconsin Press, 2002), originally written in
1916 and published 1925
9 Fedor Lopukhov: Writings on Ballet and Music ed. Stephanie Jordan, trans. Dorinda Offord
(Madison, Wisconsin: University of Wisconsin Press, 2002, 146)
10 Alley, ‘Trino Manuscript’ Quaderni Cecchettiani (Biblotec di Civitanova Marche, 2000)
11 Beaumont, Cyril, Music for the exercises for training in Cecchetti Ballet (1930, London,
Beaumont, in Thatre museun Lodon) Preface
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Nunes
The Intersubjective Nature of the Symbiotic
Relationship between Sound and Movement in
Improvisation
April Nunes
Copyright 2005, April Nunes
The paper and practical presentation submitted for this conference addressed two
questions outlined by the conference organisers. First, “What kinds of choreomusical
relationships exist and how do we talk about them?” and second, “How do dancers
embody sound and musicians reflect movement in their performances?”
I address both questions in the paper that follows and the improvised performance that
Matt Davis (musician, composer, performer) and I myself gave on the day offered a
response to the second question.
Matt Davis and I have worked together for nearly two years and we are both interested in
improvisation as performance. Our work together has highlighted Matt’s interest in space
within sound and my interest of stillness within movement. Space and stillness were both
present in our improvised performance of movement and sound. Observers of this
event were encouraged to ponder another two questions in light of this: “How do
dancers embody sound and musicians reflect movement in their performances?” and
“How do I embody space and Matt reflect stillness in our performance.”
Prior to my presentation at the conference, I had doubts about sharing our interests in
space and stillness with the audience prior to the performance event because
improvisation is a delicate thing. I never want to say too much beforehand for fear of
influencing the outcome. Nevertheless, I thought it was important that our audience have
some grounds for contextualising our working relationship before we performed.
In my role of dance maker and performer for this event I wanted to emphasise the
importance that I feel ‘reaction’ plays in terms of my intention behind moving.
The word ‘reaction’ is not without previous connotations. In chemistry or physics it
refers to the physical alteration of substance. In medicine, if you have a ‘reaction’ to
something it usually implies suffering or physical trauma as a result of the body rejecting
a substance that has been ingested. In regards to improvisation, I wanted to speak about
reaction in terms of a pre-reflective phenomenon, not involving a moment of decision at
all but an act that is both simultaneously mental and physical highlighting non-dualism
and, experienced by the performer in the moment, in response to internal or external
stimuli. The stimuli may or may not be consciously recognised by the performer. In other
words, reaction is not premeditated. For example, a sound is not heard and then the
performer thinks, “Ah, that sounds like a train, I will now move in a rhythm that fits the
train sound.” Instead, reaction concerns itself with both the dancer and musician
incorporating all their senses in improvised performance. Experiencing reaction in this
way, often exudes a feeling of ‘not knowing’ or a liminal state of neither here nor there,
the in-between that carries with it absolute potential. In improvisation when we as
performers and/or observers experience ‘not knowing’ then this is the phenomenological
experience of intersubjectivity where the thoughts, actions and perceptions of one is
continuously existing and evolving for the thoughts, actions and perceptions of the other.
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My current research is all about intersubjective relationships that exist in the context of
contemporary dance performance (including improvised performance). To define
intersubjectivity simply, it is the act of perceiving oneself whilst perceiving another. This
definition leads me neatly back to the first question: “What kinds of choreomusical
relationships exist and how do we talk about them?” I propose that the relationship
between the observers, Matt, and myself, is an intersubjective one. What makes this
relationship intersubjective is the implicit and simultaneous intercorporeality that is also
present in the relationship. In my experience of dance, intersubjectivity and
intercorporeality are inseparable and as dance makers, practioners, enthusiasts and
theorists, we operate within the non-dualist realm where body and mind are inseparable
and the embodied thoughts of the dancer are evident in movement.
Likewise as musicians, composers and performers these terms of operation are also nondual and the embodied thoughts of the musician are evident in sound. However, to
describe thoughts as things which are embodied implies that the mind and the body are
separate. This is the problem with language. Language does not allow for a description
of the mind and body as one without presupposing their dualism. Rather than make up a
new word which attempts to synthesize mind and body, I aim to promote a fresh
approach to the use of the word ‘intersubjectivity’ by emphasising the necessity to
understand the mind and body as one in relationship to one another as human beings.
The concept of mind-body connection is evidenced in texts as old as the Upanishads
(ancient yogic texts written 800-400 B.C.) and the term “the thinking body”, now
integrated into the vocabulary of the dance world, has been used by movement
practioners since the beginning of the 20th century. So this non-dualist approach
concerning the indivisibility of body and mind in relationship to the intersubjectivities
contained within dance comes from an old strand of reference that aims to examine the
amalgamation of being. Maurice Merleau-Ponty, an influential French phenomenologist
(as cited in Moran, 2000:43) further evidences the non-dualist perspective by stating “that
we have no idea of the mind without somehow employing the image of the body.” (VI
259:312).
Though my own experience of life and through my lifelong experience of dance, I know
that my body and mind do not operate as two separate entities but instead as one
ultimate unity. Dancing is not just a physical act, it emerges from my whole being. In no
circumstance does the experience of dance occur outside the body-mind complex and
there is no escape from the kinaesthetic empathy that arises out of such a relationship.
This notion of kinaesthetic empathy is related but not restricted to emotional response. A
variety of emotional responses open up to us when we observe or experience a dance
event; and these range from the mundane to the profound. However, kinaesthetic
empathy strikes us on a deeper level and does not occur in the absence of
intersubjectivity. Finally, the investigation into the intersubjective relationship between
dancer and musician is a creative one, impossible to pin down in words and only truly
witnessed in the moment of lived experience.
Bibliography
Moran, D. (2000). Introduction to Phenomenology. London and New York: Routledge
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From Autonomy to Conformity:
The Metrical Relationship between Music and
Dance
in Early Eighteenth-Century France
Kimiko Okamoto
Copyright 2005, Kimiko Okamoto
At the French Academies in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries the principles of all
forms of art were based on an overarching Neoplatonic dogma: the ‘imitation’ of the
harmonious universe that God had created.1 According to this the integration of the
component elements in a composition was obligatory for the classical arts. In the case of
dance this ideal was achieved through the harmonious interactions of metre, phrases, and
themes of the music and choreography, which were equally autonomous, being
composed of their own parameters. However, the autonomy of these two media was
gradually weakened as choreography pursued physicality and narrative expression rather
than the formation of compositional parameters — such as metre — and became
dependent upon music in this respect. I shall examine in this paper the metrical
relationship between music and choreography, taking an example of non-narrative
theatrical solo dance, the notation of which was published in 1700.
The concept of metre stems from antiquity, where the same principle was applied to
poetry, music, and dance, the three arts that constituted ancient Greek drama. According
to antique theory metre was determined by periodic movements of metrical energy called
arsis (a Greek word meaning ‘to raise’) and thesis (‘to lower’). Aristoxenus explained
these terms as follows:
When we lift our foot in order to walk that motion is arsis, and when we
put it on the ground that act of posing is thesis.2
This definition suggests that these terms indicate not only up/down movements but also
the paired concept of motion and rest, as well as the points at which to remove and lay
the weight, and by extension, to remove and lay ‘emphasis’ in the arts. In the eighteenth
century these notions were discussed in music theories by analogy with various kinds of
alternating movements, such as the artery’s mechanism and the ebb and flow of the tide.
Johann Mattheson described that metrical energy flows out at the thesis and soon ebbs at
the arsis, anticipating a flowing out again in the following bar.3 In short, the essence of
metre was the alternating periodic movements of metrical energy: the bursting out at the
thesis and the contraction at the arsis.
In music the directional indications of thesis and arsis became the origins of downbeat
and upbeat, which were demonstrated by the conductor’s baton movement: a single set
of strokes per bar in the performance practice in the seventeenth and early eighteenth
centuries, which indicated duple metre when the durational proportion of upward and
downward strokes was equal, whereas an unequal proportion indicated triple metre.4
Regarding dance, eighteenth-century treatises identified a set of upward and downward
movements of the body as a ‘measure of time’ equivalent to a musical measure (or bar).
Kellom Tomlinson stated that the sink of the body was the preparation for the rise, for
‘beating Time’.5 That is to say, the choreographic metre was represented by the bending
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of the knees to sink (demi-plié in the classical ballet term) and the stretching of them to
rise on the balls of the feet (demi-pointe). This set of sink and rise was called mouvement,6
and I use the French term in order to specify the metrical function of the body
movements.
Raoul Auger Feuillet tabulated the notations of step-units which formed a choreographic
metre in his ‘Traité de la cadence’.7 Although the signs for the bending of the knees
appear in the main bar of the notation, the sink occurs before entering the bar in practice,
as Feuillet’s beat number 1 is placed at the following rise sign. An additional set of sink
and rise is sometimes inserted between the mouvements, which accentuates a weak beat.
Jumps always finish by landing on the beat. When the dancer lands on the first beat the
jump functions as the antithesis of the mouvement, because the take-off (the burst of
energy) synchronises with the musical arsis. The mouvement is called the temps when it is
depicted without shifting the weight from one foot to the other,8 and a hop is called a
contretemps,9 which represents the counter-mouvement.10 In other words, choreography has
its own metre, depicted chiefly by the mouvement with the occasional counter-mouvement;
therefore, choreographic metre can be perceived through kinetic movements without the
aid of music.
Movements of metrical energy
Bar lines:
Metrical energy:
Music:
Choreography:
(temps)
(contretemps)
|
|
contraction | burst
contraction | burst
arsis | thesis
arsis | thesis
sink | rise
mouvement
counter-mouvement
sink | rise
mouvement
The opening sequence of ‘La Folie d’Espagne pour femme’, choreographed and
published by Feuillet,11 illuminates a choreographic metre in its arrangement of simple
steps, accompanied by a mouvement in every bar. Its music is a well-known theme called
the folia, originated in the Iberian Peninsula.12 It is based on a characteristic rhythm
pattern and the repetition of a harmonic pattern, forming the structure of AA’. All 6
pages of Feuillet’s notation present the same tune, but the musician was expected to add
variations at the second couplet and beyond; consequently, this music comprises a theme
and five variations. The choreography mirrors the musical structure AA’, with the
sequence in bars 1-8 repeated in the opposite direction in bars 9-16 of every couplet,
though the variational elements are not clear. Triple-metre music commonly produces
hemiola, which during this period customarily combined the third and the second bars
from the end of a phrase. Conversely, Feuillet’s choreography of ‘La Folie d’Espagne’
stresses the first beat of the penultimate bars of phrases with a turn, sudden quick steps,
and a directional change, as if to complement the metrical structure of music, which is
temporarily eroded by hemiola. In the first couplet the first beat of the penultimate bar is
stressed by the only turn in the phrase.
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The Folia
As the music develops through the variations the choreography develops, too. The
second couplet contains a contretemps (bar 5), adding a variation to the metrical framework
of the choreography. The first beat of bar 7 suddenly quickens the steps to articulate the
penultimate bar of the phrase, which is metrically weakened when the musical variation
produces hemiola. The third couplet contains a step with two mouvements (bar 1), in
addition to the assemblé and the contretemps — the jumping steps that shift the moment of
the flowing out of metrical energy (bars 3 and 7). The fourth couplet contains a jeté
accentuating a weak beat by landing on it (bar 5) as well as two contretemps (bars 3 and 7).
The fifth couplet displays the most complex metrical structure in this dance. Bar 1
presents the contretemps; bar 2 a step with two mouvements; and bar 3 also contains two
mouvements, the second of which is stressed by a half turn on a weak beat. The first beat
of bar 5 is a rest, indicating neither a step nor a mouvement to be performed. Without the
sink and rise at the first beat this bar does not form the choreographic metre, and relies
on the music for its metrical representation. This rest synchronises with the highest note
of the melodic contour at a major chord, which functions as a transient tonic,
sandwiched by its dominant chords, producing an air of major mode. Just as the
choreography stresses the metrically weakened bar of musical hemiola, the music here
highlights the crucial first beat with the climactic note and harmony.
The fifth couplet
The last couplet retrieves the clear indication of the metre. Bars 1, 2, and 4 present only
one step per bar accompanied by the mouvement, abstracting the metrical representation of
the choreography. Bars 5 and 6 emphasise their first beats with consecutive turns: bar 5
stresses the first beat with a half turn, which is followed by a jumping turn to face the
front again in order to repeat the same sequence in bar 6. Thus the last couplet
reinforces the metrical structure before conclusion. It was conventional in the
choreography of this period to return to the original pattern after having introduced
antithetic patterns.13
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Okamoto
This dance illustrates the way choreography developed in a composition within the
conventions of the period. In the course of its development additional vertical
movements are inserted between the periodic movements of the sink and rise, which can
obscure the metrical indication of the choreography. Even a step-unit without
accompanied by the mouvement or counter-mouvement appears, depriving the choreography
of its determinant factor of metre. The application of such a step-unit potentially
endangers the independence of choreography, in terms of the formation of
compositional parameters. In this dance, this danger is averted by its allocation in
relation to the music; the step-unit without the metrical representation is applied at the
climactic bar of a musical phrase, so that the temporarily weakened choreographic metre
is complemented by the music.
Music and choreography thus responded to each other, echoing, conflicting with, or
complementing the counterpart. Their relationship was fundamentally autonomous,
maintaining independence of each medium with neither conforming to the other.
Nonetheless, theatrical dances preserved in the Beauchamp-Feuillet notation often
demonstrate more gymnastic techniques than this choreography, incorporating plenty of
jumps, multiple turns, and intricate footwork in a sustained balance. In some dances,
these techniques overcome the regular vertical movements representing choreographic
metre.
Metre is a concept to be embodied in choreography during this period by the regularity
of movements, which might confine the capacity of dance to attract the audience. As
stage dancing pursued visual effects at the public theatres, gymnastic techniques became
increasingly valued. Alongside such techniques, narrative gestures were also given
priority over the formation of conceptual parameters, as storytelling became obligatory
for dance in ballet pantomime, and the music was relied upon to provide a ground for the
choreography. When step-units with ambiguous metrical implications are applied
frequently for the sake of visual effects regardless of the musical structure, the
choreography loses its independence in terms of the formation of compositional
parameters equivalent to the musical counterparts.
The change in the choreo-musical relationship from the late seventeenth to the mideighteenth centuries was noted by Jean Georges Noverre. He devalued any regularity in
dance and wrote that:
[E]verything then [Lully’s time] was wonderful, the music was
composed for the dance and vice versa. But what was compatible then is
no longer so.14
In Noverre’s view there was a hierarchy in the component media of the ballet of his time:
the music ought to create a ground for the choreography, to express emotions based on
the libretto, and the choreography should conform to it. It was, as it were, a
‘homophonic’ relationship between the principal melody and its accompaniment, as
opposed to a ‘polyphonic’ relationship of equal voices.15 Noverre’s remarks testify that
the first half of the eighteenth century was a transition period of the media relationships
in ballet. Dances preserved in the Beauchamp-Feuillet notation collectively demonstrate
such a transition, from the equal relationship between autonomous arts to the
hierarchical; in the latter the choreography conformed to the music, to create a new kind
of audio-visual art form.
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Bibliography
Primary sources
Aristoxenus (c.375-60 B.C.) Rhythmica, trans. Rudolf Westphal in Die Fragmente und
die Lehrsätze der griechischen Rhythmiker, Leipzig: Druck und Verlag von
B.G.Teubner, 1861.
Batteux, Charles (1747) Les Beaux arts réduits à un même principe, Paris: Durand.
De Pure, Michel (1668) Idée des spectacles anciens et nouveaux, Paris: Michel Brunet; rp.
Geneva: Minkoff Reprint, 1972.
Du Bos, Jean-Baptiste (1719) Réflexions critiques sur la poësie et sur la peinture, Paris:
Jean Mariette, 2 vols; trans. Thomas Nugent as Critical Reflections on Poetry,
Painting and Music, London: John Nourse, 3 vols, 1748.
Dupon, Pierre (1719) Principes de musique, Paris: Christophe Ballard; rp. Béziers:
Société de musicologie de Languedoc, 1996.
Feuillet, Raoul Auger (1700) Recueil de dances composées par M. Feuillet, Paris: Author;
rp. New York: Broude Brothers, 1968.
_______ (1704) ‘Traité de la cadance’, Recueil de dances [...] de Mr. Pécour, Paris:
Author, no pagination; trans. John Weaver as A Small Treatise of Time and
Cadence in Dancing, London, 1706; rp. in Richard Ralph, The Life and Works of
John Weaver, London: Dance Books, 1985, 361-72.
Furetière, Antoine (1690) Dictionaire universel, La Haye: Arnout & Reinier Leers, 3 vols;
1727, 4 vols.
Masson, Charles (1697, 1699) Nouveau traité des règles pour la composition de la
musique, Paris: Christophe Ballard; rp. of the 1705 edition, Geneva: Minkoff
Reprints, 1971.
Mattheson, Johann (1739) Der Vollkommene Capellmeister, Hamburg: Christian Herold;
trans. E. C. Harriss, Ann Arbor: UMI Research Press, 1981.
Ménestrier, Claude-François (1658) ‘Remarques pour la conduite des ballets’, L’Autel de
Lyon, Lyon: Jean Molin; rp. In Marie-Françoise Christout, Le Ballet de cour de
Louis XIV, Paris: Éditions A. et J. Picard & Cie, 1967, 221-26.
_______ (1681) Des Répresentations en musique anciennes et modernes, Paris: René
Guigard.
Montéclair, Michel Pignolet de (1700) Nouvelle méthode pour apprendre la musique,
Paris: Foucault.
Noverre, Jean Georges (1760) Lettres sur la danse et sur les ballets, Stuttgart: Aimé
Delaroche; rp. New York: Broud Brothers, 1967; trans. C. W. Beaumont of the
1803 edition in St. Petersburg, New York: Dance Horizons, 1966.
Rameau, Pierre (1725) Le Maître à danser, Paris: Jean Villette; rp. New York: Broude
Brothers, 1967; trans. John Essex as The Dancing-Master, or, the Art of Dancing
Explained, London, 1728, 1731.
Rousseau, Jean (1683) Méthode Claire, certaine et facile pour apprendre à chanter la
musique, Paris: Author.
Tomlinson, Kellom (1735) The Art of Dancing, London: Author; rp. Béziers: Société de
Musicologie de Languedoc, 1989.
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Okamoto
Secondary sources
Albright, Daniel (2000) Untwisting the Serpent: Modernism in Music, Literature, and
Other Arts, Chicago and London: The University of Chicago Press.
Aldrich, Putnam (1966) Rhythm in Seventeenth-Century Italian Monody: with an
Anthology of Songs and Dances, London: J. M. Dent and Sons Ltd.
Hudson, Richard (1982) The Folia, the Sarabande, the Passacaglia, and the Chaconne:
The Historical Evolution of Four Forms That Originated in Music for the FoveCourse Spanish Guitar, Neuhausen-Stuttgart: Hänssler-Verlag, vol.1.
Okamoto, Kimiko (2005) Between the Ancient and the Modern: A Study of Danses à
Deux in Duple-Metre within Changing Aesthetics in France 1700-1733,
unpublished PhD dissertation, Roehampton University, 2005.
Notes
1
The ‘imitation of nature’ to be the aim of arts had been discussed from antiquity, which was
adopted by French writers, such as Jean-Baptiste Du Bos, Claude-François Ménestrier, Michel
De Pure, and Charles Batteux.
2 Aristoxenus, Rhythmica, section 3; translation by Putnam Aldrich, in Rhythm in SeventeenthCentury Italian Monody: with an Anthology of Songs and Dances, London, 1966: 16.
3 Johann Mattheson, Der Vollkommene Capellmeister, Hamburg, 1739; translation by E. C.
Harriss, Ann Arbor, 1981: 365-66.
4 Jean Rousseau, Méthode claire, certaine et facile pour apprendre à chanter la musique, Paris,
1683: 35-36; Charles Masson, Nouveau traité des règles pour la composition de la musique,
Paris, 1697, 1699, 1705: 8; Michel Pignolet de Montéclair, Nouvelle méthode pour apprendre la
musique, Paris, 1700: 14; Pierre Dupon, Principes de musique, Paris, 1719: 29.
5 Kellom Tomlinson, The Art of Dancing, London, 1735: 144.
6 Pierre Rameau, Le Maître à danser, Paris, 1725: 76-77, 96-98.
7 This treatise was appended to his Recueil de dances […] de Mr. Pécour, Paris, 1704: np.
8 Antoine Furetière, ‘Pas’, Dictionaire universel, La Haye, 1690: III, np.
9 Tomlinson, ibid, 58-64.
10 There are two different interpretations of the manuals among modern practitioners in terms
of how to perform the contretemps, either with bending the knee upon landing, or keeping it
straight, but their metrical implications are the same: the burst of energy (take-off) occurs before
entering the main bar.
11 Feuillet, Recueil de dances, composées par M. Feuillet, Paris, 1700: 33-38.
12 For the music of the folia, see Richard Hudson, The Folia, the Saraband, the Passacaglia, and
the Chaconne: the Historical Evolution of Four Forms that Originated in Music for the FiveCourse Spanish Guitar, Neuhausen-Stuttgart, vol.1.
13 See my analysis of dances in: Kimiko Okamoto, Between the Ancient and the Modern: A
Study of Danses à Deux in Duple-Metre within Changing Aesthetics in France 1700-1733,
unpublished PhD dissertation, Roehampton University, 2005.
14 Jean Georges Noverre, Lettres sur la danse et sur les ballets, Stuttgart, 1760; translation of the
1803 edition by C. W. Beaumont, New York, 1966: 60.
15 The ‘homophonic/polyphonic’ media relationships in the art have been discussed by Daniel
Albright in his Untwisting the Serpent: Modernism in Music, Literature, and Other Arts,
Chicago, 2000: 5-33.
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Sayers & Morrison
Sound Space: Dialogues of Music and Design in
Prokofiev’s Pas d’Acier (1925)
Lesley-Anne Sayers and Simon Morrison
Copyright 2005, Lesley-Anne Sayers and Simon Morrison
Simon:
Slide 1: 1925 Poster
It was a wonderful time to be alive. In the 1920s, technological advances portended an
age of effortless international travel, trouble-free mass communications, and enhanced
domestic comforts. Nineteenth-century culture, which often concerned itself with the
bond between humanity and nature, was redefined along mechanical, industrial lines. The
1920s was a decade of a new metaphysics, the technological reconfiguration of the
human experience. In 1921, the Futurist artist El Lissitzsky sketched an electronic
mechanism for a hypothetical choreographed version of the opera Victory Over the Sun.
Joachim Noller comments that the sketch anticipated the invention of “a mechanical
ballet,” one that would replace the singers of the fantastic twice-performed opera with tin
and wire robots, whose physical gestures would be powered by electric currents of
various voltages. In 1922, the Moscow choreographer Nikolai Foregger created his oftdiscussed “Dance of the Machines,” whose performers mimicked “the movements of a
flywheel gyrating around an immovable axis.” Elizabeth Souritz adds that a subsequent
variation required male and female dancers “to imitate a train – by swaying, stamping
their feet against the floor, and banging sheets of metal together, even by swinging
burning cigarettes in the air so that sparks flew all over as if from a locomotive’s
smokestack.” Yet another variation entailed imitating the turning over of “a
transmission” and the revolving of “a conveyer belt.” The dancers also “created an image
of hammers of various sizes – the smallest, by using their fists, and the largest, by lifting
and lowering a dancer held upside down.” The 1927 ballet Le Pas d’Acier (The Steel
Step), performed in Paris by the Ballet Russes and inspired by Foregger’s machine
dances, represented the most provocative artistic treatment of industrial themes in the
modern canon. The music was composed by Sergei Prokofiev, the set designed by the
Constructivist artist Georgii Yakulov, and the choreography developed (with limited
participation by the composer and set designer) by Leonid Massine. Le Pas d’Acier was a
succès de scandale with the critics and the public, and gained the attention of political
commentators, who viewed the ballet as a parable about the pitfalls of factory life,
notably Soviet factory life. Humans neither benefited from their machines nor even
controlled them; they were instead imprisoned by them. Though most of Prokofiev’s
score was performed by the Ballets Russes, most of Yakulov’s interactive set – operated
by the dancers in the finale – was not built. This aspect of the ballet is perhaps best
described as hypothetical, an example of paper architecture whose most daring aspects
did not make the transfer from study to stage.
Three years ago, Lesley and I began to talk about the possibility of taking this example of
paper architecture and transforming it into a living, breathing object on stage. In April of
last year, these outlandish discussions resulted in a student-driven staging of the ballet at
Princeton University. It was not a reconstruction, but a speculative re-imagining, one that
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had some dogged research at its core. Though it was not notated or captured on film,
there exists a trove of materials about the original conception and production of Le Pas
d’Acier, including the draft scenarios, choreographic drawings, costume drawings, and
photographs. These largely unpublished materials, which are housed in archives in
London, Paris, New York, Moscow, and Yerevan, Armenia, facilitated the staging of this
ballet. The 2005 production musical and visual details that, to the dismay of Prokofiev
and Yakulov, were omitted from the 1927 premiere production, the result being a
politically charged work that damaged their future “Soviet” careers. Our intention at
Princeton was to make amends for the misfortune that befell these two artists.
In this lecture, we would like to comment on what Prokofiev and Yakulov’s intended
translation of visual imagery into musical imagery, and musical imagery into visual
imagery, in Le Pas d’Acier. Lesley will speak first about Yakulov’s conception of the
work, and I will follow with some points about Prokofiev’s conception. Both of us will
discuss the technological re-conception of sound and space in this work, and the manner
in which musical and visual “dissonance” becomes “consonance” in accord with the new
metaphysics of the modern era.
Lesley:
Slide 2: Model
This is my model reconstruction of the set design for Le Pas d’Acier before it was built
full scale at Princeton. My interest in Le Pas d’Acier has largely revolved around
Yakoulov’s set design – not just as a thing in itself but as a means of trying to recover and
explore aspects of the ballet as a whole – as an interaction of music, design and
choreography. The Princeton production had new – source based choreography by
Millicent Hodson, but the set aimed to realise and explore, with todays materials and
approaches, Yakoulov’s original designs and conception.
Slide 3: Princeton Set
This is the set built full scale at Princeton’s Berlind Theatre earlier this year. The
platforms are huge and virtually full the stage space. You can see the front one here
which is around 6 feet high and there is a higher one behind the gauze approximately 9
feet high.
Slide 4: Workshop Photographs
Just to give you an idea of the size of the constructions the dancers have to deal with –
Simon is playing here with one of the giant colour wheels – almost as tall as he is - that
are operated with a pedal, rather like a sewing machine, and they are on wheels so their
potential to ferry students across the stage space, like huge colourful skate boards, was
quickly discovered by the students and wonderfully worked into the ballet by Millicent
Hodson
Slide 5: Different view of full scale set.
So the design is a highly dynamic and interactive apparatus for performance. Design and
music developed in close collaboration, and in the notable absence of a choreographer,
during the summer of 1925. Yakoulov creates a set that is available for creative,
interactive use by the choreographer, a set that must be directed and orchestrated into
the action, rather than simply built as a static environment. Yakoulov creates a very
particular space for the dance to inhabit, - a highly structured choreographic space that
foregrounds the interactivity of the arts in performance. The Princeton production taught
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us a lot about the set’s affect on choreography and the potential interactivity of
movement and design; but what about the relationship between music and design/ This s
a set design that moves in relation to the dance and the music; so was the aim to give
visual equivalence to the musical qualities and to follow the speed and rhythms of the
music and dance, or was a more complex relationship envisaged? We know that
Yakoulov and Prokofiev worked together very closely on the ballets conception, and that
an interactive model was key to that conception, but we also know that Yakoulov
complained to Prokofiev that he had not heard the music and that they had not worked
sufficiently together on the designs.
In the style of Russian Constructivist design, the set creates vertical levels and horizontal
channels for the movement, and spaces within spaces; and spaces that have different
qualities. For example, elevated space and underground space beneath the platforms,
open space and enclosed space, horizontal tracks, vertical ascension and descent. Then
the stage constructions themselves are playful apparatus that relates to preoccupations in
Soviet theatre at the time – with circus, with the physical body over the voice, with
performance over narrative text, with the machine aesthetic and with anti-naturalism. All
of which we find of course, I nthe work of Meyerhold and other innovators in Moscow’s
avant garde theatre in the 1920s with whom Yakoulov lived and worked.
Slide 6: Yakoulov Drawing
Yakoulov developed the set through a series of drawings – through which the set evolves
in relation to the action and in terms of its interaction with the dance. In this drawing of
the factory scene he notes dances with wheels, with pedals, with gear parts, with ladders,
and on an earlier drawing notes that the movements of the dancers are accompanied by
movements of parts of the set in the factory, to give an impression not of abstract ballet
movements but of useful work. The classical technique is clearly rejected, with Yakoulov’s
drawings emphasising a movement language based on task, work, gymnastics and the
machine. Exaggerated narrative gesture, and satirical characterisation of stock types form
the spectacle fo the 1st Act – but this gives ay to a more abstract embodiment of
collective endeavour in the second factory act. And I would say that through this
progression from one stylistic approach to another, (suggested by the scenario when read
in conjunction with the music and set), Yakoulov and Prokofiev sought to define both
the new society and the new ballet.
Slide7: Act 1
Act 1 – seen here set in the market place / railway station, deals with the defunct society;
the scenario makes references to Russia in the time of post-revolutionary famine and
chaos, to familiar character types and contemporary heroes. The train, symbol of
modernity and change, is elevated up on the top platform and brings black marketeers
into the market place to exchange bread for objects of all kinds from the starving
citizens. Self interest rules and thieves and gamblers struggle with Commissars to control
the market place. There is a comic Orator, street traders and drunken sailors and a love
theme between the worker girl and the Sailor Hero. The early scenes are a chaotic
spectacle full of chases and buffoonery and stereotypes from popular theatre. The
approach is rooted in exaggerated gesture, burlesque, and caricature and, (as Millicent
Hodson pointed out and explored with the students during the production), influenced
by silent film.
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Slide 8: Factory
But here in the factory act we are into a more sophisticated and elaborate layering of
action, - an abstracted interplay between body and set, body and machine, in a
celebration of the orchestrated collective and the architectural, monumental qualities of
human form based on the gymnastic physical body and the language of labour.
The Diaghilev production ended with the triumph of the machine aesthetic as the
choreographic synthesis of set, music and movement. The dancers appeared to turn into
machine parts. But Prokofiev’s diaries record how he and Yakoulov planned a gymnastic
ending for the choreography and in the Princeton production we went back to Yakoulov
and Prokofiev’s original idea, stressing the acrobatic physicality of the human body rather
than the mechanisation of the body as in the Ballets Russes interpretation.
Slide 9: Street Lamp
The justification for this is for me embodied in the set design itself. Yakoulov’s set is very
playful in its evocation of the machine aesthetic. The constructions are not simply
mechanical devices, they are part of the dance. This is my model of the Construction we
call the Street Lamp. You can see it’s a rather feminine object that is the counterpart of
the taller, rectilinear more masculine Railway Signal. It resembles a dancer with
outstretched leg and revolving head and transparent skirt. In such a way, Yakoulov sets
up I think within the set itself, an interplay between the idea of the machine and the
body, and the question of which imitates which. The machine is not soul-less and
dehumanising here. Whatever Prokofiev may suggest with the music, - the visual
evocation is playful, and represents the machine as comrade, co-worker, co-dancer.
Although under certain lighting conditions and when giant hammers come into play this
can shift to have a more uneasy and disturbingly uncanny, almost surreal quality, as we
discovered at Princeton1.
For Yakoulov theatre is, I think, always rooted in social experience and social ideas but
his main concern is perhaps to define the new theatre and the new ballet in terms of
truth to medium, and, as this is theatre and not painting, truth to medium means to
Yakoulov I think, the interaction of the arts, - dynamically enlivened multi-dimensional,
aural/visual space.
Slide 10: Dancers in between Wheels
The set is divided into three layers separated between gauzes, and into three levels,- the
ground and the two platforms. There are also three overhead wheels, - and we might
perhaps see these recurrent threes, as emblematic of the three way interaction between
music, design and choreography in the construction of the performance. But Yakoulov’s
conception seems to involve a gradual building up of this complex theatrical space.
Slide 11: Prologue
This shows the opening scene of the ballet – a Prologue of silhouettes against a
downstage gauze that reduces the theatre space to a flat black and white surface
introducing the cast as shadowy animations. There is a clear influence from film running
through this work. The ballets materials suggest the influence of Eisenstein, and
Yakoulov appears to have conceived of the visual presentation very much in terms of
montage effects, highlighting and juxtaposing different areas of the action using theatrical
gauze.
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Slide 12: Behind the gauze.
If we just look back at this slide again, we can see an example of how dancers behind one
of the gauzes (of which there are several) can be highlighted and concealed, - brought in
and out of the action and thereby juxtaposed with other areas of action elsewhere. This is
a ballet of orchestrated groups on multiple levels and layers visually interacting with each
other in new, distinctly modern and cinematically influenced ways.
But while Yakoulov almost undoubtedly refers to film in Pas d’Acier as another symbol
of modernity, he celebrates the distinctive qualities of theatrical space. That is to say he
defines theatre in terms of the aural/visual environment of staged space and staged time.
The nature of theatre as depth and dynamic colourful spectacle is gradually built up as
the work progresses. Yakoulov begins with black and white surface, gradually introducing
moments of colourful spectacle into the shallow fore space and drab of the first act.
Revealing more depth as the train, emblem of change, appears elevated on the back
platform. But it is paradoxically the factory act that exploits the full range of colourful
lighting and depth effects turning the space into a pyrotechnical spectacle at the end, a
very theatrical factory, as well as a very industrially influenced theatre. Just as colour and
depth are built up, so the dynamism of the set is gradually developed from fairly static in
the first half to having everything in full movement at the end of the ballet. So it is that
Yakoulov signifies development, social and theatrical and points both to the new society
and the new theatre. As the first act deals with the base elements in society that will come
to transform themselves into the new collective society, I think we can also say that it
deals with the basic elements of theatre that will also be transformed into more complex
and sophisticated interactions of media orchestrated into a new kind of performance.
Slide 13: Finale
In this scene – the finale - there was perhaps an intended pursuit of aural and visual
equivalence to render not simply a factory in full motion, but a magical transformation
of the physical world, into what Simon described to me during the Princeton exploration
as something imagined, new and explosive. The set is designed to move – presumably
with the rhythms and increasing speed of the music – to build up to a climactic, explosive
finale where everything appears to dissolve into moving colour and light. So as I’ve said,
this is a set that needs not just to be built, but directed as part of the aural-visual
performance. So one of the things that interested us in staging the Princeton production
was seeing if and how Yakoulov’s colourful set would affect how we heard and
experienced the dissonance of Prokofiev’s factory, with its thundering rhythms. How
would the aural and visual elements interact?
In terms of the relationship between music and design, one of the key moments of the
first act is the arrival of the train and here the music and the set design work together to
bring the train into the station. The train is concealed behind the gauze, while Prokofiev’s
music evokes it racing through the countryside. Together music and design bring the
train into the station in cinematic fashion that Simon will discus in a moment. But here
in the second act, in this finale, I would say there is the potential for a more complex
interaction of music and design, one where dissonance, in terms of relationship between
the media, perhaps enters the frame of possibility.
So I’d like to ask Simon now – if he can explore this a little more, and how he sees the
collaboration between Prokofiev and Yakoulov and their expectaion of the
choreographic relations in all of this? Were they working in parallel to an agreed theme
and view of the factory, or were they more concerned with the potential of interactivity
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between music, movement and design in performance? Is the model one of consonance,
or did they envisage the possibility of dissonance between the arts?
Simon:
In the modern era, dissonance was the new consonance. I refer here not only to New
Viennese School dicta concerning the emancipation of dissonance as a structural element
of music, but also to the Futurist conception that technological innovation had, in a
sense, supplanted the organic, natural order of things with an inorganic, unnatural edifice
fashioned out of nuts and bolts. Prokofiev privileges factory-like discords in his score to
the extent that, by the end, we begin to hear semitone, whole tone, and tritone
relationships as consonant and perfect fourths, fifths, and octaves as dissonant. The ideal
of harmonious labor is represented by non-harmonious intervallic patterns. Musically
speaking, black turns to white in the ballet.To represent the new world, Prokofiev had to
translate visual gesture into musical gesture. In some scenes, he builds choreographic
cues into the score, in other scenes, he summons images outside the frame of the stage.
Scene 1, “The Arrival of the Train,” offers aural close-ups of steel wheels and pistons as
the train hurls itself through Russian forest and steppe. The hackneyed sameness of the
repeated eighth and sixteenth notes is alleviated through intervallic variation: lower
neighbor notes cede to passing semitones to upper neighbor notes. Prokofiev crosscuts
the triple meter clatter of the train with the duple meter hubbub at the platform. Hearing
the whistle, deprived villagers congregate to barter sweets, cigarettes, furniture and
livestock. Emphasis soon shifts to individual figures, with twenty measures allotted
respectively to the three commissars and the Orator. The locomotive eventually appears,
the braking motion denoted by a shift in tempo from andante energico to pesante and a
reduction of the orchestral texture. Taking into account the highly representational
content of this portion of the music, the structural repetition would seem to call for
choreographic embellishment and development. The aggressive physical careening of a
train could not be represented on the cramped stage, except perhaps as an apparition in
the collective imagination of the gathered villagers. The composer and designer likely
concluded that the locomotive should begin to come into hazy view behind a scrim at the
piston-driven cadence. In the concluding measures of the scene, chromaticism dissipates,
much like smoke from a coal furnace smokestack.
Music Example 1 [Train Scene]
In Russian, the title of this ballet is “Stal’noy skok,” which roughly translates as “The
Steel Trot.” Horses, not trains, trot, of course, but Prokofiev’s music suggests something
akin to a maniacal gallop. The composer reminds us that, in the early twentieth century,
trains bore the nickname “iron horses.”
Following the train scene, the dramatis personae of the ballet evolve from landholders
and peasants to foremen and iron workers. Musically, however, only the music associated
with the hero and heroine (the sailor and a worker girl), undergoes stylistic change, most
of which is confined to act II. In act I, their music is locked into repeating eight-measure
phrases. Stasis is the condition of the moribund pre-Revolutionary world, as opposed to
the innovative post-Revolutionary one. In act II, which ostensibly represents the postRevolutionary world, the music becomes elastic, even organic. Repetition does occur, but
it resides in the rhythm rather than the melody and harmony. It denotes not the lives of
people, but the lives of machines.
The sailor and worker girl dominate the action scene 6. They dance a brief pas de deux,
with an obbligato bassoon accompanying the danseur, a solo clarinet and violin the
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ballerina. The final measures, comprising an imitative exchange between the upper strings
and lower woodwinds, leave sufficient room for an entrechat, while a symmetrical C
major melody outlines an adagio. This love theme recurs in increasingly estranged guises
in the three factory scenes. Initially harmonized by ascending major and minor triads in
first inversion, it recurs in rhythmic augmentation and diminution in scene 9, “The
Factory,” against an ear-splitting backdrop of running sixteenths. Here, for the first time
in the ballet, the music collapses into standard form, a seven-phase rondo, the most rigid,
“mechanical” form in Prokofiev’s arsenal. The love theme signals both the hero’s joyful
recognition of the heroine on a silhouetted platform in the factory and his despondency
at failing to reach her. In contrast, the framing, indifferent ostinati imply that their love
for one another is clichéd – the product, perhaps, of a defunct period in human
evolution.
The climatic cadence marks the reunion between the hero and heroine on center stage.
There follows an industrial bacchanalia, which reprocesses music from the ballet’s
prologue. Here, evidently, Yakulov’s décor and prospective choreography were intended
to complement, perhaps even to complete, Prokofiev’s score. Much as the tonal, diatonic
love theme would fade to chromatic black in the ostinato-driven din, the outline of the
toiling corps de ballet would blend into the outlines of pulleys, wheels, and pedal
apparatuses in an eruption of light, sound, and gesture. In this brave new ballet,
communal bliss would become individual bliss; the (former) sailor and worker girl would
experience industrial – rather than mystical – ecstasy. To invert a hoary Soviet slogan, the
factory, rather than the artist, would become an “engineer of human souls.”
Music Example 2 [Finale]
This is the ending of the ballet: dissonance is the new consonance.
Lesley:
We would like to finish by showing you one brief scene from the Princeton production.
Slide 14: Reconstruction
It was entitled by Yakoulov and Prokofiev, very matter of factly, ‘Reconstruction of the
Décor’, and it comes in the middle of the ballet where the décor is transformed into the
factory setting in full view of the audience. In the Diaghilev production this scene was
abandoned for a conventional interval while the set was dismantled and reorganised
behind the curtain. But the original materials suggest a rather pre-Brechtian
foregrounding of theatrical artifice and a magical celebration of transformation which
Millicent Hodson developed and emphasised in the choreography.
In working closely with Simon we were able to find musical cues for dramatic visual
action and so the scene was built around the task basis and the celebratory qualities in the
music and conception.
I have always been struck by the sun imagery in Yakoulov’s designs and how the
overhead wheel seems to replace the sun of agricultural labour with a new sun marking
out time and presiding over industrial labour. I was fascinated therefore when Simon
explained how Prokofiev makes references to sun imagery in the music. But what strikes
me particularly about this scene is how the dance itself is visually in the middle of, rather
than in front of the design, and how the dance space is enlivened by the interaction of
movement and moving structure. We have here, I think a strong sense of the
construction of an aural/visual environment - of performance space as an interaction of
music, movement and design, rather than simply a construction of a factory setting. And
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in this we find also I think, this optimistic idea of a new society thematically represented
through a new kind of orchestrated complex performance space.
So Simon - would you agree with that? Is that how Prokofiev conceived of this scene do
you think?
Simon:
Yes, this is exactly now Prokofiev conceived the scene. His music for the reconstruction
of the décor derives from the ending of Rimsky-Korsakov’s opera The Snow Maiden, a
pagan paean to the arrival of spring and the sun god Yarilo cast in repeating asymmetrical
phrases. Prokofiev also refers to the octatonic ending of Stravinsky’s ballet The Firebird,
which depicts a Russian phoenix rising from the ashes of the past into a resplendent
future. Prokofiev and Yakulov had high hopes for this ballet, and our students managed,
I think, to express something of this enthusiasm in their performance of Le Pas d’Acier
at Princeton. For Prokofiev and Yakulov, the future looked bright.
Showing of the reconstruction of the décor scene. With handout about the
project website and the DVD, references & bibliog.
Notes
1
We did not know for certain whether Yakoulov originally envisaged giant hammers; we know
he wanted hammers, but giant hammers may well have been a later development of the
Diaghilev production, presumably but not necessarily with Yakoulov’s agreement as he was
absent for the majority of the productions development and had been forced to give way to
Massine’s substantial reworking of the original materials. We decided however, to go with the
giant hammers in the Princeton production.
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Counts and Beats: Moments in the Dialogue
between Music and Dance
Marian Smith
Copyright 2005, Marian Smith
I must start out with a confession, if I may. I never thought, as I was writing my
dissertation on ballet music some twenty years ago, that the day would dawn when a new
generation of young scholars, in healthy numbers, would take up the questions raised by
the relationship of music and dance — nor did I imagine it would be possible for anyone
to be asked to give a talk discussing trends in choreomusical research at a conference
dedicated to the subject. For, my home discipline of musicology, though it had begun to
undergo major changes when I was in graduate school in the 1980s, was still focused in
great part on a quartet of concerns: master composers, works of music, manuscript
sources, and formal analyses of music. The names of the great music manuscripts
resounded in our ears like magical incantations, as we transcribed from them and hoped
that they would open secrets to us of the medieval and Renaissance past: Squarcalupi,
Florence, W1 and W2, Bologna Q15. We studied masters of the common practice
period too, and analyzed some of their works, according to the tenets of the great
theorist Heinrich Schenker. Outside of class, we read Joseph Kerman's Contemplating
Music and we became aware of the possibilities of raising questions of the types being
asked by literary critics and feminist scholars. But it is fair to say that little energy of the
discipline was directed toward music's frequent partner, dance. Unfortunately in fact,
dance was still often ignored or even looked upon with disfavor. One last vestige of this
may be found in an 1989 review, in which a musicologist dismissed as a "mistake" the
inclusion of articles about ballet in a new music-theater encyclopedia; he wrote that "truly
musicodramatic pieces otherwise qualified for inclusion had to be sacrificed on the altar
of Terpsichore" because so many pages were "dedicated to the kings of fancy footwork."
So my own passion for ballet, as a graduate student in musicology, was a secret one, and
it felt almost like an illicit one.
Yet, as it turns out, I was not alone. Moreover, the vitality of choreomusical studies we
celebrate at this conference can be attributed to scholars whose labors over the past
many decades have brought us here today. To paraphrase a line I read recently in a New
York Times story, I was like a surfer floating in the right spot just as the wave of a
lifetime came by. Who had set this wave in motion? Certainly, some of the people who
did, did so before the decade when New Musicology came along and so altered and
expanded our approach. A few of these scholars and critics are Curt Sachs, of course;
Ingrid Brainard Julia Sutton, John Ward, George Dorris, Cyril Beaumont and a long line
of English dance critics after him, taking us up to the present day; and Ivor Guest,
whose collaboration with John Lanchbery helped bring La Fille Mal Gardée, with the
19th-century Parisian score by Ferdinand Hérold, to the repertory of the Royal Ballet .
Indeed, Ivor Guest, in his histories of ballet of the 18th and 19th centuries, has always
included music; always been attentive to scores and critical assessment of music, and to
the composers who wrote it or arranged it, and he continues to do so to this day.
But there were many musicologists who had not considered including dance in their
studies. So — to return to the 1980s — it was a time of turmoil, excitement, and big
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upheavals in musicology. Because so many of the traditions of the discipline still held
fast, my advisors kindly and protectively discouraged me from writing a dissertation on
ballet music for fear that it was too far out of the mainstream, and would keep me from
landing an academic post. Yet, because so many of the traditions of the discipline were
breaking loose at the same time, one of my professors did, with enthusiasm, allow me to
take up the topic. Furthermore, I wrote to Ivor Guest and asked him if he thought a
dissertation on ballet music were a good idea. To my great surprise, he wrote back
immediately with an unequivocal yes, in his typically kind and generous manner,
something I shall never forget.
I also found inspiration in new dissertations being written around that time — first Wye
Allanbrook's brilliant study of the use of dance meters and rhythmic gesture in Mozart's
operas; it showed that music implying certain dances could help characterize and impart
meaning, as in Figaro's aria, "Se vuol ballare" a menuet — an aristocratic dance implying
a high social status Figaro will never attain; the high social status of his rival in love, the
Count — but a status Figaro feels perfectly comfortable assuming as he expresses his
anger and his own sense of a power. I also learned of Roland John Wiley, a musicology
student at Harvard who got his hands on the Sergeyev manuscripts at the Harvard
Theater collection, wrote a dissertation on his findings, and in 1985 and published a book
on Tchaikovsky's ballets. In the introduction of this book, he explained very matter-offactly that specialist ballet composers in 19th-century Russia realized that the aural
attractions of concert music could be defects in ballet. Therefore, these composers
sometimes ratcheted down the level in inherent musical interest to help focus the
audience's attention on the choreography. Then, Wiley strongly intimated in the
following sentence, which was an eye-opener for me, that a basic assumption of
musicology simply could not hold up in the study of ballet music of the 19th century:
The climactic moments of pure music and pure dance almost never
coincide, a fact which should give pause to the analyst who seeks to
judge ballet music only for its sounds.1
I would suggest that Wiley's sentence is a rejoinder in the ' dialogue between music and
dance' in the 1980s, one side implying that dance is not worthy of music scholars'
attention, the other disagreeing heartily.
This is not the only disciplinary assumption to have been vigorously challenged by an
interlocutor in the growing and lively conversation about music and dance in the past
quarter century: But it is the fundamental one, and once the door was opened, we saw
that the possibilities were limitless.
Before turning to my survey of choreomusical research, I would like to issue a caveat:
my viewpoint is that of a musicologist with orthodox training, and I tend to use the
language of the musicologist with orthodox training. Vocabulary of course, is no trifling
matter, because it is a window to a disciplinary culture. And the title of my talk, "Counts
and Beats," pertains of course to the very differences that face the two disciplines of
music and dance. Dancers talk about counts, a concept that helps them dance to a piece
of music. Musicians talk about beats, a concept that helps them play a piece of music.
Nor of course, is our communication problem simply a matter of calling one thing by
two different names. We as a group must also cope with words that mean two different
things: variation, upbeat, counterpoint, overtone, coda, for example. And we have
words that are particular and specialized to one discipline and barely ever heard of by any
other — tour jeté, treble clef, dorishka.
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So — if one wants to tell the story of how our scholarly disciplines are interfacing in
various ways, one must heed this obvious practical and very real problem: musicians and
dancers, and the people who study what they do, use different vocabularies. We organize
our information in different ways, we make different disciplinary assumptions.
Therefore, we all stand to profit by learning from each other, overcoming confusion
about the basics, and accepting in ourselves big gaps in knowledge and expertise, even as
we try to bridge them.
In this regard, I will freely confess that some of the work in my collaborations with Lisa
Arkin, an expert in character dance, simply involves enlightening each other as to the
fundamentals of our knowledge, and this usually begins with overcoming basic confusion
of vocabulary: the simplest terms, which bring to light the simplest bits of knowledge,
and can lead to better understanding of the most fundamental and sometimes complex
assumptions.
One day, when we were listening to a recording of Liszt's Hungarian rhapsodies for
piano and talking about it, I realized that she didn't know I meant by the term 'cadence'
and she realized I didn't know that the standard Hungarian cadence [here I sang the cadence]
was a signal to dancers to dance a particular 'key', or closing step. ('Key' to a musician
means something entirely different than 'key' to a Hungarian dancer.) After a short
mutual tutorial, I came to see that Liszt's Hungarian rhapsodies are loaded with specific
references to dance; this should not be too surprising, but unfortunately, many a pianist
has played these rhapsodies without dance in mind, many a musicologist has discussed
them without mentioning dance, and even those who know it was based on danceable
music are unlikely to know what the steps looked like, nor have any sense of the social
milieu of the male dance it evokes, the legenyes — an improvisatory, very masculine
dance.
I would signal this as a second moment in the dialogue: discussions between people
using different vocabularies, from different disciplines, being confused; arguing; talking;
striving for understanding.
The fact that the vocabularies of music and dance, and the knowledge and cultures
behind them, can so easily maintain separate existences in the academy — and sometimes
even in the world of performance — certainly tells us that fissures exist. But luckily,
vocabulary can also give us a way in to each other's cultures. Meaning gets lost in
translation sometimes it is true, but translation is also where meaning gets found.
This taps into something I find exciting in writing history. As Robert Darnton put it:
When we cannot get a proverb, or a joke, or a ritual, or a poem, we
know we are on to something. By picking at the document where it is
most opaque, we may be able to unravel an alien system of meaning.2
Whether we are retrieving meaning from a past culture, or from another culture in the
present, or in a work of art; or restoring the context or surrounding landscape of a work
of art, this approach of tackling something that seems foreign or odd, and starting with
one basic building block of meaning, serves us well.
Now, I would now like to enumerate a few of the current trends in the discipline of
choreomusical studies, celebrating the richness of this scholarship. I'll look at four
trends, all of them constituting, for me, a set of interlocking (and overlapping) variations
on the theme of retrieval; restoration; reclaiming a lost landscape; finding depth or
meaning where it has been covered over. For this reason I find them very compelling.
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First: many scholars have thrown more light on particular works of dance by — for
example — giving us close analyses of the music/dance relationship as it exists in that
work, making intertextual studies, probing the geneses of works, examining the context
in which a collaboration took place. So many works have been so well illuminated in
recent years: Dido and Aeneas by Mark Morris and Henry Purcell, Serenade by
Balanchine and Tchaikovsky, A Month in the Country by Ashton and Chopin, Bridge the
Distance by Siobhan Davies and Benjamin Britten. Of course even listing the makers of
these works presents problems that demonstrate some of the doors of opportunity that
are open to us. First, there are problems of authorship — why do we so often just give
the name of the choreographer without naming the composer, or the title of the music if
it existed before the choreography came along? Why don't we tend to name the set,
costume, and lighting designers along with the choreographer? Is it because we come
from a culture accustomed to hegemony, as Nicholas Cook has suggested, thus disposing
us to elevating one medium above the others when we consider a multimedia work of
art? There are also problems of boundaries between performance and work (for instance,
to what extent does the number "Singing' in the Rain" exist outside of the famous
version danced by Gene Kelly on film? (Beth Genné has argued that the stage version of
the dance, in lacking the famous choreography for the camera, is incomplete. But is it
still "Singin' in the Rain"?) There are also the problems of the temporal distance
sometimes lies between collaborators — like Mark Morris and Henry Purcell. Or can
we call their Dido and Aeneas a collaboration at all?
We grapple with such questions, and as we do so, come to understand the nature of
dance works better. Among the works to have been better illuminated by a close and
rigorous choreomusical analyses are — first — Scènes de ballet — as we saw last night
in the marvelous new film, Ashton to Stravinsky, by Geraldine Morris and Stephanie
Jordan — in which they break down both the choreography and the music and show, in
isolated, focused excerpts, what is to be found in Stravinsky's music and what Ashton
made of it. For instance (just one small example), they point out polymeters in the score
(more than one meter occurring at once) and then show how Ashton allocated a group of
dancers to each meter (as well as a group to an ostinato line playing at the same time as
the polymetric lines). Such formal analysis is long overdue in the study of a
choreomusical works, for the basic information about the construction of such works has
until lately remained, essentially, a secret; unexplored territory. This is despite singledisciplinary scholars' longstanding practice of analyzing an artwork's form and manner of
construction. That is, we have studied the form and construction of paintings,
sculptures, cathedrals, works of music, and choreographies, but we have largely ignored
this sort of analysis when it comes to music/dance works and how they work together.
Hence the myriad studies of Stravinsky that barely mention his approach to dance; the
myriad publications on Mark Morris that barely mention, in any substantive way, his
approach to music, and so forth.
Such formal studies are interesting not only in themselves, but in their opening the door
to further intertextual analysis — another aspect of choreomusical analysis. This type of
analysis is also exemplified in Ashton to Stravinsky, and in other works of scholarship as
well, including, for instance, Sophia Preston's study of Siobhan Davies's Bridge the
Distance, in which she examines choreography, the score (a quartet by Benjamin Britten)
the opera from which many of this quartet's themes are derived, and the novella of
Thomas Mann, Death in Venice, which inspired the opera and the quartet. Preston notes
the connections amongst all of these, and reveals many instances in which Davies
apparently refers directly to Mann's text (and to his clear descriptions of physical gesture)
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as well as reflecting the more generalized emotion of both the music and the novella.
Further, she plumbs Davies' movement vocabulary as it exists outside this work for
further understanding of the work itself. The echoing of these resonances brings a
warmer and deeper sympathy to Bridging the Distance.
A second general trend I would like to bring up is this: we are getting a fuller picture of
certain genres than we used to. Opera, for instance, is a genre we now understand far
better than we did even ten years ago, because we have seen the expansion of opera
histories to include ballet (in keeping with a general trend, I believe, to pay more
attention to the visual in opera). For instance, we now have a book on ballet music in
Verdi opera, another on ballet-pantomime and French grand opera, and one by Rebecca
Harris-Warrick and Carol Marsh, showing us that dance in 17th-century French opera
was presented not as an interruption but as one of the fundamental modes of the works'
expression.
We are also gaining in knowledge about bodily gesture in opera and its influence on
music. In a recent book — not about dance per se but utterly pertinent to dance and to
choreomusical study — Mary Ann Smart traces the history of musical mimicry of bodily
gesture in nineteenth-century opera, suggesting that music "serves to intensify the visible
and the enacted" in opera.
The Classic Film musical is another genre to have it story told in a more complete way,
for it now more fully encompasses both music and dance, in much more rigorous detail
than it used to. One important study, of the musicals of Vincente Minnelli, was written
by a scholar trained as an art historian, Beth Genné, who starts with the proposition that,
as Erwin Panofsky said, moving pictures are appropriate subjects of art-historical
analysis. Genné examines the ways particular directors (including Stanley Donen and
Gene Kelly) handled the camera choreographically, and used, light, and frame
composition, and integrated these elements with dialogue, music, and dance to convey a
musical film narrative.
The last of these genres I will mention here is the pas de deux — one of the most
fundamental fixtures in ballet, but one of which we know little history. Lately, Sandra
Hammond, using both choreographic and musical sources, has given us the clearest view
yet of details of the early nineteenth-century pas de deux. It is as though she drew back a
curtain to expose something hidden — because of the hegemony of the Petipa-style pas
de deux, we have tended to think (in the backs of our minds at least) that all pas de deux
in the 19th century followed this template: repetition of movements sometimes three
times on both sides, big gestures, big lifts, the entrada/adagio/variations/coda format,
and so forth. But Professor Hammond retrieves something from the ashes that had
largely been forgotten: the shape and substance of the pas de deux before 1835. This
entices me to find more details about what else happened to this genre before Petipa,
starting with the musical manuscripts.
And now, turning to my third and penultimate category: that of scholars who have
stepped back from immediate circle of choreomusical studies to examine the dialogue
itself in its many manifestations, or to propose new theories, new methods, new systems
for engaging in choreomusical study. Inger Damsholt, for example, has taken on the
large, sweep of the relationship of the two arts from the 15th century to the 20th, and
surveyed choreomusical methodologies. Stephanie Jordan has given us the highly
informative survey and evaluation of the musical thought of some of the most important
choreographic thinkers of the 20th century — Duncan, Jaques-Dalcroze, Fokine,
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Nijinska, Nijinsky, Lopuknov, Massine. These two new narratives, in particular, feel long
overdue, and most welcome.
And — as for theorizing systems and approaches — Professor Jordan has also pioneered
a system of structural categories for relating music and dance, drawing on theories of
form from a narratological standpoint, including concepts of incoherence and fissure as
noted in recent opera scholarship; drawing from music rhythmic theory and from film
music theory as well as theories of dynamic interaction between media. Her system of
categories that has proven very fruitful indeed for examining the work of a wide array of
choreographers and their works, from Doris Humphrey to Mark Morris.
Scholars of multi media are engaging in bold new studies which do not necessarily
pertain to dance or music per se, but which reach out across disciplinary boundaries, and
propose, explicitly or otherwise, new theories, new methods for examining multimedia
works (including operas, ballets, commercials, videos, for example). Nicholas Cook, for
instance, writing on analyzing musical multimedia, proposes that the very concept of
musical 'multimedia" is redundant, for there is no such thing as music divorced from
other media; he also proposes, provocatively, that musicology itself teams up with socalled absolute or pure music to constitute an extreme example of multimedia; for the
rise of this absolute music in the 19th century has been matched by a corresponding
increase in words written about music. With the rise of the symphony, writes Cook,
"…words were not longer to be found in the music. But they were to be found
everywhere around it -— most obviously in analytical programme notes (themselves an
invention of the absolute music movement)… Absolute music, then, did not suppress
words, but rather repressed them from the cultural centre to the margins. . . there is
nothing like the ineffable to provoke talk."3
And Daniel Albright, whose range of expertise includes music, art history, literature, and
dance, has proposed a theory of artistic collaboration, using metaphorical terms of
correspondence between the arts, including the hieroglyph (as a metaphor that presents
ideas through pictorial images), the Chinese idiogram, which he calls a "picture of an
abstract or complex idea, generated by juxtaposing pieces of pictures of various concrete
objects"; the Brecchtian notion of Gestus, a "bodily pose or gesture that speaks."4
Albright probes the ballet Parade, noting that, a search for consonance or harmony in
this work is bound to be fruitless; one would find only disharmony — disparate bits of
expressionism, bits of cubism, bits of futurism, not well synthesized. Moreover, he avers,
its separate parts have gone their separate ways — the Picasso sketches into the world of
Picasso studies, Satie's music into musicology, and so forth. But these separate
components, he argues, always belonged apart, for Parade was an exercise in coordinated
incongruity in the first place. Thus does he remind us that we have much more to
celebrate in an artwork than consonance, harmony, cohesiveness.
And now, returning to choreomusical studies per se, I would like to identify a fourth
trend: we are learning much more about choreographers and composers — their ways
of approaching each other, and each other's arts. Hereby have we learned from Roland
John Wiley how Tchaikovsky responded to Petipa's instructions; we have learned from
Deborah Mawer about Ravel as a ballet composer; we've learned much from Charles
Joseph about the many contexts in which the intriguing relationship of Balanchine and
Stravinsky unfolded, as well as details not only about Balanchine's musical expertise, but
about Stravinsky's involvement in ballet and personal kinetic sympathy. As Roger
Shattuck put it: ". . .it's essential to understand that Stravinsky's music emanates from a
whole dancing body, his own."5
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In another must-read volume, by Stephanie Jordan (Moving Music), we are bestowed
with close studies of the variant approaches to music taken by Ashton, Tudor,
Balanchine. We have also learned, from Simon Morrison, some lessons about taking
something that seems opaque because of the scarcity of resources but which can become
much more tantalizingly transparent if thoughtfully, imaginatively, resourcefully and
ecumenically approached. I am speaking, of course, of his piece on the Daphnis and
Chloé of Fokine and Ravel, 1912. I found this study very compelling because it so
strongly demonstrates that lacking a full complement of sources need not restrict us from
learning about ballets (and other artworks for that matter) that seem to have disappeared.
We can approach a sense of immediacy, or at least closer proximity, than it would seem.
Moreover, we can see that to restore a sense of wholeness to our understanding of a
seemingly lost work may mean to face up to ruptures and lacunae even as we recover
more than we thought we could.
Now, as a coda to my discussion of this last category — the study of choreographers and
composers — I'd like to bring up a work in progress, on the subject of character dance
in Balanchine, and when and why Balanchine used character choreography in particular
places. This is a collaborative project, which I am undergoing with Lisa Arkin.
We got to thinking about something Balanchine once said to Ann Hutchinson Guest:
that "For choreographic devices, you can learn everything from watching the folk dance
of different countries. They have done it all." 6 And we came to believe that the use of
character dance in Balanchine's choreographies bears closer scrutiny — not the obvious
cases like Nutracker Act Two (in which character dance is called for in an obvious way)
but in other ballets not generally known for featuring it. What cues, we wondered, led
him to turn to his extensive character vocabulary? It appears that he uses character steps
and poses at musical and choreographic phrase endings (for extra emphasis and 'punch'),
and at structural joining points, when the music and choreography is shifting from one
section to another. He also uses it to match the Affekt or mood of the music, or the
thematic or dramatic material of the ballet.
Let us now consider, briefly, the male solo from the "Fourth Campaign" pas de deux
from Stars and Stripes, a work that celebrates American culture. It is certainly not news
that Balanchine turned to a character vocabulary in this work, nor that this male variation
mingles bravura classical with bravura character dance. But one might well ask the
question — why did Balanchine choose in particular so many Hungarian steps for this
variation? The answer may be found if one looks back to 19th-century ballet, in which
Hungarian character dance was often associated with the military: military uniforms, the
clicking of heels and so forth.7 The martial aspects of Hungarian character dance would
have been known to Balanchine through his training and experience at the Maryinsky.
And, given the overall martial theme of this solo in Stars and Stripes — the music is an
arrangement of two marches ("Liberty Bell" and "El Capitan") marches by John Philip
Sousa and the costumes are military — it makes sense that he chose some Hungarian
steps. What we see here actually is an amalgam of styles: classical, Hungarian, and some
Polish and Russian as well. Balanchine also includes a few smart crisp moves of the
drum major. [Watch the video clip.] Please note the heel clicks, hands-on-hip poses,
which are Hungarian. [These are used for phrase-ending flourishes and joining points in
the choreography.] This is not a pure unmitigated by-the-books example of Hungarian
dance, but it is clearly referring to the Hungarian style. Just as Balanchine had his own
take on classical ballet, so did he have his own take on character dance. This
choreography serves as an example of the way Balanchine (like Petipa before him) used
and respected both classical and character dance, and felt comfortable about putting
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them together within a single variation. And it shows that music constitutes one of the
important cues that Balanchine responded to.
In closing, I'd like to speculate just a bit about the future of choreomusical studies, or
rather, express a set of wishes. I'd like to see more conferences like this one — following
the tradition Professor Stephanie Jordan has begun here at Roehampton, in which
practitioners and scholars from the music side and the dance side come together to talk,
to argue, to agree and disagree. I would also like to see more scholarship in multimedia
formats, like Prof. Jordan's study of Balanchine and Stsravinsky, and her videos on
Balanchine and Stravinsky and (in collaboration with Geraldine Morris), on Ashton and
Stravinsky.
I would also like to see more 'historically informed' performances of dance, in which
scholarship, musicological and otherwise, can be brought to bear — the Sergeyev
manuscripts, and a world of annotated scores, among many other sources, await us. The
longstanding success of La Vivandière and Afternoon of a faun, as reconstructed by Ann
Hutchinson Guest, as well as La Fille Mal Gardée, which required historical digging by
Ivor Guest and John Lanchbery, all show us that scholarship and performance mix well.
So does the success of the recontruction by Doug Fullington of Petipa's "Le Jardin
Animé" in Seattle, and the performance earlier this year at Princeton of Le Pas d'acier (by
Shostokovich), as reconstructed by a team including experts in costume and staging,
theater, music, and choreography (Kenneth Archer, Lesley-Anne Sayers, Millicent
Hodson, and Simon Morrison). I would like for us to have the same sorts of thrilling and
controversial performances, as well as the same sorts of lively discussions — even
disagreements — that we have been having for over thirty years now in the music world
about the best way to go about applying historical study to performance.
Another wish — for new dissertations encompassing both music and dance — is already
being granted. As of today, many new ones are freshly completed or in the works;
including one on baroque duple-meter dances; one on variant choreographic approaches
to Firebird; one on the 1856 Paris production of Le Corsaire; one on Tchaikovsky's
dansante music; one on Stravinsky's arrangement of Sleeping Beauty for Diaghilev. (The
authors are, respectively, Kimiko Okamoto, Rebecca Schwartz-Bishir, Anne Margrete
Fiskvik, Willa Collins, Maureen Gupta.) I am happy to say that there are many more.
In closing, I'd like to call this conference that we are about to engage in over the next two
days another, and a very exciting, moment in the dialogue between music and dance,
something far different from the dialogue I witnessed in the 1980s from my perch as a
graduate student. I trust we will have some confusion; I hope we will have some
arguments. And I believe that this dialogue here at Roehampton points very auspiciously
to the future of our endeavors together. Thank you.
Bibliography
Albright, Daniel Cooper, Untwisting the Serpent - Modernism in Music, Literature, and
Other Arts (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2000).
______, Berlioz's Semi-Operas - Roméo et Juliette and La Damnation of Faust (Rochester:
University of Rochester Press, 2001).
Allanbrook, Wye, Rhythmic gesture in Mozart : Le nozze di Figaro & Don Giovanni
(Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1983).
Alm, Irene, "Operatic ballroom scenes and the arrival of French social dance in
Venice", Studi Musicali, vol. 25, nos. 1-2 (1996), pp. 345-357.
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______, "Pantomime in seventeenth-century Venetian theatrical dance," Creature di
Prometeo: Il ballo teatrale dal divertimento al dramma--Studi offerti a Aurel M.
Milloss, ed. Giovanni Morelli. (Florence L.S. Olschki, 1996), pp. 87-102.
______, "Stravinsky, Balanchine, and Agon: An analysis based on the collaborative
process," The Journal of Musicology, vol. 7 no. 2 (Spring 1989), pp. 254-269.
______, "Winged feet and mute eloquence: Dance in seventeenth-century Venetian
opera", ed. Wendy Heller and Rebecca Harris-Warrick, Cambridge Opera Journal,
Vol. 15, no. 3 (Nov. 2003), pp. 216-280.
Arkin, Lisa C., and Marian Smith, "National Dance in the Romantic Ballet," Rethinking
the Sylph, ed. Lynn Garafola (Hanover: Wesleyan Univeresity Press, 1997), p. 1168; 245-252.
Bennett, Toby, "Cecchetti, movement, and the repertoire in performance", Proceedings
of the Society of Dance History Scholars (Annual Conference, 1998, pp. 203-210.
Cook, Nicholas, Analyzing Musical Multimedia (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998).
________, Music, Imagination, and Culture (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1990).
Damsholt, Inger, "Choreomusical Discourse - The Relationship between Dance and
Music," Ph.D dissertation, University of Copenhagen, 1999. [The author is
currently preparing a book on this topic.]
Darnton, Robert, The Great Cat massacre and Other Episodes in French Cultural
History (New York : Basic Books, 1984).
Duerden, Rachel, The Choreography of Anthony Tudor (Madison: Fairleigh Dickinson
University Press, 2003).
______, Transfigurations: Changing Sensibilities in Schoenberg's Verklärte Nacht"
Proceedings of the Society of Dance History Scholars (Annual Conference, 2000),
pp. 138-143.
Fullington, Doug, "The river variations in Petipa's "La fille du Pharaon," Dancing Times
(December 2000), p. 249, 251, 253, 255.
Genné, Beth, "'Glorifying the American Woman": Josephine Baker and George
Balanchine," Discourses in Dance vol. 3 no. 1, pp. 29-55. [forthcoming]
______, "The Film Musicals of Vincente Minnelli and the Team of Gene Kelly and
Stenley Donen: 1944-1958," Ph.D dissertation, University of Michigan, 1984.
Guest, Ann Hutchinson, director, L'après-midi d'un faune, 1989 (issued in conjunction
with the periodical Choreography and Dance, vol. 1 pt. 3 (1991).
______, "Balanchine as I knew him", Ballet Review vol. 31 no. 2 (Summer 2003), pp. 6272.
Guest, Ivor, The ballet of the Enlightenment : the establishment of the ballet d'action in
France, 1770-1793 (London : Dance Books, 1996).
______, Ballet Under Napoleon (London: Dance Books, 2002).
______, The Romantic Ballet in Paris, 2nd, rev. ed. (London: Dance Books, 1980).
______, and John Lanchbery, "The scores of La fille mal gardée," Theatre research.
London. pt. I, vol. 3, no 1, 1961, pp 32-42; pt. II, vol. 3, no. 2, 1961, pp. 121-134;
pt. III, vol. 3, no 3, 1961, pp 191-204.
Hammond, Sandra, "Windows into Romantic Ballet: Content and Structure of Four
Early Nineteenth-Century Pas de Deux," Proceedings of the Society of Dance
History Scholars (20th Annual Conference, 1997), pp. 137-144.
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Hansell, Kathleen Kuzmick, "Theatrical Ballet and Italian Opera," Opera on Stage, ed.
Lorenzo Bianconi and Giorgio Pestelli, vol 5 of The History of Italian Opera, ed.
Bianconi and Pestelli (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1998), pp. 178-308.
Harris-Warrick, Rebecca, and Bruce Alan Brown, The grotesque dancer on the
eighteenth-century stage : Gennaro Magri and his world (Madison : University of
Wisconsin Press, 2005).
Harris-Warrick, Rebecca, and Carol Marsh, Musical theatre at the court of Louis XIV :
Le mariage de la Grosse Cathos (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994).
Heller, Wendy, "Dancing Desire on the Venetian Stage," Cambridge Opera Journal,
Vol. 15, no. 3 (Nov. 2003), pp. 281-295.
Jordan, Stephanie, "Musical/Choreographic Discourse: Method, Music Theory, and
Meaning," Moving Words - Re-writing Dance, ed. Gay Morris (London:
Routledge, 1996).
______, and Andrée Grau, Following Sir Fred's Steps - Ashton's Legacy (London: Dance
Books, 1996).
______, and Dave Allen, eds., Parallel lines : media representations of dance (London :
John Libby & Co., 1993).
______, and Geraldine Morris, Ashton to Stravinsky (London: Dance Books), video,
2005.
______, ed., Preservation Politics : dance revived, reconstructed, remade: Proceedings of
the Conference at the University of Surrey Roehampton, November, 8-9, 1997
(London : Dance Books, 2000).
______, Moving Music - Dialogues with music in twentieth-century ballet (London:
Dance Books, 2000). [video]
______, Music Dances - Balanchine Choreographs Stravinsky (New York: The George
Balanchine Foundation, 20020 [video]
Joseph, Charles, Stravinsky & Balanchine: a Journey of Invention (New Haven : Yale
University Press, 2002).
Jurgensen, Knud Arne, The Verdi Ballets (Parma: Istituto nazionale di studi verdiani,
1995).
Korsyn, Kevin, Decentering Music - A Critique of Contemporary Musical Research
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003).
Lupukhov, Fedor, Writings on ballet and Music, ed. and intro. Stephanie Jordan, trans.
Dorinda Offord (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 2002.)
Mawer, Deborah, "Ballet and the apotheosis of dance," The Cambridge Companion to
Ravel (Cambridge: Cambridge University press, 2000), pp. 140-161.
______, ed., The Cambridge Companion to Ravel (Cambridge: Cambridge University
press, 2000).
______. The Ballets of Maurice Ravel: Creation and Interpretation (Aldershot: Ashgate,
forthcoming 2005).
Mendel, Arthur, Curt Sachs, Carroll C. Pratt, Some Aspects of Musicology (New
York: The Liberal Arts Press, 1957).
Morrison, Simon, "The Origins of Daphnis et Chloé (1912)," 19th-Century Music vol.
28, no. 1 (Summer 2004), pp. 50-76.
______, Russian Opera and the Symbolist Movement (Berkeley: University of California
Press, 2001).
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Preston, Sophia, "Dance, Music and Literature - The Construction of Meanings through
an Interplay of Texts in Siobhan Davies's Bridge the Distance," Dancing Texts Intertextuality in Interpretation, ed. Janet Adshead-Lansdale (London: Dance
Books, 1999).
Smart, Mary Ann, Mimomania - Music and Gesture in Nineteenth-Century Opera
(Berkeley: University of California Press, 2004).
Smith, Marian, Ballet and Opera in the Age of Giselle (Princeton: Princeton University
Press, 2000).
Stilwell, Robynn, "Stravinsky and Balanchine : a musico-choreographic analysis of Agon",
PhD. dissertation, University of Michigan, 1994.
Wiley, Roland John, Tchaikovsky's Ballets (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1985).
Notes
1
Tchaikovsky's Ballets, p. 6.
2 The Great Cat Massacre and Other Episodes in French Cultural History, p. 5.
3 Analyzing Musical Multimedia, pp. 266-267.
4 Untwisting the Serpent.
5 Stravinsky and Balanchine, p. 13.
6 "Balanchine as I knew him", p. 66.
7 For more on the types of character dance, as explained out by nineteenth-century
commentators, see Lisa C. Arkin and Marian Smith, "National Dance in the Romantic Ballet".
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Sundaram & Pujawati
Hopes, Maps and Habits:
A cross-form inquiry into Dance-Music Contracts
in selected formal Indian and Indonesian dance
traditions
Chitra Sundaram and Ni Madé Pujawati
with musicians
Y. Yadavan – vocal, R.R. Prathap – Mridangam, Manuel Jiminez – Gangsa
Copyright 2005, Chitra Sundaram and Ni Madé Pujawati
Introduction
Different dance traditions work out their relationships with music in different ways;
affairs become particularly complicated and interesting when the dance traditions address
one another. Two performer-choreographers of standing, one a specialist in Balinese and
Javanese dance forms, and the other in a South Indian classical dance form, presented a
lecture-demonstration based on their cross-form interrogation.
The presentation
For Indonesian and Indian classical dance systems, a dance conversation necessarily
means attending to the dance-music relationships contained, or indeed generated, within
the forms. These admittedly holistic dance or performance forms consider music so
integral a part of the dance that music is hardly thought of as a ‘part’ of the ‘dance’—it is
a necessary condition. The praxis-led inquiry by a different but sympathetic cultural form
reveals the nature and potential of the understandings, arrangements and engagement
between the acoustic and the physical gesture in each of the traditional performance
forms, as well as the new contracts that need to be made for their interaction.
The lecture-demonstration set out to explore the systematic contracts between the music
and the dance within the forms as well as to elaborate on the nature of the problems and
issues encountered by the artists in such an interrogation and collaboration across the
forms. These included, for example, translation and other response strategies,
transfusion/adaptation of emotional content, choice of material and movement
vocabulary or style. Inevitably in such an exploration there are always likely to be more
questions than answers at this stage.
Some points of departure
A theme which was developed was the evident intricacy in both Balinese movementmusic and Carnatic music for Bharatanatyam. Our inquiry revealed that the dance forms,
at their pinnacle, were far more nuanced and virtuoso than is assumed by practitioners of
the other dance tradition. Further, this virtuosity was linked in complex ways with
‘knowing’ the music. However the kind of knowing was not propositional – ‘knowing
that’, but pragmatic – ‘knowing how’, in this instance knowing how to dance to the
music.
On the one hand, between highly professional dancers and musicians there is a complex
mutual understanding, exemplified in a dialogic exchange, which Balinese explicitly
recognize and call saling enyuhin. Each party recognizes what the other is doing, and works
with it, making it possible and easy for the other party to make the next step. At an
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advanced level of expertise quite new possibilities emerge on stage, which are specific to,
and dependent on, this intense interaction. In Bharatanatyam it emerges in the
vocalisation of the emotion of the narrative (sanchari-s) as well as certain rhythmic
sections such as in sawaal-jawaab. When the exploration goes cross-form, the trained artist
is able find equivalent intensity, but through a different process of intuiting and
concentrating.
On the other hand, many Kebyar dances depend upon the precise synchronization of
musical beats with movements. This is true also of jathi and other complex rhythmic
korvai-s in Bharatanatyam. Again, with experts, rather than constraining, it allows the
development of extraordinary virtuosity in physical performance. Then there are other
dance forms, notably male dances like Baris or Topèng (masked dance), which allow for
much more freedom in interpreting the music. Here the dancer takes a musical section
and the only constraint is that the sequence of music and dance should end at the same
moment. Between those moments the dancer is free to move at will. In Bharatanatyam
this happens in the interpretive sections when the text becomes a mere hook for a new
sub-narrative.
So, when the Balinese artist needed to interpret Bharatanatyam music she had to decide
which Balinese style she would use for linking dance movements to music as well as how
to interpret Bharatanatyam. She decided immediately that the most appropriate way would
be to note the musical intervals and interpret each section in her own time between them.
A Bharatanatyam piece offering a spatially discrete, iconic work but also capable of
abstract elemental interpretation provided the canvas against which both forms could
explore. Here, the acoustic gestures and improvised musical developments were the
driving force for both dancers.
In seeking to introduce the musically marked dynamic charge of the Balinese movement
into the 4-beat non-narrative piece, Alarippu, the clear issue was to enable both the
percussionist and vocalist to stay engaged to mark the movement and leave the silences –
a way of rendering music that is foreign to the form. It was admittedly tiring for the
musicians, more than the strain of continuous, ‘fill’ work. Chancing upon it in rehearsal
and not knowing what was being attempted, the Indonesian artist came into the studio
and immediately saw it as ‘Balinese’.
For the short piece exemplifying her interpretation of the 4-beats movements, she then
tried to find movements in Balinese forms, which were equivalent to those she saw
performed by the Bharatanatyam performer. Here she took as her starting point the fact
that the task was specifically to find equivalents. In this instance, as Bharatanatyam has
eye movements which resemble Balinese seledèt, and neck movements which resemble
Balinese ileg-ileg, she began with those and then fitted arm and other movements from her
Balinese repertoire as seemed most appropriate to both the eye and neck movements and
also appropriate to the Bharatanatyam movements that the other artist had used. This act
of cultural translation therefore started with the decision to find similarities. It then
consisted in locating movements that seemed related as a starting point, after which there
was more extensive choice in the selection and linking of movements related to the fixed
points that had been chosen.
An interesting point arose as to what precisely is involved in such complex acts of
‘cultural translation’. Significantly there was a parallel with what is often mis-rendered as
‘translation’ in Balinese theatre, when servants ngartiang the songs or speech in Old
Javanese of royal figures. Not only do the servants not translate in any sense that
Europeans understand it, but to do so is regarded as inadequate. Rather they take certain
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key points in the song or speech and provide a new text, which explains the background
or motivation, expatiates, expands and elaborates upon themes in the original.
Had the Balinese performer only been working with Bharatanatyam music, then she said
she would have started quite differently. She would have chosen the traditional female
style—although she could have used male, bebancihan (trans-sexual) or others). She
concluded she would also probably have chosen Lègong Kraton – the ‘classical’ dance style
from the eighteenth century, which became the progenitor of contemporary female styles
from the 1920s on. The choice of the ‘original’ dance form was interesting and, although
it remained to be explored why the Balinese artist chose that particular form, in Balinese
dance practice Lègong is the form to which Balinese often return to find examples to
adapt.
Why should this work count?
The question that the lecture set out to address was: Why does such an interrogation—its
questions and its findings—matter? There were several reasons put forward. A notable
problem was the extent to which inter-cultural investigations have been dominated by the
imposition of ‘Western’ (or ‘Northern’) paradigms—theses, methodologies and ‘first
moves’. Cross-culturally, they have typically produced ‘collaborations’ between the
‘Western’ systems and those from the rest of the world. Other voices have been heard
before, albeit on restricted terms, insofar as they have fitted into recognised frames of
reference, such as the rigid separation between music and dance. What emerged was that
a considered inter-cultural and inter-form conversation between two non-western
traditions by two non-western practitioners opened a different world of previously
unimagined possibilities.
One important implication of the implicit cultural skew in inter-cultural exploration and
education was that policies behind public funding has encouraged (perhaps especially in
Britain and Canada) what increasingly appears to be one highly favoured form: the EastWest hybrid. When the Indonesian and the Indian practitioners came together for this
research, there was neither pressure to arrive at a performance product that would be a
‘hybrid’ of any kind—in fact, there was a fear of things that would be ‘in-between’—or to
translate questions and findings into any particular mainstream frame of reference.
What emerged from the lecture-demonstration was that, in order to question and
challenge the hegemony and closure of Eurocentric models, it was necessary to explore a
dialogue between dance traditions which imagined all the relationships which constitute
dance in quite different ways.
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Composing for Interactive Dance: Paradigms for
Perception
John Toenjes
Music Director, Department of Dance
University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign
Copyright 2005, John Toenjes
Introduction
This presentation discusses aesthetic issues and artistic practices involved in creating, and
more specifically with composing music for, a work of interactive dance. First I will give
a brief overview of the field and define the parameters for this presentation. After placing
this genre in historical context, I will outline some common aesthetic concerns of
composers of interactive dance works. Lastly, I will discuss ramifications of this
investigation for current interactive dance artists, for artists interested in pursuing
interactive dance, and for teachers responsible for training the next generation of
performing artists.
Defining the Problem
I am a performing musician and composer who has long been interested in blending my
roles with those of dancer and choreographer. While exploring this idea in traditional
collaborations, I became intrigued with the possibilities afforded me by computerassisted “interactive dance.” So I embarked upon a research project designed to give me
an aesthetic context for exploration into this area, and to keep from having to “reinvent
the wheel” both technically and artistically.
But defining “interactive dance” was an unexpected first hurdle. What, precisely, is
interactivity? Choreographer Robert Wechsler (1997) writes, “Interactivity is simply the
instinctive back and forth of energy which occurs when animals come together to speak,
gesture, touch or, in the case of humans, create art.” But incorporating a computer to
automate a performance doesn’t guarantee a “back and forth.” Siegel and Jacobson,
(1988) developers of the DIEM dance system, contend that interactivity “implies
interplay between two equal parties” (p. 29). Performers, then, must have a computer
“partner” with similar capabilities or attitudes. Composer Christopher Dobrian (2003)
provides a robust definition: “The prefix inter- implies that both human and computer
can act independently and react responsively to the actions of the other …A truly
interactive instrument must have the capability to respond to input that is not previously
known to it…and must be capable of producing results that are not fully predictable” (p.
32). So additionally the computer partner must respond independently and unpredictably.
Building upon this working definition of interactivity, what, then, is interactive dance?
For not only are there staged dramatic presentations, but movement-based art
installations, installations where the art work itself is a self-contained dance, Internet
dances where performers interact with others in distant locations all over the world….
All these are considered dance, and are, indeed, interactive in some form. However, I
discovered that each of these has unique aesthetic considerations. Therefore, to limit
both the length of this presentation and my conclusions to an area where they are
applicable, I will define interactive dance as “a staged performance with dancers that
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incorporates a computer interactive system as an integral part of its conception, execution,
and aesthetic.”
Overview of Systems
At this time in history, there has come to be, in a state of stability yet still nascent with
possibility, a radically new kind of instrument: the interactive system. With a computer at its
core and digital data as its medium of manipulation, this instrument can be programmed
to react in predictable or unpredictable ways without the need for a performer or stagehand to
direct it (although the ability for a performer to do so is quite within its capabilities). This
instrument is infinitely configurable—that is, it can be changed radically, with relative ease, to
suit the needs of any artist. Furthermore, there is no distinction between space, time, the visual,
and the auditory. To an interactive system, these can all appear to be identical, and can be
fluidly transformed from one thing into another. This instrument encompasses the entire stage
space, and cannot sound without movement. And it requires artists to redefine and expand their roles to
create a work.
This radical new instrument is profoundly altering the music and dance relationship.
Music history is intertwined with technological developments in instruments—think of
how the invention of the pianoforte altered the course of music. The interactive system is
now causing dance to participate in this historical stream. One important development is
the creation of a new kind of artist, one who is fluent in several aspects of the arts and
sciences, because movement and music cannot be created separately. Movement causes music, and
music effects the formation of the choreographic gesture, through the interactive system. Choreographers
and composers are now becoming choreographer/composer/system designers. Butch
Rovan (2005), interviewed about this in the context of his piece Seine hohle Form for the
Palindrome Dance Company, said, “Exactly! …Whenever this piece…has been
performed, I [sic] always asked to be listed as ‘composer-slash-system programmer.’ ”
Mark Coniglio (2005), co-founder of the dance company Troika Ranch, and the creator
of Isadora interactive software, says, “I don’t think of myself as a composer, …because I
don’t feel like I have been focused on extending the language of music, …[but on] the
language of media, and integrating media in performance.” Of course since this genre is so
new, in practice this paradigm of the integrated artist retains elements of tradition—there
are still “composer/system designers” distinct from “choreographer/system designers.”
And though they are concerned with choreography, composers at times still feel that
musical elements need advocacy in the creative process with the choreographer, and viceversa.
A second change is that the form of the work is dependent upon music and movement being created
together. Furthermore, the morphology of the instrument itself is integral to the form of the work, to the
sound of the music, and to the gestural and spatial elements of the choreography. Dances must be
considered and structured with the instrument in mind. Again, Rovan (2005) explains:
“The dancers are…guiding this algorithm [which is] changing its behavior over the
course of the piece, so that the relationship between the dance and the sound is a result
of three strands, gesture, sound synthesis and an algorithm that is varying the mapping
between the two of them … you’re composing this intermediate thing that’s neither
dance nor music, but it’s giving rise to both.”
So with this drawing of research boundaries and exploration of the interactive system, I
began questioning interactive dance composers and choreographers about their artistic
concerns. As this presentation focuses on music composition, I have been seeking some
consensus from composers on what aesthetic parameters are paramount, and what
musical considerations are involved in creating interactive scores.
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The Systems Themselves
The interactive system consists of some device or devices that sense movement, which
are connected to a computer or computers running interactive software that decides what
to do with the data coming from those sensors, and then either software-emulated or
dedicated hardware sound, light, and video devices that carry out the computer’s
instructions.
Sensors can be categorized into two types: those that sense positions in space, and those
that sense body states (Winkler, 1995, p. 262). A dancer’s position in space is most often
sensed with “motion tracking,” done by means of a camera feed to computer software
that interprets what is seen on screen, and less often with light-beam sensors and
pressure and proximity sensors. Sensing more specific motion of joints and other body
states is done with flex sensors, muscle-tension sensors, and similar devices, the data
from which usually flows directly into the interactive software.
This central interactive software is where the compositional structures are activated.
Various types of compositional techniques are well suited to this setup, most notably,
algorithmic or rule-based composition, sample and sequence triggering, timbral
manipulation, and looping structures. I will speak more on this later, after a quick
discussion of historical context.
Historical Context
There have been proponents of various music-dance relationships over the years, from a
one-to-one correspondence, to Louis Horst’s advocacy of the “framing” role of dance
score for choreography (Toenjes, 1994, p. 26), to the Cage-Cunningham coincidental
relationship of the two arts. Similar poles exist in the nature of performing arts from art
as product, the category into which most stage works fall, to art as process, such as
dances of the Judson Church era, music of experimental composers of the 1950s and 60s,
and improvised works.
Now, however, with the ability of the interactive system to turn gesture into sound, there
arises the possibility that the dream of complete unity of music and dance could be
realized; a dream wherein one art is no more important than the other, indeed, where one
actually creates the other, both in form and content. Split-second timing allows the dancers
freedom of execution while keeping the sound score exactly in sync with the movement.
Yet this relationship encourages independence of one from the other from time to time,
and an improvisational element allows for spontaneous variations. Again, Rovan,
Wechsler, and Weiss (2001) write, “In the past, traditional models of collaboration
between composers and choreographers have subjugated either dance or music, or
sidestepped the question altogether by removing all correlation between movement and
sound… [Now] a new opportunity exists, one that results neither in subjugation nor in
conceptual abstraction. Rather, this ‘conflict’ in artistic goals is seen in the light of
heightened interactivity…by making the work of choreographer and composer interdependent rather than contingent, fused instead of segregated” (Rovan, et al., p. 47). The
interactive system allows for all approaches to the music-dance relationship to be present
in each individual work.
Common Aesthetic Concerns
Individual artists and experimenters have written about particular projects or processes,
but this paper, is I believe, one of the only attempts at a survey overview of current
practices in the field. The following is a list of aesthetic concerns common to many
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interactive dance artists. Some of them relate generically to interactive dance; some of
them are specific to composing the sound scores. Those common to the genre are:
1. Interactive works must be created in tandem—the choreographer cannot complete a
work without the composer, and vice-versa.
This is the sine qua non of interactive dance. Since each art is so dependent upon the
other, ultimately decisions of timing, gestural details, and formal balance must be made
together. Australian composer Garth Paine (2005) says, “It’s no longer that the
choreographic process is private and sacrosanct, and similarly the composer’s domain is
no longer sacrosanct, either, that dialog has to occur because you’re making the temporal
structure of the work collaboratively.”
2. Audiences must understand the connection between the performers and the
interactive system.
Though the reasons for this have not been systematically studied, audiences tend to enjoy
and understand interactive dance works better when they perceive the interactive
system’s connection to the sonic and visual output. Otherwise, there is commonly either
a “So What?” stance, or a disbelieving attitude that inhibits appreciation and
understanding. Some artists address this by making an obvious connection very near the
beginning of a work (Winkler, 1998, p. 474, and 2005). As soon as the audience gets this
connection, the artists are then free to make subtler connections and retain the audience’s
fascination.
3. Interactive works must contain an improvisatory element.
All interactive artists agree that a performance must contain some improvisatory
elements to be considered “interactive.” This contributes spontaneity and risk to the
performance, which engages both audience and dancers. The audience can become more
involved in a work if outcomes are unknown, and, since they themselves are “playing the
space,” the dancers are engaged in a more immediate and complex way than they
otherwise might be.
4. Interactive dance demands that dancers listen more deeply to, and be more involved
with, the music, and increases their presence in the space.
Not only must performers be aware of their bodies, but also of the space in all of its
dimensions, of how movement affects sound and video, and how various choices affect
the form and flow of the piece. This creates a heightened sense of presence. “They have
to really be there, they can’t just go through the motions,” says composer John Mitchell
(2005) of Arizona State University, “absolutely they listen more deeply.” Paine (2005)
talks about a different “performative language” in interactive dance, where the dancers
have a “haptic relationship” to the sound, where they can “push on the sound” and feel a
physical engagement with the sound. Composer Todd Winkler (2005) comments how the
dancers feel that they are “creating” the sound. This requires the type of dancers
composer Mark Coniglio (2005) says he needs: sensitive performers who can develop
virtuosity on his “instrument.”
5. A balance must exist between performers’ control of the interactive system and
independence from it.
In Seine hohle Form, Rovan and Wechsler programmed somewhat unpredictable times
when the interactive system would go off on its own and not be controlled by the
dancers. This design pushed the dancers to a deeper listening and greater sense of
presence, while at times allowing them the freedom to “just dance” (Rovan, 2005).
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Coniglio (2005) describes a “Sphere of Interactivity,” defined by three “axes” of
interaction, each of which is a continuum between two defining points. One axis goes
between dancer and musician. “When dancers are moving freely, they are not controlling
anything,” he says. “If you want the dancers to just dance, you have to take some control
away from them. When you move toward the musician end of the axis, they control more
music, but their dancing becomes more focused toward the requirements of the
instrument.”
6. Mapping: how materials are matched to movements
Much of the art of interactive composition concerns “mapping”—the assignment of
musical elements or processes to sensory data gathered by the interactive system.
Mapping effects several aspects of interactive dance composition, particularly the
audience’s ability to observe the connection between performers and the interactive
system, the details of musical and choreographic materials, and even more traditional
dramatic values, where the audience may perceive the closeness of the relationship
between the gesture and the sound as a sort of “consonance,” and a remoter coherence
as a sort of “dissonance” (Rovan, 2005).
7. The overall structure must be flexible, and is usually sectional: this allows control of
the dramatic arc, yet allows for variable timing of the length of, or within, each
section.
Interactive dance artists attempt to create a coherent form and dramatic arc by careful
sonic and temporal balancing of different sections of a piece, while allowing for
variations in timing and emotional response to the system. Rovan (2005), again, says that
he composes “the potential for a piece, as opposed to a piece actually…with a whole set of
decisions that will guide processes to a general route.” Handling this potential is the nub
of the artistic and aesthetic problem in structuring these works. Two technical ways to
achieve this musically are looping sonic beds with dancer-activated riffs over the top, or
sustained algorithmic processes that continue while waiting for performer input.
Several other points, specific to music composition, are:
1. A score for interactive dance is not necessarily to be judged as a self-contained piece
of music
Louis Horst’s belief that a piece of music complete in itself would not make a good
dance score (Toenjes, 1994, p. 27) is the tradition within which these works operate. This
is a necessary outcome of the way in which interactive dances are conceived and
executed. Thus, the sound score is not necessarily to be critically judged on its
completeness and beauty within itself, but on how well it integrates with the dance.
2. Dramatic Arc
That being said, though, most composers speak of trying to achieve a dramatic arc that
takes an audience on a journey of some sort throughout the work. “It’s a question of
organization and a question of emotional content,” says Coniglio (2005). “I think that
music takes us on some kind or an arc, a journey…Pure sound doesn’t take me on a
journey, but intention and context is what frames it and turns it from one thing into
another. It’s a lot about context. Something changes from sound into music when there
is structure, and some kind of journey happens in the audience.” This is one of the
aesthetic considerations specific to this genre in contrast to, say, interactive installations.
3. Algorithmic, or rule-based, composition is one of the most suitable formal
mechanisms to work with in composing for interactive dance.
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Algorithms allow for the composition to be not time-based, but rather proceed according
to the fulfillment of conditions, which allows for much greater freedom of timing for the
dancers. Such structures are not inherently dramatic, however. Fashioning algorithmic
structures that create a dramatic arc is another crucial and difficult part of the art of
composing for interactive dance.
4. Traditional compositional elements are still valid in achieving dramatic structure.
Most composers consider traditional musical techniques such as repetition and
development, and maintaining unity of timbral and thematic material, as effective means
to bind a work into a dramatic whole. No matter the style, techniques such as using
dissonance or timbral disturbance or density of sound to increase tension are still the
bedrock of dramatic interactive composition. Improvisation adds a surprise element to a
work, which composers can also use to enhance the drama. Finding ways to incorporate
what works in a traditional dramatic sense into the demands of the new instrument and
artistic paradigm is a complex puzzle in the aesthetic of interactive dance.
Conclusion
Corroborated by practitioners of the art and by experimenters in the field, this list
represents at least some common principles in interactive dance as it is now practiced.
This has ramifications for current interactive dance artists, for artists interested in
pursuing interactive dance, and for teachers of choreography and composition.
These principles can serve as starting points for intelligent critical discussion of current
artists’ work, if not in terms of quality, at least in terms of treatment of material. For
artists interested in pursuing interactive dance, they could guide basic decisions about
how to proceed into an art with seemingly limitless options. For teachers attempting to
grapple with the revolutionary impact this new art will have on their curriculum, they can
help identify areas of skill development, for example, dancing expressively while
interacting with the system, choreographing gestures with interactive systems in mind, or
balancing dramatic and rule-based music and dance structures. Other areas of study can
be identified from this list, such as mapping and gestural coherence, interactive system
design, and movement sophistication for music students.
I’m excited to have been able to talk on this topic at a conference that highlights the
music and dance relationship, because in order for interactive dance to mature, there
must be increased communication between computer musicians and dancers, and more
integrated education in performing arts schools. “The lack of progress… [in this art] has
been complicated by the tenuous threads of communication between the computer
music and dance fields,” write Rovan, et al. (2001). “Indeed, although much work has
been done recently in the world of computer music by composers/performers
developing and composing for gestural controllers, the world of dance has remained
largely isolated from these developments.” It is my hope that, just as it has aided my
progress in interactive dance, this investigation will help increase awareness among
musicians, dancers, and the critical public, and facilitate better communication between
choreographers and composers, and deepen the connection between interactive artists
and their audience.
References:
Dobrian, Christopher. 2003. Aesthetic Considerations in the Use of “Virtual” Music
Instruments. SEAMUS Journal Spring 2003; 28—33.
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Coniglio, M. 2005. Interview with the author.
Mitchell, J. 2005. Interview with the author.
Paine, G. 2005. Interview with the author.
Rovan, J. 2005. Interview with the author.
Rovan, J. B., and R. Wechsler and F. Weiss. September 2001. Artistic Collaboration in an
Interactive Dance and Music Performance Environment: Seine hohle Form, a Project
Report. Proceedings of COSIGN 2001—1st International Conference on Computational
Semiotics In Games And New Media; 43—47.
Siegel, W., and J. Jacobsen. 1998. The Challenges of Interactive Dance: An Overview and
Case Study. Computer Music Journal 22(4): 29—43.
Toenjes, John. 1994. Musicians of the Movement: The “Composer-Accompanist” in the
Formative Years of Modern Dance. Journal of the International Guild of Musicians in
Dance, 3: 24—39.
Wechsler, Robert. 2005. Artistic Considerations in the Use of Motion Tracking Systems
for Dance and Theatre. Unpublished article, available from the author.
Wechsler, Robert. 1997. O Body Swayed to Music. Leonardo, Vol. 30 Issue 5; p385, 5p.
Retrieved August 15, 2005, from Academic Search Elite database.
Winkler, T. 1998. Motion-sensing Music: Artistic and Technical Challenges in Two
Works for Dance. Proceedings of the 1998 International Computer Music Conference; 471—
474.
Winkler, T. 1995. Making Motion Musical: Gesture Mapping Strategies for Interactive
Computer Music. Proceedings of the 1995 International Computer Music Conference; 261—
264.
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Interfacing Dance. Choreographing (by) gestural
controls.
Pieter Verstraete
ASCA and Theater Studies, University of Amsterdam
Copyright 2005, Pieter Verstraete
Responsive sonification and interactivity
The title of the present conference Sound Moves invites me to reflect on those interactive
dance performances in which movement is translated into sound through interfaces, or
‘gestural controls’. I will work through a few examples from the perspective of media
and theatre theory, with a special focus on the relationships between dance gesture and
sound gesture, in terms of both the choreography and the perception of it as an open
system. My present aim is not to analyse specific gestures, interactions and gestural codes
as such, but to reflect on the notions of gesture and interactivity themselves. In this way,
I attempt to come to an understanding of the human contexts and the aesthetic values of
sonification of movement through computational systems.
The inventions of both the Theremin (by Léon Theremin) and the better-known OndesMartenot (by Maurice Martenot) around 1928 gave rise to a whole new realm of
experimentation with spatial interaction and ‘invisible’ radar-like instruments that could
produce musical sounds without much physical exertion. The electronic instruments that
would follow gave even further gestural control to the composer or the performer, but
still in a very traditional manner. Today, computer programming environments allow
sound designers, sound engineers and composers to explore real-time sound
transformation. Sensors1 make it possible to ‘watch’ human behaviour. Signal
processing interfaces enable the computer in turn to translate these movements into
algorithmic definitions, conventional rules and subroutines, in short a protocol. ‘Real-time’
is then just a matter of milliseconds in these processes.
There is a certain linearity assumed in the process. Through analysis of movement and
real-time synthesis the system does not only give an impression of interactivity, but also
of control. A protocol maintains and guards that control within the system. That is why
the computer as a multimedia musical instrument became very productive. Agostino di
Scipio clarifies this metaphor as such: “By operating the available control devices, the
agent in effect ‘plays’ the system as if it were a new kind of music instrument” (269). In
this metaphor, interactive systems are by definition ‘dedicated’ computational tools that
induce such an instrumentalization. They operate along the communicational system of
feedback, which corresponds to the cybernetic model of control with an agent providing
the signals and the decisions for the system to process.
The computer environments from the MAX/FTS family (among which most frequently
used is MAX/MSP) however allow for a different kind of interaction which goes against
this dominant paradigm of control. In its early developments, David Rokeby was one of
those creative installation artists who explored the possibilities of the computer to go
against a fetishization of control. His exploration of a ‘system of inexact control’, as he
calls it, led to the birth of a generation of installations called The Very Nervous System
(1986-1990)2. As has been numerously described in articles, the Very Nervous System uses a
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video camera (initially one but later three), a fast custom-made image signal processor,
some MIDI synthesizers, and a sound system. The use of the camera as a sensor in
combination with the Max graphical programming language makes that gestural control
and motion analysis are based on images. Turned into black and white, the video image
gives information about presence, location, relative ‘intensity’, suddenness, continuity and
speed of motion by comparing frames in terms of changes in the concentration of light.
So movement is image-based. The Very Nervous System maps images onto a user definable
grid, which generates music modulation.
The Very Nervous System became most fruitful as motion analysis software for other
installations and dance experimentation. The quick and interactive feedback loop infers
invisible, diffuse and textured interactivity so that the body has to adapt to the system
and to the environment. The spatial interaction gives an impression of composing sound
environments or sonic sculptures in which one is directly involved. Rokeby calls this a
‘shamanistic’ experience: “The self expands (and loses itself) to fill the installation
environment, and by implication the world”
(http://homepage.mac.com/davidrokeby/vns.html). The idea behind this spatial
involvement is that human and computer would change in response to each other. Much
in line with Alan Kay’s article on interface environments in 1989, the computer is not just
a computational tool, but can also be a true medium and “the very use of it would actually
change the thought patterns of an entire civilization” (Packer & Jordan 125). However,
in the context of the Very Nervous System statements are overrated and historical
contingent. The degree of interactivity was still limited and dependent on the musical
instruments previously programmed in the system. The system is not able to adjust its
own internal state and external conditions in its own process. Moreover, the user or the
‘interactor’ in the camera’s eye is more a kind of conductor, conducting a synthesized
orchestra through MIDI control. Though loss of intent and predictability of the system
make it a very diffuse instrument, the system’s behaviour is still more responsive to the
human interventions rather than interacting with them. Di Scipio comments in this
respect: “The only source of dynamical behaviour lies in the performer’s ears and mind”
(271).
As a result, a distinction should be made between two kinds of interactions: there is, on
the one hand, the responsive (feedback) system, initiated by a human agent. Such a
system can be used as a musical instrument, as a phenomenological extension of the body
or the inner self, as a semiotic tool in order to bring a certain desired expression across.
A responsive interaction system operates in an act of intentionality, linearity and control.
An interactive ‘open’ system, on the other hand, can adapt its internal state according to
the environment. Such a system serves as an interface and is much more of an instable
system, operating on the laws of intensity rather than extensity. The interaction,
however, does not only have to be computational. According to Arjen Mulder (2004), as
the Very Nervous System shows, human interactors can become interfaces between system
and environment in as much as the interactivity allows for a “virtual behavior to design
itself, develop itself to such a degree that its users experience all its incomprehensibility
and thereby learn to consciously deploy it” (Mulder 191-2). This will prove to be very
important for the performer/dancer in an interactive system. In an open interaction
system there must be a mutual adaptability and flexibility between the system and the
user.
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Choreographing interactive space
A more recent interactive approach that implements the ideas of the ‘open’ system is the
multi-user interactive environment Sensuous Geographies (2003)3 by choreographer Sarah
Rubidge and composer Alistair MacDonald. The title brings to mind Paul Rodaway’s
book from 1994 on sense perception, place and the body. The immersive audiovisual
installation specifically aims at a bodily sense of the environment through gestural
controls. The installation consists of a video tracking system linked to a Max4/MSP, and
runs on Very Nervous System (VNS) and BigEye graphical software. As an
improvement of Rokeby’s installation, the installation works with colour recognition
software and a grid of video sensors, tracking location, spatial trajectory, velocity and
proximity between visitors in the installation space. The active visitors have to wear
coloured capes and are blindfolded, which makes them more open to the technological
sensitive environment. Around the installation space there are also visitors watching the
active participants. The coloured robes are triggers for both sound and image
modulation. Specific sounds help the visitors to locate themselves and to be aware of the
distances between them. Every sound moves around the environment, following the
trajectories. Motion modulates the sounds.
In a sense, the active visitors forge trails in the open system of the installation, but their
body movements and behaviours are also ‘morphed’ by the system. By spending some
time in the interactive installation the participants explore the interactions until they
begin to play the installation as a virtual instrument. Through gestural control they
become interfaces between the environment and the computer system. Although the
system brings in unpredictability about the relations between movement and sound
gestures, it does not completely fit in a politics of ‘disempowerment’. Like Rokeby’s Very
Nervous System the visitors in the environment balance between an intense involvement
with space and intentionality. The technology encourages the users to learn about their
movements and the interactions until a kind of ‘shared’ choreographic sensibility starts to
emerge. This sensibility expresses itself through the shaping of the environment by the
presence of the human body. Sarah Rubidge explains this in terms of balance: “The
movement of a body through a space changes the balance of that space to the eye, and
also the experience of the body as it inhabits the space” (Rubidge 2). As a result, the
active visitors become performers generating emergent choreographic forms at instances
of collective spatial behaviour, observed by the surrounding audience.
Gestural controls in Sensuous Geographies allow the users to choreograph their bodies and
their surrounding space but also to choreograph the technology. At issue are not only
choreographing by gestural controls, but also choreographing the gestural controls
themselves. The agent and the viewer are inextricably linked in this conception of
intentionality and agency. Moreover, due to visual deprivation much agency is given to
the ear. Similar to how Musique Concrète put the composer in a listener’s situation by
drawing his attention to his own auditory feedback (Todoroff 35), the resulting
soundscape of concrete sounds encourages the agents in the installation to listen as
composers to their own sound gestures and events of which they are the centre of
reference. The continuous auditory response enables them to orient themselves spatially
and to observe their movements.
The emergent soundscapes also choreograph geometrical space in terms of
interchangeable dimensions, possibilities whereby the position of things become possible,
or what Maurice Merleau-Ponty has described as the spatialization of space (284).
Although virtualized and abstract to some extent, the ambience creates a notion of space,
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which is not a-topic or disembodied at all but rather folds back onto the body. The
visitors become aware of the environment through their interactions, playing the grid so
to speak. According to Arjen Mulder, this leads to a heightened awareness “that one’s
body is always open to influence and that one lives in relation to an outside” (191).
Sound moves / movement sounds
The notion of the interactive open system could make integral part of contemporary
dance performances. Sound designer Todor Todoroff and dancer/choreographer
Michèle Noiret have collaborated on many interactive projects since 1998, one of which I
will discuss here.
Mes Jours et mes Nuits (2002) is a dance solo by Michèle Noiret, in which she spatially
interacts with a recording of a poem by Joseph Noiret. The surface of the stage
functions as an interface. The iron construction is divided into four parts with one
contact microphone for each part, connected to a MAX/MSP module4. On each corner
pressure sensors have been attached to localize the centre of the dancer’s equilibrium.
According to the position on the surface different sentences or phonemes from the
poem are activated, modulated through granular synthesis algorithms and articulated
through the eight loudspeakers surrounding the stage. The sentences are spatially
allocated to six zones, which enables the dancer (Michèle Noiret) to time-stretch these
sentences according to her movements. The velocity of her dance gestures also affects
the speed of the reading (normal, backwards, speeded up, slowed down). This allows her
to play with the sounds on a microscopic level (such as vocal transitions, attack of the
consonants, etc.), thereby creating new sonoric structures. As a result, she literally moves
in sound (‘se déplacer dans le son’).
The pressure sensors and the contact mikes make it possible for the dancer to influence
the sound environment by moving around and touching the dedicated surface of the
stage. But prior to the choreography is a whole process of collaboration between sound
designer and dancer in which the design is improved and the dance gestures adapted to
the accuracy and limitations of the system. There is a significant shift in perspective for
the dancers, as Todor Todoroff remarks: “they are trained to dance on the music and
suddenly they are asked to perform part of the music. It is not always as obvious as it
seems and, like learning to play an instrument, it requires long hours of practice to
master. But before getting to that stage, an even larger amount of time has to be invested
by the composer, the designer of the interactive system, the choreographer and the
dancers in order to define, realise, program and experiment the interactions” (Todoroff
37). In other words, this change in perspective affects the whole choreographic making
process. There is also a large difference in perspective between the dancer and the visitor
of an interactive installation such as Sensuous Geographies. A dancer is highly skilled and
trained, so the sound designer has to empirically fine-tune the computer system to
accurately ‘read’ the dance idioms and define which sound processing would fit the
gestures in a specific situation.
From a perceptual perspective I would now like to coin the term ‘acousmatic dance’ for
the choreography of Mes Jours et mes Nuits. Acousmatic (borrowed from Pierre Schaeffer
and Michel Chion) marks an alleged shift or a fissure between sound and its visually
perceivable, embodied source. The sound design and soundscape-in-progress generally
mask the original body sonorities, which influences our perception of the relationships
between sound and movement. The electro-acoustically produced sounds create a new
context for the movements, which either highlights or defamiliarizes the illusion of
perceived immediacy. Sound adds here new layers of meaning, or an auditory
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‘geography’ like a second skin to the dancing body. Sound is not just the effect, but also
affects the movement. And reciprocally, the movement affects the sound. Through
motion analysis dance gestures disarrange the sentences or even parts of words in Joseph
Noiret’s pre-recorded poem. The continuity and multidirectionality of movement ‘in the
moment’ stresses that dance does not follow a segmentation into linguistic semantic
units.
Moreover, expressiveness and content of movement are at stake. So far, I have referred
to movement and gesture in conjuncture of one another, but there is a semantic
difference. The term ‘gesture’ actually implies how movement is perceived.
Traditionally, gesture is regarded as voluntary and controlled, as “a medium of expression
and externalization of a pre-existing psychic content (emotion, reaction, meaning) that
the body is intended to communicate to others” (Pavis 162). Patrice Pavis adds that
there is a countertendency to regard gesture and gestuality “as production rather than
communication of a pre-existing meaning” (162), but it still involves an intentional
production of signs. Moving along invisible grids, the dancer in Mes Jours et mes Nuits
shows the processuality rather than the production of gestural phrases by exploring new
relationships between body and sound gestures. These gestural phrases decompose the
linguistic phrases to allow continuous slippages of sense.
Interactive choreography presents itself as an open aesthetic of compositional and
choreographic process that emphasizes the role of the perceiver. Though structurally
closed in its design and grid of sensors, Mes Jours et mes Nuits unfolds itself as a ‘work in
movement’ or an open work such as Umberto Eco already proclaimed in “The Poetics of
the Open Work” (1962, transl.1989): “The poetics of the ‘work in movement’ (and partly
that of the ‘open’ work) sets in motion a new cycle of relations between the artist and his
audience, a new mechanics of aesthetic perception, a different status for the artistic
product in contemporary society. . . . It poses new practical problems by organizing new
communicative situations. In short, it installs a new relationship between the contemplation
and the utilization of a work of art” (Eco 174). Similarly, Mes Jours et mes Nuits proposes a
different kind of communication and relationship between dance and sound gestures.
While the dancer learns to utilize the system as a musical instrument affecting the
immediate environment, the spectator contemplates from a distance either the technical
know-how of the system or the communication through gestures in terms of surfacing
meaning or playfulness.
Experiencing choreography sonically and visually (‘skynaesthetic’)
The related concepts of the open system and the open work solicit a discussion on how
the performance retains choreographic and aesthetic value. The perception of the dance
performance as a consistent and cohesive ‘work’ is very much related to the presence of
the dancing body in the installation space. Todoroff points out that quite obviously the
interacting bodies are viewed as dancers in the first place, and that therefore “their
movements should keep a choreographic value and a meaning beyond the control issue”
(Todoroff 37). The dancing body actually ‘disturbs’ the system of control. It intervenes.
It moves in pursuit of the edges, where the system fails to induce power. In this context,
Arjen Mulder regards the intervention as the prerogative for the aesthetic value:
“Interactive art is art whose autonomy must be disturbed by the visitor for it to be art at
all. An interactive work of art is a system that seeks to become a network (or vice versa)”
(Brouwer & Mulder 5).
The network Mulder is alluding to is a network between the author (choreographer,
dancer, sound designer), the perceiver and the work itself. Correspondingly, Umberto
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Verstraete
Eco envisioned that “the work in movement is the possibility of numerous different
personal interventions but it is not an amorphous invitation to indiscriminate
participation” (172). The open work, insofar as it is in movement Eco concludes, is
“characterized by the invitation to make the work together with the author and . . . the
addressee must uncover and select in his act of perceiving the totality of incoming
stimuli” (174). In other words, the interactive choreography as both work in movement
and coherent work moves our perception in terms of a network between visual and sonic
stimuli. It shifts our attention from visual geometric space to acoustic space.
In conclusion, interactive choreography by gestural control induces different
communicative ways of perception, both synaesthetically and kinaesthetically.
Acousmatic dance generates synaesthetic geographies for both the eye and the ear to
explore in unusual interactions. While sight symptomatically separates, distances,
distinguishes movement in terms of points of reference and angles, sound places one
within a world (Hull 1990; Rodaway 102). The interactivity between body and sound
environment enables the dancer to affect the spectator in a muscular sense, a kinaesthetic
response (Pavis 194). I compared the soundscape to a skin, a layer added to the
perception of the body. In an earlier article I whimsically called the immersive
experience ‘skyn-aesthetic’ (Verstraete 8). Though gestural control allows for a new type
of intimacy for the dancer and corporeal immediacy between sound and movement for
the spectator, the sound environment remains an indefinable presence, an open space for
uncontrollability. In an interactive open system, gestural control is about loosing control
enabling a renewed sensibility of choreography and space.
Pieter Verstraete, http://home.medewerker.uva.nl/p.m.g.verstraete/
Amsterdam, October 2005
References
Ascott, Roy (1990). “Is There Love in the Telematic Embrace?”. Packer, Randall & Ken
Jordan 303-16.
Brouwer, Joke and Arjan Mulder. “Feelings are always local”. Feelings are always local.
Rotterdam: V2_Publishers & NAi Publishers 2004: 4-5.
Cox, Christoph and Daniel Warner, ed. Audio Culture: Readings in Modern Music. New York &
London: Continuum 2004.
di Scipio, Agostino. “‘Sound is the interface’: from interactive to ecosystemic signal
processing”. In: Organised Sound 8(3). UK: Cambridge UP 2003: 269-77.
Eco, Umberto (1989). “The Poetics of the Open Work”. Cox, Christoph & Daniel
Warner 167-75.
Kay, Alan (1989). “User Interface: A Personal View”. In: Packer, Randall & Ken Jordan
121-31.
Lovejoy, Margot. Digital Currents: Art in the Electronic Age. New York & London:
Routledge, Taylor and Francis Group 2004.
Massumi, Brian. Parables for the Virtual: Movement, Affect, Sensation. Durnham & London:
Duke UP 2002.
Merleau-Ponty, Maurice. Phenomenology of Perception. Transl. Colin Smith. London & New
York: Routledge Classics 2002 (Repr. 2005).
Mulder, Arjen. Understanding Media Theory: Language, Image, Sound, Behavior. Transl. Laura
Martz. Rotterdam: V2_/NAi Publishers 2004.
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Packer, Randall & Ken Jordan, red. (2001), Multimedia: From Wagner to Virtual Reality, New
York & London, W.W.Norton & Company.
Pavis, Patrice. Dictionary of the Theatre: Terms, Concepts, and Analysis. Transl. Christine
Shantz, Preface by Marvin Carlson. Toronto & Buffalo: University of Toronto
Press 1998.
Rodaway, Paul. Sensuous Geographies: Body, sense and place. London & New York: Routledge
1994.
Rubidge, Sarah. “Choreographing the Virtual Domain”. A Performative Paper given at
Digital Creativity CADE 2001, Glasgow, April 2001.
Schaeffer, Pierre (1977). “Acousmatics”. Cox, Christoph and Daniel Warner 76-81.
Todoroff, Todor. “The Influence of Gestural Controls in Electroacoustic Musical
Composition”. Unpublished article. In: Proceedings Colloquium ‘Past, Present and
Future of Technology in Music’, 18th Meeting FWO-Research Society ‘Foundations of
Music Research’, 18 & 19 October 2003, ed. Dirk Moelants, Ghent: IPEM-Dept. of
Musicology 2003: 34-9.
Verstraete, Pieter. “Sounding against the Grain”. Unpublished article. ASCA
conference Sonic Interventions: Pushing the Boundaries of Cultural Analysis, 29-31 March
2005. Forthcoming in Thamyris, Amsterdam: Rodopi 2006.
Winkler, Todd. “Creating Interactive Dance with the Very Nervous System”. In:
Proceedings of the 1997 Connecticut College Symposium on Arts and Technology. Online
paper. 2 November 2005. Available FTP:
http://www.brown.edu/Departments/Music/faculty/winkler/papers/Interactive_
Dance_1997.pd.pdf.
More info on Todor Todoroff & Cie Michèle Noiret
www.michele-noiret.be
Alexandra de Laminne: alexandra@michele-noiret.be (communication)
Cathy Zanté: cathy@michele-noiret.be (administration)
Cie Michèle Noiret, 58 Rue de la Lys, 1080 Brussels, Belgium
T +32 (0)2 425 89 37
F +32 (0)2 425 89 39
Notes
1
Many sensors are easily available, such as ultrasound sensors, infrared sensors, pressure
sensors, flexion sensors, acceleration sensors, contact microphones and video analysis (BigEye,
VNS, Cyclops, EyesWeb).
2 Rokeby’s The Very Nervous System won the PetroCanada Media Arts Award in 1988 and the Prix
Ars Electronica Award of Distinction for Interactive Art in 1991. It is financially assisted by the
Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council. See for more information:
http://homepage.mac.com/davidrokeby/vns.html.
3 Details of its first presentation in February 2003 can be found on
www.sensuousgeographies.co.uk.
4 Todor Todoroff often uses among other extraction and analysis/re-synthesis modules his own
“iana~” MAX/MSP external, an extraction module that follows psycho-acoustic criteria.
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Abstracts and Biographies
Daniel Albright
Golden Calves: Opera and the Idolatry of Dance
Operatic ballet is a special case of a general problem: what happens when two distinct
artistic media converge? Either they are completely irrelevant to one another (a situation
not unknown in operatic ballet), or they must try to meet either on the level of content or
technique. Here I examine how ballet may try to meet the opera that contains it by (1)
providing relief from the stress of plot (Meyerbeer’s Le prophète); (2) carrying out its action
through pantomime (Verdi’s Macbeth); (3) to complement opera by doing what opera by
doing what opera cannot do: (a) by providing sexuality untransposed into the vocal
medium (Samson et Dalila, Salome) or (b) by providing a portal into some other dimension
of experience. I discuss this Mallarmé-like veering of ballet into transcendence in
Roussel’s Padmâvatî and Britten’s Death in Venice.
Daniel Albright teaches English literature and music at Harvard University. He has
written on the modern novel and the theory of the lyric, but most of his recent work has
been in comparative arts, the study of places where various artistic media touch or
intersect one another. Two recent books that treat these problems are Untwisting the
Serpent: Music, Literature, and the Visual Arts, and Modernism and Music: An Anthology of
Sources.
Alastair Bannerman
Connecting Spaces – Motion-capture, Dance, Sound. (formerly Dancing
Sound – Sounding Dance)
This paper will present an account of a project undertaken at IRCAM, Paris, around two
years ago, using a combination of motion-capture and real-time sound synthesis to create
an interactive work for dancer, solo flute and live electronics. I will begin by outlining the
initial aims of the project, then cover in more detail the project itself. I will give, firstly, a
brief outline of the technology used, then speak more on the artistic aims, the working
process and the problems encountered. Following the showing of a segment of the work
I will evaluate the finished work, addressing the issues raised by the experience of
working on this project and giving the conclusions I arrived at.
Alastair Bannerman is a composer with several years experience working with dance,
both on artistic collaborations and as a class accompanist. Now based in London, for
several years he worked with BEAST while studying studio composition at Birmingham
University. His works include both instrumental and electroacoustic pieces. In 2002-3 he
attended the IRCAM cursus for composers, supported by a Bourse Entente Cordiale,
where he created a real-time, interactive work Connected Spaces for flute, dancer and live
electronics, performed there in October 2003. alijban@hotmail.co.uk
204
Theresa Buckland
The Musical Life of a Late Victorian Dancing Master: From Familiar Melody to
Alien Jazz
A number of late Victorian dancing masters in England maintained a tradition of musical
competence and creativity inherited from the eighteenth century. Choreographic and
musical composition complemented their profiles as teachers of society dancing,
especially in their innovation of dances to perform in the ballroom. In the early 1900s,
the arrival of African-American rhythms, together with shifts in dance music production
and response, threatened the traditional expertise of the dancing master as both musician
and dancer. This paper examines the changing social and artistic contexts of the musical
lives of teachers such as Louis D’Egville, Robert Compton and Edward Scott and charts
their reactions to new sounds and waves of moving.
Theresa Jill Buckland is Professor of Performing Arts at De Montfort University,
Leicester, England, an executive board member of the Society for Dance Research and
Vice Chair of the International Council for Traditional Music Study Group on
Ethnochoreology. Her publications include the edited collections, Dance in the Field:
Theory, Methods and Issues in Dance Ethnography (Macmillan, 1999) and Dancing from Past to
Present: Nation, Culture, Identities (University of Wisconsin Press, forthcoming 2006). She is
currently working on a monograph, Society Dancing: Fashionable Bodies in Victorian and
Edwardian England.
Anne Daye
Breaking Time: Dance Music in Early Seventeenth-Century England
Breaking Time refers to the subversion of the normal step/music relationship of Early
Modern dance practice in the innovative practice of the Stuart dance theatre. The paper
will describe the fundamental principle of this norm, called ‘measure’, and its aesthetic
power as the epitome of universal harmony in Renaissance theory. It will then show how
the normal measures of dancing were disrupted to express evil and discord in the Stuart
antimasque.
Anne Daye lectures in Dance Studies at London Contemporary Dance School and
London Studio Centre (University of the Arts, London). She is also Chairman of
Dolmetsch Historical Dance Society. Research into dances of the past and their historical
context is pursued through teaching and publication. Investigation of the Stuart Masque
at doctoral level combines documentary research, practical reconstruction and literary
analysis.
Rachel Duerden
Dancing in the ‘Imagined Space’ of Music: Some Thoughts on the
Relationship of Physical and Acoustic Gestures in Contemporary
Choreography
In the complementary relationship of dance and music, dance seems to have moved into
what Roger Scruton (1997) describes as ‘the imaginary space of music’ and, at the same
time, to have drawn music into the ‘real space’ of performance. The relationship is
steeped in metaphor as we are invited to perceive one in the light of the other. Linking
two disparate entities by metaphor first draws attention to a clear point of contact
between the two, and then invites us to consider further connections – we imagine
205
further attributes of one being transferred to the other, creating ghostly resonances
beyond that first connection. Balanchine’s Agon and Morris’ Falling Down Stairs offer
starting points for a consideration of some aspects of this relationship.
Rachel Duerden is senior lecturer in Dance at Manchester Metropolitan University,
where she led the dance programmes from 1992-2005. Her book on the choreographic
style of Antony Tudor was published in 2003 by Associated University Presses. Other
writing includes critical essays on a variety of choreographers for The International
Dictionary of Ballet and 50 Contemporary Choreographers. Her research interests focus on
dance-music relationships in contemporary choreography, theories of dance analysis and
the role of notation in performance, choreography and analysis. She gained her PhD on
the work of Antony Tudor from the University of Surrey in 1993.
Karen Eliot
Asserting the Rhythms: Moving Music in Student Performances of Merce
Cunningham’s “Inlets 2”
Inlets 2 is a 1983 dance choreographed by Merce Cunningham with music by John Cage
and designs and costumes by Mark Lancaster. I present a case study documenting the
challenges of teaching the rhythmic values and “musicality” of this Cunningham work to
two groups of student dancers. I detail my efforts to teach the Cunningham/Cage
concept of the autonomy of music and dance. I tried to help students assert group
phrases, while maintaining their freedom to play within durational time, and to enable
them to be still. A final element of this presentation deals with the actual interconnection
between the choreography and the Cage score during performance. One group danced to
live music, with three musicians following Cage’s score for 12 conch shells and the
sounds of burning pine cones. The other group performed to a recorded version of
Cage’s music. The contrast between these two experiences is also explored.
Karen Eliot is Associate Professor of Dance at the Ohio State University in the United
States. A former member of the Merce Cunningham Dance Company, Karen teaches
ballet and modern technique and dance history. She maintains an active presence in the
studio while continuing her research in dance history. Karen is currently coaching
students in various solos from Cunningham’s Changing Steps, and is conducting research
on the British Ballet during the Second World War. She serves as the Recording Secretary
for the Society of Dance History Scholars.
Allen Fogelsanger
On the Edges of Music: Trisha Brown’s Set and Reset and Twelve Ton Rose
Laurie Anderson's music for Trisha Brown's dance Set and Reset is a mix of various
sometimes-repeating loops and almost-repeating melodies, the aggregate of which varies
to provide "thicker" and "thinner" textures. The changing sound textures play with and
against the succession of duets, trios and larger groups in the choreography. Anton
Webern's music for Brown's dance Twelve Ton Rose is atonal and serial. While the music is
highly structured, many listeners do not recognize the organization, so that it effectively
operates similarly to Anderson's in not forcing a mid-level structure against the dance.
The individual movements of the music set landmarks which Brown variously chooses to
ignore, strictly follow, or play around the edges of. Brown's use of music is comparable
to both Balanchine's and Cunningham's in that it occupies a number of different
positions on the continuum between their examples.
206
Allen Fogelsanger is the Director of Music for the Cornell University Dance Program.
He received his PhD from Cornell University in mathematics, and has studied music
composition with Burt Fenner, Steven Stucky, and Karel Husa, and dance composition
with David Gordon. He has composed music for dances choreographed by Chris Black,
June Finch, Joyce Morgenroth, Jim Self, Byron Suber, and others, and written music for
experimental video. The courses he teaches focus on the relationships between music
and dance, and he has directed dance improvisation groups using his experience in music
improvisation. Additionally he accompanies dance classes.
Johanna Frymoyer
Ballet as the Subject’s Speech: Defining Classical Gesture in Prokofiev’s
Romeo and Juliet
The Soviet premiere of Romeo and Juliet in January 1940 was fraught with conflict. While
the Kirov management demanded that Sergei Prokofiev rework the score to conform to
ballet convention, the composer was stubborn and unwilling to compromise. Prokofiev’s
behavior indicates that the score outlined his clear vision of the modern, full-length
Soviet ballet genre that he hoped to create. Prokofiev’s struggle to move away from the
classical ballet tradition is expressed through the music, and subsequently the
choreography, in the conflict between two distinct vocabularies of movement, one
balletic and the other “non-balletic” (i.e. social dance and pantomime). The tragic ending
departs with the usual depictions in classical ballet of the supernatural world, and instead
explores a new expressive role of balletic gesture that enables a realist affirmation of
human existence in this world.
Johanna Frymoyer is a graduate student in musicology at Princeton University. Her
research interests include Russian ballet in the early twentieth century and dance in finde-siècle opera. She has presented papers at chapter meetings of the American
Musicological Society on twelfth century organum purum and Strauss’s operas Salome and
Elektra. She holds a Bachelor of Music in violin performance from Vanderbilt University
and studies ballet and modern dance at Princeton University and the Princeton Ballet
School.
Beth Genné and Christian Matjias
Collaborating in the Melting Pot: George Balanchine, Vernon Duke and
American Music
We explore Balanchine’s collaboration with Vladimir Dukelsky (aka Vernon Duke), a
Russian composer who was, in many ways, as significant to his career as Stravinsky but
remains largely unexamined. Like Balanchine, Duke worked for Diaghilev, but went on
to make his career in America. There, under the influence of Duke’s mentor and friend,
George Gershwin and his brother Ira, both Duke and Balanchine transformed their art
radically in response to the new world of music and dance born of the American
“melting pot” by fusing jazz and classical idioms to make seminal contributions to
American musical theatre and films. The paper is illustrated with examples of
unpublished Duke-Balanchine and Gershwin-Balanchine ballets including Balanchine’s
personally annotated and edited score for a ballet to a libretto of Ira Gershwin for
George Gershwin’s An American in Paris, which was created but ultimately cut from The
Goldwyn Follies.
207
Beth Genné, Ph.D., is Associate Professor of Dance in the Department of Dance and
Associate Professor of Art History in the Arts and Ideas Concentration in the Residential
College at the University of Michigan, Ann Arbor. She is a co-founder of the University
of Michigan’s Center for World Performance Studies and serves on the executive
committee of the Center for Russian and East European Studies. She is the author of
The Making of a Choreographer: Ninette de Valois and Bar aux Folies-Bergere. Her articles have
been published in The Dancing Times, Dance Research, Dance Chronicle, The International
Encyclopedia of Dance and she has published chapters in Following Sir Fred’s Steps, Envisioning
Dance on Film and Video, the Living Dance: an Anthology of Essays on Movement and Culture and
most recently in Re-Thinking Dance History History and Teaching Dance Studies. She organized
the International Balanchine Centenary Symposium in October, 2003 in Ann Arbor and
was director of research for Balanchine’s Hollywood films for the Balanchine
foundation’s “Popular Balanchine “ project: her findings on Balanchine’s contribution to
American cinema were most recently presented at the Film Society of Lincoln Center and
the Balanchine Centenary Symposium in St. Petersburg, Russia. Her most recent research
on the artistic relationship of Balanchine and Josephine Baker is forthcoming in Discourses
in Dance.
Christian Matjias, Associate Professor of Dance and Music at the University of
Michigan, holds degrees in Harpsichord and Early Music Performance from the
University of Southern California. As a dance-music specialist equally versed in the ballet,
modern, and Latin dance repertoire, Christian is recognized for his work in dance
reconstruction, performance, and composition. He is editor of The George Balanchine
Critical Editions (with Tina Curran), and reconstructed the score for North Star (Philip
Glass, Lar Lubovitch, 1978). He has produced two CDs of original compositions and a
disc of classical ballet pas de deux. Artist Website: http://christianm.org
Moira Goff
Trumpets and Flutes: Music and Dance in John Weaver’s The Loves of Mars
and Venus
John Weaver’s The Loves of Mars and Venus, first performed at London’s Drury Lane
Theatre on 2 March 1717, is widely acknowledged to be one of the most important
works in the history of dancing. Both the music and the dance for this work are lost, and
it cannot be reconstructed. However, there are a number of contemporary sources
which provide clues to what audiences saw and heard in 1717. This paper takes the first
step towards a recreation of The Loves of Mars and Venus by investigating these sources, to
see whether Weaver’s use of music and dance in his first ‘Dramatick Entertainment of
Dancing’ was as ‘novel and foreign’ as he claimed in the preface to his published
description of the work.
Moira Goff specialises in English and French court and theatre dancing of the late
seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries. She has published numerous articles and
papers, and has reconstructed and performed many of the dances recorded in
Beauchamp-Feuillet notation during the early 1700s. In 2001, she was awarded a
doctorate for her thesis on the English dancer-actress Hester Santlow, and she is
currently working on a book on Santlow’s life and career. Moira is also a curator of rare
books at the British Library in London.
208
Karin Greenhead and Selma Odom
Dalcroze Eurhythmics in the Professional Training of Dancers and Musicians:
An Interview with Karin Greenhead
Karin Greenhead, England’s leading specialist in Dalcroze Eurhythmics, has worked
internationally with musicians, dancers, choreographers, teachers, opera and ballet
companies, orchestras and chamber ensembles. Video clips will illustrate a “live”
interview with Greenhead, who taught at the Royal Ballet School in the 1980s and since
1989 at Central School of Ballet, where founder Christopher Gable invited her to
develop courses in Eurhythmics and singing. The interview will focus also on how
Greenhead applies Dalcroze work to coaching musicians in concert repertoire at Royal
Northern College of Music. The purpose of the session is to shed light on the core
practices of Eurhythmics that can enable dancers and musicians to enhance performance
and develop creativity. This often-misunderstood pedagogy has influenced many
musicians and dancers since its beginnings a century ago.
Karin Greenhead is a singer, pianist and teacher of Dalcroze Eurhythmics. She has
developed original applications and designed courses for dancers, musicians, teachers and
accompanists using a contemporary understanding of movement and learning processes.
She has taught for Northern Ballet Theatre, the Royal Ballet School and Central School
of Ballet and given intensive courses for the National Ballet School, the School of
Toronto Dance Theatre and York University in Canada. She also has taught extensively
in Italy, the United States, Spain, Switzerland, Germany, Poland, Norway, Australia,
Japan and Singapore. Her work with musicians covers opera, orchestra, chamber music
and soloists and is the subject of current research.
Selma Odom is Professor of Dance and Women’s Studies at York University in
Toronto, Canada, where she initiated the M.A. Programme in Dance. She teaches courses
in dance history, world dance, writing and research methods. Her articles and reviews
have appeared in many books, journals, magazines and newspapers since the 1960s. Her
research focuses on teachers and oral transmission in twentieth-century dance and music.
Current projects include Musicians Who Move: People and Practice in Dalcroze Eurhythmics, a
book and correlating web site. She co-edited the anthology Canadian Dance: Visions and
Stories (2004).
Wayne Heisler
The Art(isticity) of Music and Dance in Schlagobers by Richard Strauss and
Heinrich Krőller
Dancer-choreographer Heinrich Kröller and composer Richard Strauss collaborated on
several ballets for the Vienna Ballet, including Schlagobers (Whipped Cream, 1924). In
Strauss's scenario, a group of children celebrate confirmation by consuming sweets in a
local Konditorei where the confections come to life. Eyewitnesses took this ballet very
seriously as evidence of the composer's tendency towards stylization over substance and
a cloying Artistik (artisticity), connoting kitsch as opposed to art, targeting the incongruity
between the frivolous scenario and symphonic-developmental trajectory of the score.
Strauss's music seemed to debase Kröller's choreography; Schlagobers was deemed
inappropriate for Vienna's revered Staatsoper and more suited to one of the city's revue
theaters.
A reexamination of the choreomusical relationships in the ballet's centerpiece—a
"Whipped Cream Waltz"—suggests a mutually sardonic representation of Viennese
209
culture and Romantic ballet blanc, and offers a glimpse into the intersection of popular
culture and ballet in interwar Vienna.
Wayne Heisler completed the Ph.D. in Musicology at Princeton University with a
dissertation entitled, "'Freedom from the earth's gravity': The Ballet Collaborations of
Richard Strauss" (2005). He has presented his research at conferences of the Society for
Dance History Scholars and the American Musicological Society, and moderated a panel
entitled "Lip Service" at the 2005 Experience Music Project (EMP) Pop Conference in
Seattle. His publications include an essay on 1980s pop icon Cyndi Lauper in ECHO: a
music-centered journal (2004). Wayne is currently a Visiting Assistant Professor and Acting
Coordinator of Music History at The College of New Jersey.
Jamie Jewett
Rest/Less: Performing Interactivity in Dance, Music and Text
The relatively new area of “dance and technology” explores how interactivity can
function as a critical aesthetic feature. REST/LESS asks questions about the inherently
interdisciplinary and multifarious world in which interactivity appears, specifically the
world of the thinking mind as it manifests simultaneously in music, movement and text.
The very nature of REST/LESS is a translation of text into music and movement, and
movement back into text and music, exploring the ways in which “travel” across a space
results in a non-linear, non-recursive, kinetic “reading” of the environment so that form
becomes content, a reversal of figure and ground uncommon in most postmodern dance.
REST/LESS is based on a book-length graphic poem, in which phrases are handwritten
on hand-drawn grids. The music for the performance is created through an analysis of
the spoken poetic phrases from the grids. This analysis generates virtual “winds” which
“strike” a series of computer-modeled chimes and gongs, resulting in a surroundsoundscape of wind and music.
Jamie Jewett is the director of Lostwax Productions, a multi-media dance theater
company that seeks to examine the visceral cusp between installation, performance space
and narrative through the use of technology. Jewett has choreographed and performed
across the U.S. as well as in Bali, Java and Nepal. His works such as After the Fall
(Danspace at St. Mark’s, 2003), Seven Veils (HERE, 2004), Snowblind (IMMEDIA
commission, 2001), Kindly Bent to Ease Us(2001), and as far back to Glyph (1996), and
A Cloud In Trousers (1997) utilize interactivity and projections of cinematic imagery
coupled with live closed-circuit video.
Thalia Field’s poetry is published by New Directions (Point and Line, 2000;
Incarnate:Story Material, 2004) and Coffee House Press (Clown Shrapnel, 2007). Her
performance work has been published in Theater magazine and seen in venues from
New York to Austin, TX. She is on the faculty of the Literary Arts Program at Brown
University.
Rebecca Lazier
Making Schoenberg Dance
This lecture/video presentation will describe the process of making Arnold Schoenberg’s
String Trio Opus 45 dance by developing physical gestures related to the actual musical
syntax, rather than simply mimicking the Trio’s rhythmic patterns or responding
emotionally to the overall effect. In the Trio Schoenberg juxtaposes two musical worlds:
one that includes a tonal progression and an unexpectedly lyrical melodic line; and
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another that extends serial methods using sounds “poised at the edge of incoherence.”
Questions that inspired the choreographic process included: What might atonality –
Schoenberg’s partitioned 12-tone rows – look like? Can one liberate movement from the
sequencing and patterning that imply “tonal” gestures? Video excerpts will demonstrate
how the syntax of Schoenberg’s Trio prompted the creation of a 12-pitch movement
structure that uses chance-based operations juxtaposed with movement sequences
derived from idiosyncratic gestures emblematic of the aural effect of atonality. The
presentation aims to show how Schoenberg’s complex music language inspired a dance
that hovers between life and death.
Rebecca Lazier is the artistic director of Terrain, on faculty at Princeton University, and
the Festival Director of the White Mountain Summer Dance Festival. Currently based in
Brooklyn, Lazier danced at the Royal Winnipeg Ballet, graduated from The Juilliard
School and was a longtime rehearsal director and dancer for Laura Glenn. Lazier has
created over thirty works collaborating with musicians, sound designers, theater directors,
and founded Terrain in 2001. Lazier and Terrain have performed in many venues in
New York including The Guggenheim, Danspace Project, Movement Research, and The
Kitchen, and performed in Turkey, Russia, Canada, and across the US.
Alessandra Lopez y Royo
The Prince of the Pagodas, Gong and Tabuh-Tabuhan: Balinese music and
dance, classical ballet and Euro-American composers and choreographers.
The music and dance relationship is here explored with reference to the work of 20th
century choreographers and composers whose inspiration was Balinese gamelan music.
The paper will look at two works, The Prince of the Pagodas by Cranko, rechoreographed by
MacMillan, and Gong by Mark Morris and will discuss their musical interconnection
through the work of composers McPhee and Britten, and the relationship of their
choreography with Balinese dance. It will consider issues of influence and cultural
appropriation, of transformation and translation and will also focus on the negotiation
of sexual identity through the use of the gamelan as a gay marker among 20th century
North American composers.
Alessandra Lopez y Royo, PhD, is senior lecturer, Dance Programmes, Roehampton
University. She convenes a project investigating Indonesian dance and music heritage
on behalf of the AHRC Research Centre for Cross-cultural Music and Dance
Performance, a joint initiative of the School of Oriental and African Studies, University
of London, Roehampton University and the University of Surrey. Recipient of several
international research awards and research fellowships, she has to her credit numerous
publications including a special issue in two volumes of Contemporary Theatre Review
(Taylor and Francis) entitled Indonesian Performing Arts: Tradition and Transition (vol.
11, part 1 and part 2, 2001; now available online at
www.onlinepublications.pwp.blueyonder.co.uk/1.html) . She is currently working on a
book focused on the Indonesian choreographer and director Sardono W. Kusumo and
the kontemporer genre in Indonesian dance.
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Lesley Main
A Musical Exploration of Doris Humphrey’s Passacaglia with Special
Reference to how Musical Interpretation Can Influence Directorial
Interpretation and Performance of a Dance Work
This paper will consider the music-dance relationship within Doris Humphrey’s
Passacaglia, choreographed in 1938 to J.S. Bach’s Passacaglia and Fugue in C Minor. Evidence
indicates that Humphrey’s creative process was influenced by Leopold Stokowski’s
interpretation of Bach’s composition. The dance work evolved because of and through
the interconnecting choreo-musical relationships that existed on two levels - in a
structural context between choreography and music, and in a dynamic context between
choreography and orchestration. The juxtaposition of these two contexts has created a
work that may not otherwise have existed. Reference is made to a contemporary
interpretation of Passacaglia in which interdisciplinarity underpins directorial intention,
with the central focus being the ‘sound’ created by the Stokowski orchestration.
Exploring the dance from this musical perspective produced a very different version of
the work from past reconstruction-based stagings. The increased range of music-dance
interactions that were made possible created new insights into the dance work.
Lesley Main: Principal Lecturer in Dance at Middlesex University, specialising in the
work of Doris Humphrey. She has worked with leading Humphrey exponent, Ernestine
Stodelle, since 1985 and has performed and directed Humphrey's major ensemble works.
She is director of the Doris Humphrey Foundation in the UK and is guest director for
the Turin-based company ‘ARKE’ in Italy, where she will be staging Passacaglia and Water
Study in 2006. In 2003, Main completed her PhD at Roehampton University. Publications
include articles for Dance Theatre Journal, Dance Research, Preservation Politics (2000, ed.
Jordan, S.); conference presentations in the UK, Italy and Germany.
Deborah Mawer
Balanchine’s La Valse (1951, revised 1974): implications and meanings for
Ravel studies
Musicology has much to gain from engaging with choreography as illustrated by relating
Ravel studies and Balanchine’s La Valse. Balanchine’s realization provides a powerful
vehicle for artistic mediation between ‘inherent’ musical meaning and that emerging from
broader socio-cultural exposure. It yields exciting ontological questions and intertextual
networks that highlight particular Ravel traits. It also enables more unexpected,
hermeneutic insights in interpreting Ravel biography, relating to the composer’s
preoccupation with death and his sexuality, in the light of Benjamin Ivry’s controversial
claim (Maurice Ravel: A Life, New York, 2000). Secondarily, the work serves as a case
study for testing theories of conceptual blending, primarily Nicholas Cook’s ‘Theorizing
musical meaning’ (Music Theory Spectrum, 23/2, 2001), derived from Gilles Fauconnier.
The approach also acknowledges theories of media consonance and dissonance in Daniel
Albright’s Untwisting the Serpent (Chicago, 2000).
Ravel presents an intriguing music−dance paradox. He is a knowledgeable enthusiast of
dance and theatrical spectacle. He finds the dances of his beloved Pays Basque ‘nimble,
with a restrained voluptuousness’; of Mother Goose he exclaims: ‘I wanted everything to be
danced as much as possible. Dance is an admirable art.’ Conversely, his scores can create
choreographic difficulties. In 1920, Diaghilev famously rejected La Valse; later, Massine
with his flawed Opéra-Comique production declared: ‘my choreography was defeated by
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the [music’s] monotony’. Why the paradox? Partly because of the fluid nature of dance,
intrinsic to Ravel’s musical conception to the extent that some would argue dance to be
subsumed within music that is complete. Partly because of Ravel’s aesthetic of ‘kindred
arts’, espousing craftsmanship, form, synthesis, and even synaesthesia: ‘For me, there are
not several arts, but one alone.’ But this is not a Wagnerian Gesamtkunstwerk philosophy,
Ravel’s outlook emanates from Baudelairean Correspondances; he composes La Valse as a
‘poème chorégraphique pour orchestre’. And while Diaghilev rejected La Valse,
Balanchine proved its worth.
Firstly, Balanchine’s La Valse may be interpreted as a conceptual mediation, after the
event, between conflicting intrinsic and extrinsic meanings following its musical
composition in 1920. For Ravel the piece was only about the ‘fantastic, fatal whirling’ of
the Viennese waltz, and he rejected contemporaries’ insistence that it denoted the
collapse of the Habsburg Empire, or the Franco-Prussian War. Through a Conceptual
Integration Network, one can plot Ravel’s stance, which privileges certain attributes in
relation to his brief scenario, against the stance of his critics. Balanchine’s approach
posited as ‘blended space’ enables at least a partial reconciliation focusing, post-World
War II, on a dramatic and tragic individual death, but one that is fictitious.
Secondly, relating music and dance directly produces another rich ‘blended space’,
generated by sufficient ‘dissonance’. Balanchine’s ‘dance space’ reveals strong parallels
with Edgar Allan Poe’s Masque of the Red Death, surrealism via Cotillon to the music of
Chabrier, the importance of sacrifice (anticipating choreographic endings of Le Sacre),
and a coupling of Valses nobles and La Valse. Such interactions do yield additional
meaning for Ravel studies: a new ontology, with surprising ‘objets sonores’ that connect
Ravel’s pre- and post-war waltz essays and revised formal proportions; secondly,
suppressed yearning and sexual desire projected so tellingly in 1951 by Tanaquil
LeClercq; and, lastly, strengthened literary links with Poe and the grotesque postdating
‘Le Gibet’ from Gaspard de la nuit.
Methodologically, the CIN approach has both benefits and shortcomings; the associated
use of metaphor may also be problematic yet powerful; and the varied meanings revealed
are both cognitive and cultural. Musicians who ignore dance miss more than an
outstanding embodiment of La Valse, they lose out on potentially enriching insights back
in current musicology.
Deborah Mawer is Senior Lecturer in Music at Lancaster University and was, across
1996-2000, active as Vice-President of the International Society for Music Analysis. Her
research focuses upon the analysis and history of early twentieth-century French music
within its cultural setting, with a particular interest in ballet. She is author of Darius
Milhaud: Modality and Structure in Music of the 1920s (Ashgate, 1997), editor of The Cambridge
Companion to Ravel (Cambridge, 2000) and has a forthcoming monograph on The Ballets of
Maurice Ravel: Creation and Interpretation (Ashgate, Spring 2006).
Margarita Mazo
Spatial and Temporal Aspects of Stravinsky’s Creative Process: Svadebka –
Les Noces in the Parisian Artistic Landscape.
While attempting to understand the reasons for a decade-long compositional history of
Svadebka-Les Noces, one is instantly struck by the seemingly implausible correlation
between the ballet's 'subject matter' --- Russian village ritual --- and the austerity of its
final sonority and choreography. Yet, in its own ineluctable way it makes perfect sense.
The period of creating Les Noces can be seen as the time when Stravinsky negotiated his
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new identity of an international figure situated within the Parisian cultural landscape,
which he both shaped and was shaped by. Like a sponge, he absorbed whatever artistic
idea came his way and excited his musical imagination. Les Noces’s sketches show that
temporal and spatial aspects of creative expression had been entwined throughout the
work’s tangled course of creation.
Margarita Mazo, Distinguished Scholar at the Ohio State University, is internationally
known for her research on Russian music. She has published on Russian vernacular
traditions, music of Stravinsky, Shostakovich, and music in Post-Soviet Russia. Based on
her field research in Russia and the United States, Smithsonian Institution produced
Russian programs at the Smithsonian Festival of American Folklife in 1988 and 1995. She was
invited by the Chicago Symphony to present a series of lectures for the Shostakovich
Festival led by Mstislav Rostropovich in 1999. She also founded a new OSU program in
cognitive ethnomusicology. Prior to Ohio State University, Margarita Mazo taught at
Saint Petersburg Conservatory, New England Conservatory of Music, and Harvard
University.
Dr. Joellen A. Meglin, Dr. Edward D. Latham, Dr. Matthew Greenbaum,
Hwan Jung Jae, Ok Hee Jeong, Sue In Kim, Seónagh Odhiambo
Music of the Body: Modern Minuets and Passepieds far from Passé
We will explore historical and modern reinventions of the minuet and passepied,
comparing particular versions of these dance/music forms as they were documented at
particular moments in time. We want to juxtapose a number of dances that we have
reconstructed from notated dance/music scores. The program will comprise a minuet
and a passepied danced in the French court and theater of Louis the XIV; the minuet and
passepied from Johann Sebastian Bach’s Partita V in G Major vis-à-vis corresponding
sections of Doris Humphrey’s choreography of this work; and a contemporary minuet by
Matthew Greenbaum vis-à-vis Joellen Meglin’s choreography of the same.
Collaborators include a dance historian/choreographer, a music theorist, a composer,
and four doctoral students. Through combined music and dance analysis, historical
contextualization, and inquiry into the lived experience of reconstructors/performers, we
will dialogue across disciplines to illuminate the dialogical relations between music and
dance embodied in these minuets and passepieds.
Joellen A. Meglin (MFA NYU, EdD Temple University) is an Associate Professor of
Dance and Coordinator of Doctoral Studies at Temple University, where she teaches
dance history, reconstruction, and research. Her published articles on the ballet have
appeared frequently in Dance Chronicle and the Studies in Dance History series directed by
Society of Dance History Scholars. She is also the artistic director of Sprezzatura, an
ensemble specializing in dance reconstruction, in residence this semester at Franklin &
Marshall College (jmeglin@temple.edu).
Edward D. Latham (PhD Yale University) is an Assistant Professor of Music Theory in
the Esther Boyer College of Music and Dance at Temple University. A specialist in
interdisciplinary analysis, he has had articles and reviews published in Indiana Theory
Review, Music Theory Online, and Theory and Practice. Garland Press has published his
chapters on Schoenberg’s operas. Dr. Latham has presented papers on the music of
Weill, Korngold, Debussy, Britten, Schubert, and Gershwin at regional, national, and
international conferences (elatham@temple.edu).
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Hwan Jung Jae has had four books published: Choi Seung-Hee, An Elusive Muse of Chosun
(Seoul: Woongjin, 2005), Mr. Layman Goes to a Dance Performance (Seoul: Sigongsa,
2004), Eternal Dance, Eternal Love (Seoul: Kimyoungsa, 2002), and The History of TAM,
(Seoul: TAM Dance Company, 2000). She is currently a PhD student at Temple
University and she holds the MA in Dance Theory and the BA in Dance from Ewha
Womans University in Korea (ondancing@hanmail.net).
Ok Hee Jeong is currently a PhD student and a Presidential Fellow at Temple
University. A former dancer with the Universal Ballet in Korea and the Guangzhou City
Ballet in China, she won the Grand-Prix of the National Competition of Dance in Korea
(2000). Ms. Jeong received the Honor Scholarship and the Graduate Research
Fellowship as she pursued her BA and MA degrees from Ewha Womans University in
Korea. In addition, she has published three articles in the Korean Journal of Dance Studies
(jeong@temple.edu).
Sue In Kim is currently a PhD student and a University Fellow at Temple University.
Ms. Kim has performed with Ballet Blanc and other companies in venues throughout
South Korea, including The National Theater of Korea. She is a former faculty member
of the Sun Wha Arts High School. At Ewha Womans University in Korea, she received
the Honor Scholarship and the Graduate Research Fellowship, and she published her
research in the Korean Journal of Dance Studies (algedi@temple.edu).
Seónagh Odhiambo has performed her multi-media dance works across Canada and
the United States. She completed an MA in Education at the University of British
Columbia (2000), examining the incorporation of dance into Higher Education. Now
pursuing a PhD in Dance at Temple University, she researches relationships between
Doris Humphrey’s work and Kenya Luo dance and teaches undergraduate dance majors.
In her research, teaching, and choreography Ms. Odhiambo links dance and human
rights (odhiambo@temple.edu).
Helen Julia Minors
Paul Dukas’s La Péri as Interpreted by Two Balletic Collaborators
Paul Dukas (1865–1935) believed that ‘music necessarily has to express something,’ but
how do the artistic collaborators of specific ballet productions perceive Dukas’s music to
be able to communicate a plot in balletic terms? There exists two rehearsal scores for La
Péri: one annotated by the ballerina Natasha Trouhanowa (1885–1956), which makes
specific links between the scenario and music; a second annotated by the artistic director,
Jacques Rouché (1862–1957), which includes a detailed mise en scène and Dukas’s
endorsement. The aim of this investigation is to attempt to answer the following
interdisciplinary question: How do the interpretations within these rehearsal scores
inform upon a musical analysis of this poème dansé, La Péri?
Helen Julia Minors: Helen is currently completing a PhD at Lancaster University under
the supervision of Deborah Mawer. Her thesis re-examines the work of Paul Dukas by
focusing upon his ballet La Péri, exploring Dukas’s critical opinions of stage works as
presented in the Paris press, aspects of the collaborative process for his ballet, and
Dukas’s use of form and orchestration. Helen gave a paper at the Music in France
conference at Melbourne University, she organised a study day for the RMA, Exploring
Music Sources, and presented a paper at the recent RMA Iconography day.
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Kyoko Murakami
Lost Lyricism: The Change in Ballet Class Accompaniment
In the twentieth century the piano took over ballet class accompaniment from the violin.
This paper discusses the shift in the quality of accompaniment in ballet classes when and
after the move to piano took place. This shift reflects changes over the years in dance
technique and choreographic style, the styles of music used in ballet and the status and
practice of the dance accompanist.
Piano scores of two major syllabi originating in England at the time of the shift from
violin to piano are examined and used as illustrative examples, those of the Royal
Academy of Dance and the Cecchetti method. I also draw on my own experience of
working as a ballet accompanist for the past twenty years.
Kyoko Murakami is a ballet accompanist. After graduating from Kunitachi College of
Music in Tokyo where she acquired qualifications as a music teacher and Dalcroze
instructor, from 1985, she started to play for ballet classes in Japan. She has experience
of working with ballet teachers from many different countries representing a number of
ballet styles and from 1988-1992, while she was based at the Soviet Ballet Institute in
Tokyo, she was sent to the Bolshoi Ballet School in Moscow. In 1992, she moved to the
UK and worked at the Royal Ballet School, until she became a freelance accompanist in
1999. She completed an MA in Ballet Studies at Roehampton University in 2005.
April Nunes
The Intersubjective Nature of the Symbiotic Relationship between Sound and
Movement in Improvisation
This lecture-demonstration will begin with an improvisational event, containing the
dynamic inter-relationships of dancer/ choreographer, musician/performer and audience
members/observers which reveal the intersubjective phenomenon. The temporal
moments of the improvisational event that become meaningful to us are based upon our
experiences of kinaesthetic empathy that present themselves to us as a result of the
intersubjective experience.
This notion of kinaesthetic empathy is related but not restricted to emotional response. A
variety of emotional responses open up to us when we experience a dance event; and
these emotions range from the mundane to the profound. However, kinaesthetic
empathy strikes us on a deeper level and does not occur in the absence of
intersubjectivity. The paper presented in the latter part of this lecture-demonstration will
claim that the intersubjective relationship in improvisation is an intuitive one and will
further address issues which suggest that language is an inadequate medium for the
articulation of experience.
April Nunes BA, MA, MPhil, teaches contemporary dance technique, dance
composition, pedagogy for dance technique and aspects of choreological studies on the
BA Dance programme at Roehampton University. She holds an MA Dance from
LABAN, a BA Dance from University of California Irvine and is completing her PhD on
'Intersubjectivities in Contemporary Dance Choreography' at Middlesex University. April
also works as an independent choreographer and performer focusing on site-specific
work under the company name Newness Dance, formed in 1999. Her wider research
interests include: improvisation, choreological studies, non-verbal communication, butoh
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and the influence of somatic practices (especially yoga) on contemporary dance
techniques.
Kimiko Okamoto
From Autonomy to Conformity: the Metrical Relationship between Music and
Choreography in Early Eighteenth-Century France
Under the classical doctrine at the French Academies in the seventeenth and early
eighteenth centuries, music and choreography were both conceptually autonomous,
together forming an integral art of dance through their interactions. Formal analyses of
the extant notations reveal that choreography during this period had its own metre,
phrases, and theme, independent from the musical counterparts. As choreography
increasingly pursued gymnastic techniques and narrative expression at the theatre, this
equal relationship gradually shifted to the hierarchical, and choreography tended to rely
on music in terms of the formation of parameters, such as metre. In this paper the
changing status of choreographic metre is examined, taking an example of ‘La Folie
d’Espagne pour femme’ by Raoul Auger Feuillet (published in 1700). This dance
illuminates the way choreography develops within a composition, predicting the near
future of choreography as well.
Kimiko Okamoto originally trained as a pianist and started her professional career as
soloist, chamber musician, and accompanist. She holds the Masters’ degree in Historical
Musicology, and was recently awarded the PhD in Dance Studies at Roehampton
University. Her doctoral thesis explores the aesthetics of French choreography in the
early eighteenth century through the analysis of music and dance, as well as the
examination of compositional theories of other art forms at the time, in particular, those
of rhetoric and the painting. Her current project deals with an earlier metrical system, to
investigate the choreo-musical relationships within it.
Daniela Perazzo
Jonathan Burrows and Matteo Fargion’s Both Sitting Duet
A discursive choreomusical collaboration
Since the 1980s the composer Matteo Fargion has collaborated with the choreographer
Jonathan Burrows, writing the musical accompaniment to most of his pieces and sharing
his interest in experimenting with compositional ideas.
Their recent work Both Sitting Duet (2002) takes this collaboration further: both artists
take to the stage to perform a dance piece created by converting to movement phrases
the rhythmical patterns of a musical score, For John Cage by Morton Feldman. By
applying musical notions to dance, the duet, which is performed in silence, explores
possibilities of interaction between these two art forms.
Analysing the elements and structure of the dance in relation to those of the music, this
paper argues that the focus of this choreomusical collaboration on its own compositional
principles seems not only to open the work to a discursive exchange with a different art
form but also to allow for alternative processes of signification and reception.
Daniela Perazzo is currently studying for a PhD in Dance Studies at the University of
Surrey. Her research looks at strategies of signification and the reconfiguration of the
dancing body in the work of Jonathan Burrows. In 2004, she gained an MA (with
distinction) in Performance and Culture from Goldsmiths College, University of London.
Previously, she completed her undergraduate studies in Theatre and Performance in Italy
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and worked as a freelance writer and editor for dance and performing arts programmes
and festivals. She has published in theatre and dance periodicals and collections in Italy
and the UK.
Lesley-Anne Sayers and Simon Morrison
Sound Space: Dialogues of Music and Design in Prokofiev’s Pas d’Acier
(1925)
This paper draws on the experience of re-staging Prokofiev’s Pas d’Acier at Princeton
University, 2005 – a project developed by Simon Morrison, with new choreography by
Millicent Hodson and a reconstruction of the original décor by Lesley-Anne Sayers.
The paper will focus on the ballet’s approach to interactivity but not purely in terms of
the relationship between music and dance. It will raise and discuss the question of if and
how the overarching theatrical concept, (ie. defining theatrical ‘space’ as a three way
interaction between movement, music and visual organisation/décor), was a formative
influence on Prokofiev’s approach.
This paper will be presented by Lesley-Anne Sayers and Simon Morrison with a brief
excerpt from the film of the Princeton production.
Lesley-Anne Sayers is a Research Fellow in Dance at Roehampton and teaches Art
History for the Open University. After an initial degree in drama, she trained in dance at
the Laban Centre London. Her post-doctoral research in America, Armenia, Russia,
France, Germany and the UK has focussed on ballet, art and set design during the early
20th Century. Her reconstruction of the design for Prokofiev’s Le Pas d’Acier (1925) has
been exhibited internationally and was staged at Princeton University during 2005. She is
currently developing a documentary on Le Pas d’Acier with a research grant from the Arts
and Humanities Research Council.
Simon Morrison is Associate Professor of Music at Princeton University, where he
teaches courses on nineteenth and twentieth century music. He is the author of Russian
Opera and the Symbolist Movement (University of California Press, 2002), articles on Ravel,
Rimsky-Korsakov, Prokofiev, Scriabin, Shostakovich, and several essay-reviews. He
writes on occasion for the Arts & Leisure section of The New York Times. In 2002 he was
a guest lecturer at the Institute Pro Arte in St. Petersburg, Russia; in 2003 and 2004 he
conducted archival research in Moscow for an Oxford University Press book entitled
Prokofiev: The Soviet Years. This past April, he organized a staging of the Diaghilev-era
ballet Le Pas d’Acier at Princeton University. In collaboration with Stephanie Jordan, he
will be editing a collection of essays from the Sound Moves conference for a new
performing arts journal.
Rebecca Schwartz-Bishir
Contrapuntal Voices: A Theory of the Interdisciplinary Nature of Ballet
Composition and Choreography
The artistic processes of composition and choreography are often regarded as separate
from one another. This exclusionary view, however, is flawed because it ignores the
essential creative relationship in ballet of its contributors ’methods and their results. This
paper will advance the theory that contrapuntal lines in music and dance allow composers
and choreographers to cross disciplinary boundaries in the creative process. Two case
studies will be considered: Aurora’s variation from Act III of Sleeping Beauty, and the
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Bransle Gay from Agon. Discussion will also include how the interaction of music and
dance lines affects the perception of ballet.
Rebecca Schwartz-Bishir is a Ph.D. candidate in musicology at the University of
Michigan writing a dissertation on musique dansante. She is also a dancer, and has
studied and performed ballet. Her essay “Alexander Nevsky: Prokofiev’s Successful
Compromise with Socialist Realism” is forthcoming in the book Composing for the Screen in
the USSR and Germany.
Marian Smith
"Counts and Beats": Moments in the Dialogue between Music and Dance
Twenty years ago, little energy of the discipline of musicology was expended on dance.
Thanks to the upheavals of the 1980s which so broadened the canon and made it
impossible to ignore the related disciplines - as well as the handful of scholars who even
before the rise of this "New Musicology" had already built bridges between music and
dance studies - 'choreomusical research' now thrives. In this paper I enumerate a few
current trends and methods (including intertextual studies of particular works,
assessments of choreographers and their approach to music and to collaborations with
composers), along the way referring to a few conversations between music and dance some contentious, some more friendly. I close with a brief exploration of character
dance and music in Balanchine, arguing that Balanchine's mingling of character and
classical styles is not unlike that of his 19th-century forebears.
Marian Smith is Associate Professor of Music at the University of Oregon. Her current
interests include the 19th-century danseur, character dance in Balanchine, and the
historiography of the ballet blanc, and she is finishing a book, of which the late
Alexander Bennett is co-author, on La Sylphide. Her book, Ballet and Opera in the Age of
Giselle was awarded the de la Torre Bueno prize in 2001. She taught at Carleton College
in the Fall of 2004 as Benedict Distinguished Visiting Professor.
Chitra Sundaram and Ni Madé Pujawati
Hopes, Maps and Habits: A Cross-Form Inquiry into Dance-Music Contracts in
Selected Formal Indian and Indonesian Dance Traditions
In both systems of dance, a dance conversation necessarily means attending to the dancemusic relationships contained, or indeed generated, within the forms. The praxis-led
cross-form inquiry by a different but sympathetic cultural form (Balinese/Javanese and
Indian), gently unveils the nature and potential of the understandings, arrangements and
deals between the acoustic and the physical gesture in each of the traditional performance
forms, as well as the new contracts that need to be made for their interaction. The
problems and issues encountered by the artists in such an interrogation and collaboration
across the forms include translation and other response strategies, transfusion/adaptation
of emotional content, sacrifice of traditional virtuosity, and even choice of material and
movement vocabulary or style reflecting the deep-seated, trained ‘habits’ of ‘listening’ by
the music and dance in these forms.
Ni Madé Pujawati trained at the National Academy and the Institute of Arts in
Indonesia. She has danced Balinese and Javanese classical dance in Europe, the USA and
Asia; and she is a leading young performer of Arja, Balinese dance-opera. Her recent
work in the UK includes choreographing a contemporary version of the Balinese
Jayaprana epic and working with Yana Zarifi on the Indonesian choreography for a
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production of Hippolytos. She is currently choreographing a solo piece Candra Kirana based
on the Indonesian Panji cycle, which combines the contrasted classical dance styles of
Java and Bali. She is also researcher for the AHRC Research Centre for Cross-Cultural
Music and Dance Performance at SOAS.
Chitra Sundaram trained in Bharatanatyam in India with traditional masters, and has
appeared at venues and festivals internationally. Her work in Britain includes the solo
full-length work Moham - A Magnificent Obsession, collaborations such as Akademi’s Coming
of Age and the Royal Opera House’s Back Garden Project with Mavin Khoo Dance. She
worked at with Balinese dancer Ni Madé Pujawati for AHRC’s Centre for Crosscultural
Research at Roehampton University. Chitra teaches dance as performance for academic
and practice-led institutions including Goldsmith College. She is the editor of the dance
magazine PULSE – South Asian Dance in the UK.
Manuel Jimenez started playing Javanese gamelan in 1996, and Balinese gamelan in 2000.
An avid student of many Asian and African musical styles, he has become proficient in
more than a few musical genres, including: Balinese and Javanese gamelan, Zimbabwean
mbira (which he also teaches), Thai mahori music, Chinese silk-and-bamboo, and Korean
SamulNori. He is currently registered for an MPhil in Music at the School of Oriental and
African Studies, specialising in Indonesian music performance.
John Toenjes
Composing for Interactive Dance: Paradigms for Perception
This presentation discusses aesthetic issues involved in interactive dance—that is,
choreographic works incorporating the use of a computer interactive system—and more
specifically, with composing music for this genre. While tools such as low-cost video
cameras and easy-to-use interactive software are now fostering a more widespread
experimentation with interactive dance, early experimenters and practitioners have
already produced a large enough body of works to begin to be able to form an overview
of aesthetic and artistic principles in this new art. The presentation begins by defining
interactive dance and outlining parameters for discussion. After exploring the
ramifications of its radical new instrument, the interactive system, common aesthetic and
artistic concerns of composers of interactive dance works are outlined. This list then is
offered as a potential guide for critical discussion and a possible road map for artistic
training and development in the field of interactive dance.
John Toenjes has a BA from Stanford University with emphasis in early music. He has
performed as harpsichordist with the San Francisco Symphony. A skilled modern dance
pianist, he has played for master teachers in the US and Europe. John has had over 30
dance commissions. His 1986 collaboration with choreographer Joe Goode, The Ascension
of Big Linda into the Skies of Montana, earned the SF Bay Area “Izzy” Award for Best
Production. John is now the Music Director of the University of Illinois at UrbanaChampaign (USA) Department of Dance, and President of the International Guild of
Musicians in Dance.
Pieter Verstraete
Interfacing Dance. Choreographing (by) gestural controls.
This paper explores the ways in which the application of gestural controls and spatial
interfaces in dance changes both choreography and our perception of movement and
space. I discuss the role of the sound technician or engineer (David Rokeby, Alistair
220
MacDonald, Todor Todoroff and Josh Martin) for the creation of virtualised interactive
environments, when movement and gestures are translated into sound through so-called
real-time gestural controlled signal processing interfaces according to predefined parameters,
algorithms and grids of spatial cues. I will reflect more specifically on the impact of
perceived immediacy between sound and movement through technology on our ways of
understanding space and movement. The grid contrasts with notions of ‘open system’
and immersion. Ideals of immediacy and controlling movement ‘in the moment’ are in
contrast to acousmatic distance and inertia of the system. Gestural controls do not only
invert the processes of translation and composition, they also call for a renewed
experience of choreography, performance and space.
Pieter Verstraete is currently working and teaching as a PhD candidate at the
Amsterdam School for Cultural Analysis and the Theatre Department of the University
of Amsterdam. He holds a postgraduate degree in Theatre Studies of the University of
Antwerp. He did research with a DAAD scholarship at the IPP Program Performance
and Media Studies at the University of Mainz, Germany. His PhD research covers an
interdisciplinary approach towards a theory for sound and aurality in theatre from a
narrative point of view, embracing audio and music theatre, installation art and other
genres of sonic art.
Barbara White
Embracing the Language Barrier: Movement/Sound Relationships in
Collaborative Contexts
This lecture/demonstration presents video excerpts from three collaborations created by
composer Barbara White along with a choreographer and a performance
artist/filmmaker.
The three works present divergent approaches to combining movement and sound. In
Repetition Compulsion, the music animates the choreography and finds itself reorchestrated
by the character of the dance. In Lift, music underscores the performance, and like an
auditory spotlight, guides the spectator’s attention to the visual component. Finally,
Black Air, a “filmed choreography” intended exclusively for presentation in video format,
exemplifies a more fluid arrangement, as the editing process allows both music and
choreography to adapt to one another in turn.
By illuminating these approaches—animation, reflection, and reciprocity—the
presentation aims to open a discussion regarding the hermeneutics of the
music/movement network. Issues to be discussed include the role of the unexpected in
the collaborative process, the promiscuity of meanings engendered by the
interdisciplinary artwork, and the reconsideration of Mickey-mousing.
Barbara White: Composer Barbara White has received commissions from the
Philadelphia Orchestra, the New York New Music Ensemble, Boston Musica Viva, the
Stony Brook Contemporary Chamber Players, the Fromm Foundation, and the
Koussevitzky Foundation. Recent honors and awards include a Bunting Fellowship from
the Radcliffe Institute for Advanced Study, two awards from the American Academy of
Arts and Letters and a 2003 Guggenheim Fellowship. She has a long-standing interest in
interdisciplinary collaboration, specifically in working with dance and video.
White’s scholarship combines the analysis of the “nuts and bolts” of musical design with
an investigation of cultural context; recent articles have been published in Cambridge Opera
Journal, Intercultural Music, Indiana Theory Review, the American Assembly’s Creative Campus,
221
and Open Space Magazine. In 1998, Barbara White joined the faculty of the Princeton
University Music Department, where she is now an Associate Professor.
Kathryn Woodard
Understanding and Observing Music Performance as Movement
While dance and music are profoundly linked art forms, observers and practitioners most
often formulate the relationship between the two as based on differing mediums—
movement and sound. However, this dichotomous interpretation fails to credit the basis
for the sound of music—musicians’ movement. In the proposed paper I will discuss the
reasons why musicians have not been understood as movers, providing perspectives
from music education and cultural studies. By using audio-visual recordings of musicians
performing, I will demonstrate the connection between experienced and observed
movements observed. Through my research that draws on neuroscience, somatic
disciplines that address musicians’ movement specifically, and ethnographic fieldwork
among musicians, I will provide a framework and methodology for the study of music
performance as movement.
Kathryn Woodard: Pianist and scholar Kathryn Woodard specializes in innovative
programs that explore influences and connections across cultures. She has appeared as
soloist and chamber musician at prominent venues throughout the U.S. and in Europe
and Asia. Woodard's research focuses on two areas: music and movement and piano
music as a global phenomenon. She has taught at Hunter College in New York City and
is currently Assistant Professor of Music in the Department of Performance Studies at
Texas A&M University.
Shobana Jeyasingh, Jürgen Simpson And Dancers From The Shobana
Jeyasingh Dance Company
Interview and Demonstration. Chair:Sanjoy Roy
Shobana Jeyasingh: Born in Chennai, India and now living in London, Shobana
founded Shobana Jeyasingh Dance Company in 1988. She has produced numerous
works for stage, theatre and television. Her recent work includes site specific
performances created for The Greenwich Borough Hall (with a live webcast from
Bangalore, India), the café at Waterman’s Arts, Brentford (with DJ Mukul Patel) and for
The City Hall, London. She has also made work for Sonia Sabri Dance Company and
Random Dance.
Shobana was awarded a London Dance and Performance award in 1988, received three
Digital Dance Awards and, in 1993, an Arts Council Women in the Arts Project award in
acknowledgement of her valuable contribution to the arts over the past decade. She has
also been awarded two Time Out Dance Awards and in 1993 her Company was the
overall winner of the prestigious Prudential Award for the Arts. Her dancework Palimpsest
was nominated for the South Bank Show Awards in 1996.
In 1997 the Company was the subject of a BBC documentary entitled, "In Between, 3
Dance Pieces by Shobana Jeyasingh".
The Company tours throughout Britain and has visited major European and North
American festivals. It is renowned for commissioning new music from eminent
composers such as Michael Nyman, Kevin Volans, and Django Bates. Shobana Jeyasingh
was awarded an MBE in January 1995 for services to dance and holds an honorary MA
from Surrey University and an honorary doctorate from De Montfort University,
222
Leicester. She is also a Research Associate at ResCen - Centre for Research into Creation
in the Performing arts at Middlesex University and a NESTA Dream Time Fellow.
Jürgen Simpson (b. 1975 in Dublin) is a composer, performer and sound designer. His
output spans numerous electroacoustic works, music for film and dance, two opera’s, and
three albums with rock band The Jimmy Cake. His second opera Thwaite (librettist Simon
Doyle, director Dan Jemmet) was a winner of the 2003 Genesis Opera Prize and was
performed in Aldeburgh, Dublin and London. Collaborators include Kevin Volans,
Raymond Deane, Judith Ring, John Scott, Davey Spillane and filmmaker Clare Langan.
As a performer he has played electroacoustic works by Stockhausen, Cage and Nono as
well as his own live electronic work, recently performing Unlocking in Estonia, Lycanth
with the Irish National Chamber Choir and De Na Zin for the M.I.T. medialab NIME
festival. He is a lecturer at the Centre for Computational Musicology & Computer Music
in Limerick, a co-founder of The Whispering Gallery (a group dedicated to the promotion
of new electronic and improvised music), and has a Masters in electronic music from
Trinity College Dublin.
Kamala Devam (Dancer): Kamala joined the Shobana Jeyasingh Dance Company for
Foliage Chorus last year. Raised in an Orthodox Hindu community in San Francisco,
Kamala trained in Bharata Natyam under Kalakshetra graduates Katherine and K.P.
Kunhiraman, since 1985, performing professionally in Malaysia, India and the UK. She
discovered her interest in Contemporary dance during her college years, receiving a
degree in dance from San Francisco State University in 2001. Since then, she has toured
in the USA and Mexico with the San Francisco based company California Contemporary
Dancers and produced her own choreography drawing on elements of Bharata Natyam,
modern vocals and contemporary dance.
Devaraj Thimmaiah (Dancer): Living in Bangalore, Devaraj has danced at numerous
events all over India. Having trained in Bharata Natyam, Kalaripayattu and yoga, Devaraj
enjoys Capoeira and Contemporary dance. Flicker is Devaraj’s second production with
the Shobana Jeysingh Dance Company following Transtep in 2004.
Richard Alston Dance Company
Lecture-Demonstration By The Richard Alston Dance Company Featuring
Such Longing (Chopin) And Excerpts From Other Dances
Richard Alston choreographed his first work in 1968 as one of the original students at
the London School of Contemporary Dance. He went on to choreograph for London
Contemporary Dance Theatre before forming this country’s first independent dance
company, Strider, in 1972. In 1975 he left for New York to study at the Merce
Cunningham Dance Studio and on his return two years later he worked throughout the
UK and Europe as an independent choreographer and teacher.
In 1980 Alston was appointed Resident Choreographer with Ballet Rambert and became
the company’s Artistic Director from 1986 - 1992. During his time there he created 25
works for Rambert besides being commissioned to create works for the Royal Danish
Ballet (1982) and the Royal Ballet (1983); he also made SODA LAKE (1981) and
DUTIFUL DUCKS (1982), two solo works for Michael Clark. He returned to Rambert
in 2001, creating UNREST to help celebrate the company’s 70th anniversary.
In 1992 Alston was invited to create a full evening of his own work for the Ballet
Atlantique based in La Rochelle, France. He made another full evening for London
Contemporary Dance Theatre at the 1994 Aldeburgh Festival and it was therefore a
223
logical step to go on to form his own company, which he did when he took up the post
of Artistic Director of The Place in 1994. The Richard Alston Dance Company was
launched at The Place in November of that year. Over the past decade Alston has made
30 pieces for his company.
Alston was made an honorary Doctor of Philosophy (in Dance) at Surrey University in
1992 and more recently, in 2003, he received an honorary MA from University College
Chichester. In 1995 he was named Chevalier dans l'Ordre des Arts et des Lettres in
recognition of his work in France and in 2001 he received the CBE in the New Year
Honours list.
Jason Ridgway (Pianist): Jason Ridgway was born in Lancashire and began piano studies
at the age of seven. In 1985 he won a scholarship to study at Chetham's School of Music
in Manchester. He then entered the Salzburg Mozarteum, and subsequently pursued
undergraduate and postgraduate study at the Guildhall School of Music and Drama,
where he was awarded the Piano Prize and the Sheriff Award, obtaining one of the
highest graduate recital marks in the history of the school. Jason has a number of awards
and prizes to his credit, including the Julius Isserlis Prize in 1992. He also has won
awards from the Ian Fleming, Myra Hess and Countess of Munster Trusts, and from the
Hattori Musical Trust. He has made concerto appearances with the Royal Liverpool
Philharmonic Orchestra (performing Mozart, Liszt, Litolff, Franck), with the
Philharmonic in Frank Martin's Chamber Concerto, and also with the London Symphony
Orchestra in a Masterclass with Pierre Boulez at the Barbican. He has played regularly for
Richard Alston Dance Company, performing Brahms’ Op 119 (A SUDDEN EXIT),
Schumann’s Davidsbundlertanze (STRANGE COMPANY), Scarlatti Sonatas (GREY
ALLEGRO) and Ravel’s Miroirs and Sonatine (SHIMMER).
Luke Baio: Luke Baio was born in Worcester. He began his performance career in
drama and worked with the National Youth Theatre from 1993-1994. He studied dance
at the Northern School of Contemporary Dance from 1997-2000 and completed his
training with London Contemporary Dance School in 2000-01. In summer 2002 Luke
performed in Christopher Tudor’s LA DANSEMANIE and he has also worked with
English Bach Festival at the Royal Opera House and in Athens. He joined Richard
Alston Dance Company in autumn 2001.
Jonathan Goddard: Jonathan Goddard was born in Hastings and trained at the Rambert
School of Ballet and Contemporary Dance. In 1999 he joined Scottish Dance Theatre
under the Artistic Direction of Janet Smith. Jonathan joined Richard Alston Dance
Company in autumn 2002 and has danced with the English National in the 2005
production of ROMEO AND JULIET.
Maria Nikoloulea: Maria Nikoloulea was born in Athens. She came to England in 1997
to study dance at Middlesex University (London College of Dance). After graduating in
June 2000 Maria attended London Contemporary Dance School, where she worked in a
project with Martin Lawrance at the Bath Music Festival. Maria also performed with the
Guildhall School of Music in their opera THE SNOW MAIDEN. Projects since
graduation include Tommy Small’s Small Petit Klein and Claire Coleman’s Ballet
Evolution. She joined Richard Alston Dance Company in spring 2002.
Dam Van Huynh: Dam Van Huynh was born in southern Vietnam. Raised and
educated in the USA, he originally began his training at The Los Angeles County High
School for the Arts. Dam holds a BFA from the Boston Conservatory of Music and
Dance. He has danced with Nevada Ballet, Nouveau Chamber Ballet and as an
224
understudy dancer with the Merce Cunningham Dance Company. Dam joined Richard
Alston Dance Company in March 2004.
Sonja Peedo: Sonja Peedo was born in Australia. From 1984–1987 she worked with
Queensland Ballet Company before re-training in contemporary style at Queensland
University of Technology. On graduation she worked in Queensland with Expressions
for 5 years. Sonja came to England in 1994 and worked with Bunty Matthias, Catherine
Seymour, Vanessa Grey, Emily Burns, Colin Poole and Mark Baldwin. In 1995 she joined
Jeremy James and Company where she worked until James’ death in 2001. She also
worked with Paul Douglas in Small Bones Dance Company and was a founder member
of the Snag Project with choreographers Sarah Warsop and Joanne Fong. Her
commercial projects include work with the Pet Shop Boys and Kylie Minogue. Sonja
joined Richard Alston Dance Company in autumn 2002.
Francesca Romo: Francesca Romo was born in London and trained at the Royal Ballet
School from1993-2000. She went on to complete a one-year certificate course at London
Contemporary Dance School in 2002 where she also danced in Alston’s RED RUN.
After an apprenticeship with the Company as part of her postgraduate course, Francesca
joined Richard Alston Dance Company in autumn 2003.
Les Noces Panel with The Royal Ballet
Panel with Demonstration by Dancers from The Royal Ballet: Papers by
Margarita Mazo, Ohio State University, USA and Maria Ratanova, European
University, St Petersburg, Russia and Presentation by Monica Mason, Artistic
Director of The Royal Ballet and Christopher Newton, Rehearsal Director.
Chair: Christopher Cook
Monica Mason (Director of The Royal Ballet): Born in Johannesburg, she came to England
at 14 and trained with Nesta Brooking and at the Royal Ballet School. She joined the
Company, 1958, and became a Principal, 1968. She created the Chosen Maiden in The
Rite of Spring. She also created roles in Romeo and Juliet, Diversions, Manon, Elite Syncopations,
The Four Seasons, Rituals, Isadora and, most recently, The Turn of the Screw. She danced in the
first performances by The Royal Ballet of In the Night, Dances at a Gathering, Adagio
Hammerklavier, Liebeslieder Walzer, Dark Elegies. Her repertory included roles in Swan Lake,
The Sleeping Beauty, Giselle, The Firebird, Enigma Variations, La Bayadère, Cinderella, Mayerling.
She was appointed Principal Répétiteur, 1984, Assistant to the Director, 1988, and
Assistant Director, 1991. She was appointed Acting Director of The Royal Ballet in
September 2002 following the resignation of Ross Stretton, and Director in December
2002. She was awarded an Honorary Doctorate by the University of Surrey in 1996, an
OBE in 2002 and in 2003 the Achievement in Dance Award from the Dance Teachers’
Benevolent Fund.
Christopher Newton (Staging): Born in Leicestershire, he trained locally and won the
Leverhulme scholarship to the Royal Ballet School. He joined The Royal Ballet in 1954
and danced a variety of roles including the Rose Adage, Cavalier and King (Sleeping
Beauty), Fencing Master (Rake’s Progress), pas de trois (Ballet Imperial), Les Patineurs, Jaseion
(Sylvia) and Concentration Commandant (Valley of Shadows). In 1970–3 he moved to
United States International University, San Diego, to teach dance notation and repertory.
He returned to the Company in 1973 and was appointed Notator, later Répétiteur then
Ballet Master and in 1988 Artistic Co-ordinator. He has mounted ballets for many other
companies and has staged his own production of Swan Lake Act III for Pennsylvania
225
Ballet. He retired from The Royal Ballet in 2001 and now works internationally as a
freelance teacher, mainly staging the Ashton repertory.
Henry Roche (Head of Music Staff): Born in Beaconsfield, he learnt the piano from the
age of four. He studied classics at St Paul’s School and Magdalene College, Cambridge,
and piano with David Parkhouse at the RCM. He joined the music staff of The Royal
Ballet in 1977 and is now Head of Music Staff. His solo performances include Les Noces,
Concerto, Consort Lessons, Valley of Shadows, A Month in the Country, Ondine, the School
Pianist in Isadora, La Fin du jour, Desirable Hostilities (‘Dance Bites’, 1994), Las Hermanas,
Beyond Bach, Rituals and Polyphonia. He is the great-great-grandson of the composer-pianist
Ignaz Moscheles, about whom he has broadcast and written articles. He has organized a
concert series of Moscheles’s music in and around London, with performances also in
Leipzig, Prague, Athens and Brussels.
Christina Arestis (Soloist): Born in Glasgow, she was brought up in Cyprus and the
Middle East. She trained at the Mary Darke School of Dancing, Glasgow, and the Royal
Ballet School. In 1993 she created the lead girl in Matthew Hart’s Simple Symphony for the
School’s annual performance. She joined the Company the following year and was
promoted to Soloist, 2003. Her repertory includes Lady Mary Lygon, Tsarina (Anastasia),
Red Girl (Les Patineurs), Rosaline, Bathilde, Fairy Winter (Cinderella), Helene Vetsera, Lady
Capulet, The Bride (Les Noces), Madame Larina, Hermia and roles in Agon (pas de deux ),
Monotones II, Swan Lake, In the middle, somewhat elevated, La Fin du jour, Manon, Sleeping Beauty,
Prince of the Pagodas, Sleeping with Audrey, Gong, Raymonda Act III and Masquerade (‘The New
Works’, 2000). She created a role in Figure in Progress (‘Dance Bites’, 1997).
Francesca Filpi: (First Artist): She grew up in Devon, was a Junior Associate of the
Royal Ballet School, training at Stonelands, Dawlish, the Paris Opéra Ballet School and
the Royal Ballet School. She was awarded the Margot Fonteyn, Paul Clarke, BainesHewitt and Phyllis Bedells bursaries and danced the pas de quatre and solo from Swan Lake
at her graduation performance. She joined the Company at the age of 16, and was
promoted to First Artist, 2003. Her roles include Fairy of Purity and the Queen (Sleeping
Beauty), Lise’s Friends and Clog Dance (La Fille mal gardée), Lead Hungarian (Raymonda Act
III), Act II Swan solo and Spanish dance (Swan Lake), Nurse (Onegin), and Harlot (Romeo
and Juliet). She was recently awarded an Honorary Fellowship of the Imperial Society of
Teachers of Dancing. Also, she runs a summer school for young dancers.
Victoria Hewitt: (Soloist): Born in Morecambe, she trained at the Royal Ballet School.
She joined the Company in 1996 and was promoted to Soloist in 2005. Her repertory
includes Natasha (Winter Dreams), Katia (A Month in the Country), a Friend of Kitri (Don
Quixote), pas de six (Giselle), Princess Louise (Mayerling), Tatiana (Anastasia), The Leaves Are
Fading, Mustardseed Fairy (The Dream), Fairy of Purity and Silver Fairy (Sleeping Beauty),
Columbine Doll (Nutcracker), Tryst, Agon, Carmen, Por Vos Muero, Manon, La Bayadère,
Cinderella, Swan Lake, Romeo and Juliet, Anastasia, Don Quixote, In the middle, somewhat elevated,
Gong, Scènes de ballet and Sinfonietta.
Emily Low: (First Artist): Born in Aberystwyth, she trained at the Central School of
Ballet, where she performed the Raymonda Act II pas de deux and the First Fairy variation
(Sleeping Beauty). In 1994 she was a finalist in the Adeline Genée competition. She joined
the Company that same year and was promoted to First Artist, 2000. Her repertory
includes Brown Skater, one of Lise’s Friends and Clog Dance (La Fille mal gardée),
Dressmaker, Court Lady and Star (Cinderella), Waltz, Polonaise, Princess, Mazurka and
Swan (Act II, Swan Lake), Act I d’jampée dance (La Bayadère), Shepherdess (Daphnis and
Chloë), Ballad Singer (The Rake’s Progress), Manon, Symphony in C, Gong, Scènes de ballet,
226
Galanteries and Acheron’s Dream (‘The New Works’, 2000). She created a role in Two-Part
Invention.
Laura McCulloch: (First Artist): Born in Scotland, she graduated from the Royal Ballet
School in 2001 and joined the Company that year, promoted to First Artist, 2005. Her
repertory includes many of the classical works including Swan Lake, La Bayadère, Giselle
and Nutcracker. Other ballets in her repertory include Mayerling, Manon, Romeo and Juliet,
Gloria and the Vision Lady in Stephen Bayne’s Beyond Bach. She has created roles in
Bintley’s Les Saisons (2003) and Marriott’s Being and Having Been.
Sian Murphy (First Artist): Born in New York and brought up in London, she trained at
the Beverley School of Dancing, the Arts Educational School and the Royal Ballet
School. In 1996 she danced a solo in Diversions at the School’s annual performance and
then joined the Company; she was promoted to First Artist, 2000. Her repertory includes
Zulme and pas de six (Giselle), Courtesan (Manon), Fairy of Generosity and Gold Fairy
(Sleeping Beauty), Romeo and Juliet, Cinderella, Les Patineurs, La Fille mal gardée, Anastasia,
Serenade, Concerto, Symphony in C, Scènes de ballet, All Nighter, Eldest Sister (Las Hermanas),
Room of Cooks, When We Stop Talking, Cheating, Lying, Stealing and Sinfonietta. She created the
Tattooed Lady (Sawdust and Tinsel) and a role in There Where She Loves (‘The New Works’,
2000).
Samantha Raine: (First Artist): Brought up in Malton, north Yorkshire, she trained at
Kirkham Henry Performing Arts (her mother’s school) and at the Royal Ballet School.
She was awarded the Kenneth MacMillan choreographic award in 1995 and the first
Dame Ninette de Valois award in 1998. She joined the Company in 1997 and was
promoted to First Artist, 2001. Her repertory includes Fairy of Temperament and Silver
Fairy (Sleeping Beauty), La Gréle (Les Saisons), Fairy Autum (Cinderella), Vivandière
(Nutcracker) and roles in Giselle (pas de six), Agon (first pas de trois), In the middle, somewhat
elevated, Sleeping with Audrey, Gong, Scènes de ballet, Tryst, Song of the Earth, Raymonda Act III
(pas de trois), Swan Lake and Manon.
Gemma Sykes: (Soloist): Born in Bedfordshire, she trained at the Royal Ballet School. In
1999 at the School’s annual performance she danced the pas de trois in Theme and Variations
and Myrtha. She joined the Company that year and was promoted to Soloist, 2005. Her
repertory includes La Fille mal gardée, Romeo and Juliet, Manon, Swan Lake (Act II swan),
Queen of the Wilis (Giselle), Nutcracker, Coppélia, Les Biches, The Firebird and Gong. She
created a role in Siren Song (‘The New Works’, 2000).
Vanessa Fenton: (First Artist): Trained at the Royal Ballet School, she won the Kenneth
MacMillan Choreographic Award at the age of 15 and received second prize at the Ursula
Moreton Choreographic Award two years later. At 17 she was awarded a Paul Clarke
Award and Kerrison Bursary for outstanding achievement in dance. She went on to
dance with BRB, Ballet National de Marseille with Roland Petit, ENB, Jenny Jackson at
the Place Theatre and Wayne Sleep at the Coliseum. She joined The Royal Ballet in 1998.
Since her choreographic successes at the Royal Ballet School she has continued to create
dance, including: Beat of My Drum (1994) and Sing the Body (1995) at the Cochrane Theatre;
Ave Maria, a choreographic film shot in Bologne for Opera Video; Moi, a pas de deux given
by dancers of the Ballet National de Marseille for a gala performance at the Biarritz
Theatre, France; Riflessi veneziani, commissioned and performed for the Italian Embassy at
Westminster Theatre; and further works for the Royal Ballet School. She has also
choreographed at the Union Chapel with Matthew Hawkins, and in 2000 she won the
PROMIS Award for new choreography. Her work for The Royal Ballet includes Ad
Infinitum (2000, Linbury), Frozen (2001, Clore), Knots (2002, Clore), Absolutely Not (2003,
227
Clore) and Deliverance (2003, Clore). She has also choreographed for violinist Vasko
Vassilev in the Linbury.
She directed an evening of dance in Bermuda with dancers of The Royal Ballet and
Wayne Sleep in 2003 and has choreographed for 16 ballerinas for Shirley Bassey for the
launch of a Siemens mobile phone. More recently she choreographed A Little Pincess for
the London Children’s Ballet at the Peacock Theatre. She is currently studying for a
degree in English literature.
228

conference proceedings here

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