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Treading the Path of Memory

Ballerina Gavin Larsen

This Yule, one of my best friends gave me a book about ballet: Being a Ballerina: The Power and Perfection of a Dancing Life” by Gavin Larsen. The author had been a principle dancer for close to 18 years with various companies, she even danced in Suzanne Farrell’s company – a respectable career for any dancer. The book was very, very good and in fact described the physical realities of being a professional dancer better than anything I have thus far read. It opened with a discussion of what it’s like upon first awakening in the morning, how the first thing—while still lying mostly in bed— one does is carefully test every muscle, unkinking the back, stretching the Achilles, opening up the body gently and carefully before even setting foot on the ground. Every breathing moment is a test, determining the state of one’s body and how one is going to physically work later in the day. That careful evaluation is something I do even now, because the alternative is pain, sometimes crippling pain, and further injury. The book details the process from first opening one’s eyes, to daily [ballet] class, to rehearsals and post-performance care. I became tremendously emotional reading it, because my body remembered both the good and the bad of that life. Shortly on the heels of reading this book, I watched a movie, “White Crow” about the defection of Rudolf Nureyev and again, it brought me back emotionally into the middle of the world that shaped me: ballet. 

There is a saying in the ballet world: “A dancer dies twice.” The first time is when he or she has to stop dancing and the second is actual, physical death. This is truth. It took me at least a decade to recover emotionally and mentally from my retirement (I retired in my early twenties), and I still carry injuries and chronic pain from my career. Somehow, in some strange way, perhaps through a desperate clutching at the memory of being able to create, through the sweat, blood, and pain of my body, a beauty that elevates the soul, perhaps through the desperate longing (to touch the Gods?) that drove me into dance and didn’t leave me even after I was spat out by the daimon of that art, a bridge was crafted that spanned the fractured, abyssal space between my life as a dancer and becoming a devotee of the Gods, a priest, and finally a spirit worker. One led directly to the other and without the first, I would not have survived the transformation into the second. 

me dancing in the 80s, one of the very few photos that I have

Long ago, I learned that there were two paths to becoming what many might term a ‘shaman’(1): madness road or death road. The idea is that you are cast down from your world, shattered and in the process of rebuilding and restoration, one comes back stronger and more resilient than before. There is a third way though, and that is the road of art. What is that? It is living a life where you are fully given over to the daimon of an art – in my case dance. Every inch of your identity, everything inside and out by which you exist and define yourself as a human being, centers around, relies upon, and is defined by one’s art. Then…usually at a terrible and critical juncture, that is stripped away and the result is a psychic shattering of the self. You rebuild (or not, but “not” involves consequences that are a luxury for a spirit worker. “Not” involves destruction, devolution, sometimes madness, drug addiction, and death). You claw your way back into some semblance of existence. You learn to live again and eventually, if you’re lucky, to find some measure of joy. If this is part of a spirit-worker’s journey, then this is when the Gods begin the process of direct formation. (In the end, I think every spirit worker or shaman ends up traipsing painfully down every one of the roads at some point in their life as we are remade again and again in service to our Gods. It is the way of things – formation never ends). The easiest and most productive thing to do is to embrace the process. 

There are so many things that I brought with me out of the crucible of ballet training that helped me when I became Odin’s, that helped me center myself as a priest, that helped me embrace my formation as a spirit worker. I am so immensely grateful that I was allowed to foster under that terrible and hungry daimon of the arts. Ballet prepared me for spirit work, but also for regular devotion and I cherish the lessons that I learned as though they were jewels poured into my hands. Some of these things are contained in words that young people today find very difficult to swallow, triggering if you will, but they are utterly essential to the Work. 

The first is discipline. In ballet, there is the understanding that discipline brings freedom. It was ingrained in us from the beginning of our training. This isn’t discipline that someone is forcing onto us, but a process that we enter into willingly. The discipline comes from within, must be summoned from within, and it is a gift we give first and foremost to ourselves. We train and train, submitting to a series of exercises that have been done by ballet dancers from beginner to professional, in largely the same order, the same way, all across the world for at least four hundred years. The moment we place our hands on the barre and will our bodies into position, we enter into a lineage that began in the mime and theatre of the ancient world, and that came to fruition as ballet specifically in the court of the Sun King, and then reached its perfection in 19th century Russia (2). We stand with our ancestors within that lineage, moving as they did, putting our bodies into the same steps and rhythms that they honed and passed down, dancer to dancer, body to body – because that is the way that memories are passed in this art—and in so doing, we ourselves are shaped in accordance with the dictates the tradition requires. It is a beautiful yet terrible thing. The discipline required in ballet is brutal. One engages in a constant battle against nature. With that discipline comes a tremendous endurance to pain, a knowledge that one can persevere, and a potent resiliency in the face of physical pain and even failure. Those things all transfer well, not just to spirit work but pretty much to any other field. 

Louis XIV dressed as the sun in an early ballet

The second jewel in that hoard this art gave me is that of obedience. I think this is perhaps THE most difficult idea to accept. It comes into play more often in devotion than one might think though. We learn to willingly curb our will so that we might learn the necessary techniques, and so that we might develop the aforementioned discipline. In devotion, the idea of obedience to one’s Holy Powers isn’t so much a matter of unthinking, blind obedience but of choosing to trust when we may not have all the information or answers. This obedience is a personal choice, not something imposed to destroy one’s autonomy, but rather something one consciously chooses each and every day in order to help in one’s spiritual formation. It helps us to better develop as devotionally pious people of iron strong faith, and it helps us to carry more fully and well the Mysteries of our Holy Ones that we are meant to carry. Ultimately, it brings freedom. There’s a lovely saying by Seneca that comes to mind as I write this: deo parere libertus est. To serve a God is freedom. 

 Finally, if one is very focused and very lucky, ballet brings with it an awareness, palpable and almost physical, of the Holy. I don’t know how to explain this to someone who hasn’t experienced it in this particular way, but ballet opened me up to a sense of the sacred, to the Presence, to Numen. It was how I first learned to pray.  It was my first direct experience with the Holy Powers. In Larsen’s book, toward the end (p. 224), she quotes Choura(3) the autobiography of Alexandra Danilova.

Soviet dancer Alexandra Danilova (1904 – 1997) as the can-can dancer doll in the ballet ‘La Boutique Fantasque’, at the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden. (Photo by Sasha/Hulton Archive/Getty Images)

Danilova, who trained at the Maryinsky, was a ballerina with the Ballet Russe, the Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo, and also both professionally and personally involved with George Balanchine. She also taught at the School of American Ballet, shaping a whole generation of professional dancers. In her autobiography, she writes about the tradition of bowing (female dancers curtsey) at the end of each performance. Like the respect shown at the beginning and end of each ballet class, this is a ritualized act, and an acknowledgement of one’s place in the lineage and hierarchy of the art itself. Danilova writes, “In Russia, we were taught never to touch our knees to the floor when taking a bow unless there was royalty in the house; we were to go to our knees only to royalty or to God. (Larsen, 224)” It’s a lesson many polytheists in general and spirit -workers in particular would do well to take to heart. The humility and respect, bound together like the circling chains of our DNA, that this awareness engenders, an awareness deeply embedded in the body on a visceral, almost primal level, cannot be under-estimated. It is one of the greatest gifts my ballet career left me, and in all ways, it prepared me for encountering the Gods later in my life. 

dancer bowing after performance – Maria Doval ballet

 Recently, one of my undergrad students asked how I went from being a ballet dancer to a theologian. The answer is painfully, but doggedly and the line from one to the other is straighter than one might think. I am grateful, deeply, deeply grateful for each of the many teachers I have had in my life on the way. (I was thinking of this today when I was doing the dishes. My assistant made her first cake the other day and I was washing up one of the cake pans. Whenever we bake in our home, the first piece is given to our house spirits and domovoi. I learned that from another Heathen woman. I visited her once, many years ago in NC for what turned into an incredibly fruitful weekend of hearth cultus and spirit work and though we’ve long fallen out of touch (she was Theodish and I left Theodism behind close to twenty years ago), I am grateful for what I learned in the moment we baked together in her kitchen.  There are Teachers from whom one consciously studies and by whom one enters into a tradition, and teachers who often inadvertently open us up to greater understanding of our Gods. I am grateful for them all. Every teacher is a treasure to be cherished, respected, and their lessons honed and passed on. 

This brings me to the conclusion of this rather rambling meditation on my life and work: gratitude. Last year, instead of making any New Year’s resolutions, I chose a word that was going to be my touchstone throughout the year. That word was devotion, and it was certainly a tremendously fruitful year devotionally, often in graceful and unexpected ways. This year, my touchstone is gratitude.

 

from The Art of Calligraphy

Notes: 

  1. I have no issue with using the term “shaman.” The difference between a “shaman” and a “spiritworker” is that death (or madness, or art induced psychic shattering). I’ve found, however, that for myself over the years, the word “shaman” fits less and less for what I do. There are Norse terms I prefer, particularly vitki, because it aligns me in mind and heart more fully with Odin as Gangleri and Galdrafaðr. Ever and always, the work remains much the same though. Spirit worker is an umbrella term for a specialist who works with or for spirits and the Holy Powers. It’s a bit more complicated than that, but for the purposes of this article, that definition will do. Likewise, I use the word “daimon” in the classical sense, that is as a divinely connected and powerful spirit. 
  2. I have opinions on this. While ballet obviously continues across the world, I think the artistry and glory of the imperial ballet is yet to be equaled. 
  3. This is a female nickname for Alexandra. It’s spelled шурa. The other common nickname, used for either Alexandra or Alexander, is Sasha. 

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Me about 14, just after ballet class, having just started working with a regional company (I blurred out the figures around me to preserve their privacy, hence the strange background).

Ben zi bena, Bluot zi bluoda…

So ends the last couple of lines of the Second Merseberg Charm, with a cantrip of a type echoed in various healing charms in conjure, rootwork, and old English leechcraft. The whole ending (and the most potent part of the working charm) goes: 

Sose benrenki, sose bluotrenki, sose lidirenki:

Ben zi bena, bluot zi bluoda,

Lid zi geliden, sose gelimida sin!

Like bone-sprain, so blood sprain, so joint sprain:

Bone to bone, blood to blood, 

Joints to joints, so may they be glued! (1)

I’ve been thinking about this charm all day because I spent most of the morning dealing with precisely the type of injury mentioned in this 10th century incantation (2). 

Living with chronic pain often means that one becomes accustomed to very high levels of physical pain as a daily norm. That’s certainly been my experience and having been a professional ballet dancer through my early twenties, I also learned early on to compartmentalize pain. I write this as a preface, because I’ve recently been attempting to address an ankle injury and I had my first physical therapy appointment today with surprising results (I was actually pretty shocked!). 

In the early eighties when I was still dancing, I sprained my ankle badly. I came down out of a tour jete, a leaping turn, where one switches legs while turning in mid-air. I landed on the outside of my ankle and predictably tore the ligaments. It was bad, really bad, and sidelined me for several months. I never really had physical therapy and that ankle remained a weakness, though it was not what caused me to retire. I worked for many more years as a dancer, studied martial arts and just got on with things. In 2004, while hiking down a trail, I tripped over a root. As I fell I heard the tendon in that same ankle snap and thought, “that’s not good.” Turns out I had indeed snapped the tendon and I was in a stabilization boot for close to three months. I stupidly didn’t get physical therapy at that time. 

Over the past eight or nine months, I realized that ankle has been getting progressively worse. I’m having trouble walking. It flares up and the way my body compensates hurts my hip and sets off my back injury, causing a great deal of pain. I talked to my doctor and we decided to try physical therapy – better late than never, right? I had my first visit today (and the PT is wonderful). 

Well, he noticed right away in examining my ankle that there was muscle atrophy. Then I got a rather horrifying surprise: “Did you break this bone” he gently touched my fibula, “when you damaged the tendon or did that happen earlier?” um…. I didn’t realize I had ever broken that bone –not to my knowledge. I asked a few questions and he pointed out that it had clearly been fractured at some point. I was stunned. I had never realized I had ever broken my fibula. We had a long discussion about it and apparently A) one can still walk with a fractured fibula and B) I broke it at some point between ballet, martial arts, and now. This was news to me but really, not completely  surprising. I did break a metatarsal when I danced and just iced it and got on with things. It’s entirely possible that I had at some point broken my ankle and simply not realized it. I’m horrified. Of course, having waited so long to get physical therapy for the sprains and damaged tendon, it’s going to be a long haul but it’s worth it if even a bit of strengthening can help my overall pain levels. 

My pain levels tend to be high, even with medication. That’s old injuries, including thoracic outlet syndrome, spinal radiculopathy, Achilles tendonitis and tearing, migraines, and fibromyalgia. I can focus so keenly that I often don’t realize that my pain levels are creeping up until I stop working and my focus is broken. Then of course, it’s a terrible experience. Even with all of this, I’m stunned about the broken bone. 

This is a real wake up call to me and I hope those who have injuries like this, who sprain joints, hurt their backs, or have what may seem like minor soft tissue damage take note. Don’t wait. If you can do it, get physical therapy as soon as possible. It’s annoying. It eats up time. It’s 100% worth it though. Do not be like me. I’m going to have a real fight to get this ankle to a point where it’s no longer throwing off my gait and causing me severe pain. I’ll do it, but it would have been so much easier if the first time I’d sprained it, when I was still dancing, I’d taken the time to do the PT. Learn from my mistake. 

In the Northern Tradition, our corporeal form is part of the soul matrix. That means that taking care of our health, keeping our bodies (as much as we can) in healthy, working order contributes to our overall spiritual well-being too. This may be the part of our soul that we slough off at death, returning it to the earth in recompense for the food and minerals, water and nutrients that from the moment we were conceived, nourished us and formed our bones, but that doesn’t mean that it isn’t important to give it a little love now and again. Our physical bodies are the conduits through which we experience everything, including our devotional worlds. Their integrity is important. I wish to Gods someone had told me this when I was still dancing. I’d have approached the whole thing in a much, much healthier way. 

Notes: 

  1. See here for the full Merseberg Charms. 
  2. I love this this charm mentions Woden as a God of healing. We don’t usually get a focus on Him in this capacity. 

Weekend Fun: Ballet and a bit of σπαραγμός to Round Things Out

Royal-Danish-Ballet-rehearses-for-The-Bournonville-Legacy_5_1

Now that my thesis is mostly done (and my defense date scheduled), I decided to take the weekend off. A couple of really awesome opportunities arose that I just couldn’t pass up: Royal Danish Ballet dancers doing a Bournonville retrospective at the Joyce theatre, and Classical Theatre of Harlem’s Bacchae (the latter is free, which is lovely). I saw the ballet last night with a couple of friends and it was utterly delightful.

I’ve always loved the Bournonville style. It emphasizes ballon (the ability of dancers to jump with such ease that it almost seems as though they’re floating in the air), and quick footwork. It is elegant, precise, and this particular style never advocates contorting the body to achieve a higher extension. The emphasis is on artistry not acrobatics and it was a breath of fresh air to see a company that hadn’t given itself over to the colorless, broad blandness that so characterizes so much of modern ballet. It really fed the soul.

The performance opened with an excerpt from La Sylphide. The original version of this ballet was created for Marie Taglioni, a 19thcentury ballerina who pretty much ushered in the era of Romantic ballet ( culminating in ballets like Giselle, Swan Lake, Sleeping Beauty). Bournonville had danced with Taglioni in his youth and wanted to stage the ballet in Denmark. Apparently, he faced so many challenges from the Paris Opera Ballet (where the original had been performed) in doing so that he decided to choreograph his own version and it is this version that survives. It tells the story of James, a man who is engaged to a young woman of his village but who becomes enamored (and obsessed) with a sylph, an otherworldly creature of air and magic. Unfortunately for James, he pissed off the local witch by showing a regrettable lack of hospitality during his engagement party and his obsession with the sylph provides the opportunity for his undoing. He tries to capture this creature, which is rather obscene in and of itself: he’s taking this amazing wild thing and trying to tether it to mundane humanity, and the witch tricks him by providing him with a magic scarf. She tells him that if he wraps it around the sylph’s neck and arms it will enable her to remain with him. What it does is kill her and James is left with nothing, all the more so since his fiancée has long tired of his bullshit and gone off to marry his best friend. Last night’s performance showcased the section of the ballet where James kills the sylph. It is classic Bournonville, but was actually not my favorite part of the evening’s performance.

I much preferred the second half of the show which highlighted excerpts from the ballet Napoli, and other lesser known ballets. It was just delightful and the technique and artistry of the dancers, across the board, was high. It was a satisfying performance, and I particularly loved the rapport between the dancers. This review is correct: they were performing as much for each other, and delightfully, as for the audience. I was particularly impressed with the technique of principal dancer Jon Axel Fransson and soloist Stephanie Chen Gundorph. I have never seen such clean, effortless jumps as Mr. Fransson’s and Gundorph’s footwork was a thing of razor precision and beauty.  I could have happily watched them for hours. Truly though, every dancer there was just amazing, including a performer that I can’t believe is in the corps: Tobias Praetorius. He had such a gift for comedy in his performance as a street singer that I found myself laughing out-loud. I also wish they’d done an encore of the Jockeydance, which was a hilarious variation depicting two jockeys competing to show off their skills. Seriously, all the dancers were quite lovely and if I could, I’d go to every remaining performance.

As a former ballet dancer, I was surprised to note that Bournonville style has preparations for turns in a small second position, not fourth. One of the more surprising elements of the choreography also involved a woman on pointe doing a series of bourrees or similar steps while the man holds onto her shoulder promenading in arabesque or attitude…usually it’s the woman doing that! The female dancers also darn the tips of their pointe shoes. I used to do this, though it’s not that common in American companies. It helps the shoe keep its shape and adds stability to the box. I was happy to see it being done (some of the shoes were signed and on sale so I got a good look at them).

I firmly believe art elevates the soul. It also represents the best that our human cultures have to offer. It crosses all boundaries and unifies like nothing else.  We need more of it!

Tonight, it’s off to see the Bacchae, which for me is a deeply religious experience. I cannot wait to see what the Classical Theatre of Harlem is going to do with the play. It looks amazing. There is a review here.

tumblr_lfwgdatwsj1qczxc6o1_400

(ballet photo couretsy of this site, where you can see more images of the dancers participating in The Bournonville Legacy show at the Joyce).

Apollo and Marsyas: The Nature of Art

Bartolomeo_Manfredi_-_Apollo_and_Marsyas

(Bartolomeo Manfredi’s “Apollo and Marsyas.” Source: wiki commons)

I have a fascination with operatic castrati and since I’m currently doing quite a bit of research for an academic project that involves them, their music has been the subject of much conversation in my house lately. Add to that a meme a friend of mine posted on facebook wherein one of the choices was “because a human did something better than a God and that God threw a hissy fit” and I knew I had to write about the conversation my husband and I had the other day.(1) Somehow the subject of the contest between Apollo and Marsyas came up and the lessons this might hold for musicians.

In this story, Marsyas, a satyr and master musician hubristically challenges Apollo to a music contest. The contest is to be judged by the Muses and the winner would then be permitted to treat the loser anyway he wished.(2) Both God and satyr play, Apollo wins, and in punishment for his hubris Marsyas is flayed. Customary interpretations of this story revolve around the flaying specifically as a punishment for hubris, for the satyr daring to challenge a God (and thus to put himself above the right and natural order of things) and this is not an incorrect interpretation but there are other lessons to be had in this tale as well.

Allowing that one of the major lessons of this story is in fact the need for piety and humility before the Gods (amazing how “don’t be an asshole” covers so many situations in which we might find ourselves, devotionally and otherwise), I’d like to discuss here one of the other lessons, and this is where the castrati come in.

In my research I’ve noticed that there is a standard way in which historians seemingly must approach this material. Before they go into whatever it is that they want to discuss about the castrati, they must first state how barbaric or inhumane they find the practice.(3) They must first separate themselves from any hint that they might approve of the process, particularly if they are writing positively about the result (and given that the influence of the castrati pretty much defined opera for two hundred years and shaped contemporary opera too, there’s quite a bit to celebrate there).

The question is endlessly asked (by academics and other researchers): why would someone do that to himself? Why would someone allow that to be done to a child? What was the allure of the castrati (they were the equivalent of sex symbols and rock stars)? I find these questions boggling: for the voice. Are you people deaf? Have you never listened to a top-notch counter tenor? It’s like listening to the voice of God. It’s like having the heavens crashing down around you and these men don’t come close to the vocal quality of a well-trained castrato superstar.(4) I completely understand why someone would have sought to become a castrato and certainly why they were so attractive to their listeners. I mourn the fact that we can’t hear them today.

If the sounds harsh, consider my own background: I was a professional ballet dancer for the first part of my adult life. I started working with a regional company at thirteen and retired in my early twenties. I retired with crippling injuries. I knew at thirteen that I was choosing to commit to a career that would likely leave my body broken irreparably. I knew that I would have to make health and nutritional choices that were ultimately damaging. I didn’t make this choice blind and I did make it over parental objection. The call of that daimon – dance – was too strong. I have crushing pain now and very limited mobility and while I did soloist roles in the regional company for which I worked, I didn’t make it past apprentice in the New York company. I’ll go down in no history books as a competent dancer and…I would make exactly the same choice again.

I suspect that is incomprehensible to someone who hasn’t been infected with that hunger, been taken up by that daimon, felt what it is like to push the body past its limits, past pain, to fly. I know that if at twelve, someone had said to me, if you mutilate your genitals you’ll have a chance to be one of the truly great dancers, I’d have done it without question. I would have considered it a worthy trade. There are things more important than what’s between our legs and far more important than our ability to procreate or the limits of our bodies. Being in service to art, in service to something far bigger and more important than ourselves supersedes all of that. That’s what moderns don’t comprehend.

Of course, that the castrati had to be castrated before puberty complicates things. There are questions of a child’s ability to make such a long-term choice for himself (see my comments above for where I stand on that) and certainly there were children sent under the knife against their will. The consequences of early castration are not just loss of fertility. (5)I also find the way Castrati were treated socially by the same communities that idolized their voices to be repellent (the church, for instance, forbade them to marry and in regular society they were often viewed as freaks, mocked for the very procedure that gave them the angelic voices so celebrated). By the nineteenth century with “enlightenment,” industrialization, more focus on binary gender roles, more focus on ‘nature’ as opposed to constructed brilliance, and certainly the elevation of both childhood and the individual over any common good the castrati were fast becoming a thing of the past. The last operatic superstar was the castrato Giovanni Velluti for whom both Rossini and Meyerbeer composed but operatic tastes were changing along with everything else and by 1913 not even the Vatican choir allowed for them. (6)

So what does all of this have to do with the story of Apollo and Marsyas? One of the many ways that I interpret this story is as a clear indication of what is required for excellence in an art. It doesn’t matter what the art form is (dance, singing, music, painting, etc.), to truly reach the heights of greatness, sacrifice is not just required, it is demanded. Excellence has a price. Art brings us into communion with the Gods like nothing else can. The Platonic philosophers wrote about the ennobling effects of Beauty, how it had the capacity to elevate the soul and I very much believe that is true. To be in service to the arts is to be in service to the Gods when it’s done right. It’s to move in sacred currents. That carries a demanding price and sometimes the consequences are irreparable. Devotion is like that too, if one wants to do it well.

We are owed nothing, yet opportunities are given. Devotion is an art just as much as dance or opera. It’s the art of the soul and it often carries as great a price as that any performer will pay. Excellence requires sacrifice. Mediocrity doesn’t. Make a choice. I read once of one castrato (and I can’t recall which one at the moment. I’ve been reading * a lot* on the topic) who was once asked if he regretted having been cut. He laughed in the interviewer’s face. He was one of perhaps half a dozen men who could do what he did at the level at which he performed in the entire world. He was feted across Europe. His name would go down in music history. He was as close to a god as a mortal has any right to be (barring apotheosis!).

Ironically I have seen some of the same criticisms of ballet children that I’ve seen about the castrati: it’s abuse. How can a child make that decision, etc. etc.(7) One such included a documentary about a leading Russian ballerina. The narrator could not stop talking about the brutality of the training and the sacrifice required. Yes, and she’s one of maybe ten women in the world who can do what she does. She had some of the best training in the world, and it’s training she herself wanted. I find it far more offensive that a second rate film maker is complaining about her sacrifices than that she’s consciously making them. Excellence requires certain choices and sometimes those choices hurt.

I think that’s the second lesson to be found in the story of Marsyas and Apollo. It’s not just a warning against hubris, it’s also telling us what is required to reach the heights of a practice: sacrifice. Perhaps it’s a warning against the hubris of assuming we can find greatness without the work or the cost.

Far from being appalled by the castrati, I rather think that when we as a culture began putting the mediocrity of the individual over the glory of art, over arête, over those things that represent the best of who we are as a people, that was when the real moral and cultural decay began and that’s what horrifies me the most because it’s not just sacrifice for the arts that modernists find problematic, it’s veneration of and sacrifice for devotion too and yet, if we wish to truly find excellence in our devotion, it’s going to require hard work and sacrifice on par with that of the best of the castrati or the best ballet dancers. We should be willing to bleed for our devotion, to bleed for our art, to bleed for our dreams. That’s Marsyas’s lesson: nothing is free, and one doesn’t reach the top of one’s game without painful hard work. We all have those talents and skills that we were given. The gap between that and excellence is what we choose to do with them and how much of ourselves we’re willing to bet in the bargain.(8)

Notes:

1. The meme in question meant to be humorous, and I found it funny but it edges well into territory that while not impious necessarily bears watching. Humans do not do things better than the Gods and I think to allow that idea to take deep root in our minds is problematic. A joke is one thing but we’re constantly being bombarded by pop culture movies and tv that even when entertaining put forth the idea that humans are superior to the Gods and it’s important to recognize when that’s happening.
2. One source implied that of course the Muses would vote in favor of Apollo but I think that rather They would vote for the better musician. To do otherwise would be to violate the very Arts whose mysteries They govern. It is also to ascribe to Gods our own pathetic lack of integrity.
3. The Castrati were the rock stars of the 17th and 18th centuries. Castrated before puberty (often by their own request), they were men with pure, powerful soprano and alto voices. They commanded great applause and even greater fees and dominated the opera stage for two hundred years. The phenomenon began in the Byzantine church (the earliest recorded castrato singer that I’ve been able to document so far is a Byzantine choir master in 400 C.E.) and ended in the Papal Choir of the Vatican in 1922. We actually have recordings of the last known castrato: A. Moreschi. Unfortunately, they don’t give any sense of what his voice was actually like. Not only was he never an operatic virtuoso, but the recording technology of the time was in its infancy and could not capture the main bulk of his range. You can hear this with contemporary recordings of female stars like Nellie Melba too: the main part of the tessitura, its frequencies couldn’t be recorded so the voice sounds thin and given the limitations of recording, also out of tune. It’s unfortunate but early video recordings of the great dancers of the imperial ballet, like Pavlova and Spessivtseva show similar issues and in no way do justice to their subjects.
4. A couple of my favorite counter tenors include F. Fagioli, P. Jaroussky, A. Scholl, and the winner of this year’s Metropolitan Opera prize, Aryeh Nussbaum Cohen. Then there’s natural soporano M. Maniaci, who is in a class by himself. Each of them is singing work originally written for the greatest castrati of the baroque age and a the recent interest in baroque music has allowed for a mini-renaissance of counter tenors. 🙂 The counter tenor voice is a very different voice from that of the castrati, and both are different again from female sopranos. They’re very different instruments.
5. The ends of the bones don’t harden and so most castrati were, for their time, very, very tall. Depending on when the castration was done, they may or may not be able to have sex. If the operation was performed when they were very small, their genitals might not have grown to adult size. The results, according to way too much medical literature that I’ve had to read for my research, varied significantly. If their voices didn’t hold, if they didn’t have what it takes to be truly great, they were resigned to church choirs. Some became priests. I think it’s likewise important to note that ‘childhood’ was not then the cossetted state that it has become now for better or worse. There were different expectations of children and many parents gave their children over to the knife so that the boys would have a better future than the parents could otherwise give them.
6. I often wonder what it must have been like for Velluti…a generation before him, castrati were super stars and while he had an extensive career, he was the last of his kind and knew it and was often greeted as much with horror as acclaim…not to mention Meyerbeer and Rossini don’t hold a candle to Porpora and Handel when it comes to showing off a high voice.
7. Like with castrati, there is a time limit to the training. If a dancer doesn’t make that decision young, they’re not going to have a career and they certainly aren’t going to reach the heights of that career. A childhood is a small sacrifice to pay for such an opportunity, in my opinion (having made that choice). There are rare exceptions. Melissa Hayden for example, one of Balanchine’s stars began dancing at sixteen. She is a rarity and frankly not in the same league as the best Russian or French dancers who began as children. I began my ballet training at ten and that was at least three years too late. There’s a sweet spot with certain elements of the training too. If a girl, for instance is planning to go on pointe, that should happen after two years of near daily training (in the west, I’d say around 12, but in major ballet schools, if they’re training for several hours a day from the time they’re seven or eight, you might see it earlier, around ten. Without that multi hour daily training regimen though, putting a child on pointe before twelve is criminal. The bones just aren’t ready.). Going on pointe too early without proper preparation can severely damage the feet but going on too late, after say 15 can also be problematic. It is much, much more difficult to develop the competence and fluidity on pointe that one needs for professional work if the feet aren’t broken to it young. As the bones harden, it’s that much more difficult to gain that combination of strength and flexibility that makes proper pointe work possible.
8. Here is a BBC documentary on the castrati that is useful for those with no prior knowledge. Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV, Part V, Part VI. The whole thing is about an hour.

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My art blog at Krasskova Creations

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Day two of the poetry challenge

I don’t usually participate in online challenges, but a good friend (and poet) tagged me on Facebook and told me about the five day poetry challenge. One posts a poem every day for five days. i kind of like that sort of challenge. 🙂 (the poem doesn’t have to be one’s own–it can be a famous one, but since i write poetry, I thought i’d give it a shot). So last night i’m sitting working and sannion calls me over to watch the video I am sharing here and that (as well as the Wild Hunt, and every predator’s hunt) was the inspiration for this piece.

The Hunt
by Galina Krasskova

A single crimson tongue
slender,
delicate
unassuming marks its passage
leaving a stain of dye
die
dying
in its wake.
A single crimson tongue
running
in obscene whimsy
dancing over ground
already staked
and claimed.
It trembles
celebrating its freedom,
no longer tied
to the domination
of heart and lungs and bowels.
It runs
and it is everything
and through it the ancestors call.
It runs and one does not expect
the howling silence.
It runs and one begins to realize:
The end of all hunts is the same:
Red.

My Mom’s Birthday and a Blast from my Past

So I’m off to an artists’ residency in Taos, NM. I’m so excited about it: two whole weeks dedicated to painting in the company of other artists (all of them so much more experienced than I, though I’m getting better every day!). My only other obligation is to finish my term paper while I’m away which unfortunately necessitated the hauling of books with me in my luggage, though that’s a small price to pay for this experience.

I’m fairly new to art. I’ve only been painting two years. I consider it a gift from my ancestors, the Orisha, and my Gods. It came out of the blue. I never expected that I’d be able to paint and paint well enough to have gallery shows. It’s been a perplexing blessing — perplexing only because sometimes I’m like ‘where did this come from?” I”m thinking about this today, not only because I’ve got this residency, but also because it’s my adopted mom’s birthday today and I very much wish she could have seen my painting and photography. She was so supportive of my creative pursuits and I just know she would have been delighted.

She never got to see me dance. Once, when I was visiting her at her home in Carmel, she had gone grocery shopping, leaving me at home to finish up some writing work. I’d finished and had put on music and was doing a very, very modified series of ballet combinations….nothing strenuous or vexing (my body is too broken from ballet for that!), but I was moving. She walked in while I was dancing and that is as close as she came to ever seeing me move as once I could.

She was actually instrumental in getting me to a place emotionally where I could watch ballet again. Though she was a pianist, she’d never been exposed to ballet before and she asked me to introduce her. It was the first time since i’d stopped dancing that I immersed myself in ballet again. Of course, i was only watching ballet videos, not performing (those days are well and truly over!). Still, until she decided she wanted to learn about what had been such a foundational and crucial part of my life, I hadn’t been able to bring myself to watch a ballet all the way through. I didn’t stop dancing because I wanted to, I stopped because I had no choice. I had too many chronic injuries.

When she asked me to bring her into that world, I was delighted. It restored the experience for me, allowed me to go back into the periphery of that world cleanly, purged of a lot of old pain. I happily gave her a run down of ballet history, told her all about my time dancing. I showed her my old pointe shoes (and she had the most sensible response ever. She slid her foot in and barely rose to a low demi-pointe…i mean barely a half inch up and stopped saying “Screw that, it hurts!”).

I collected videos, starting with Bournonville’s “La Sylphide,” first performed in the 19th century by Marie Taglioni, a ballet that inaugurated the age of the “white” ballet—all those classical ballets where the dancer is in a floofy white tutu. Then I took her through all my favorite Petipa ballets. I found videos of some of my favorite ballet stars and we watched the same ballets again. (I don’t think much of ballet since Petipa. I’m only now coming to appreciate Balanchine so I stuck with those ballets I considered truly great). We watched a documentary about the ballet “Giselle” and she was awed by the clip of Olga Spessivtseva. I introduced her to the ballets and the dancers who had once formed such an important warp and weft of my world. It became one more pointe of bonding for us and I was able to reflect on my time in that art far more contentedly than ever before. Now, years later, i even go to ballets regularly – something I could not do for a good twenty years after i retired from dance.

I know she would have been thrilled with my forays into art and we would have had a blast sharing it and exploring that world together too.

My life has been full of pain and disappointment in many ways but for each whispering memory of hurt that hides fluttering in the dark halls of my heart, I have been doubly blessed. I have been lucky and charmed. The Gods supported me through the worst times, always helping me to keep my head above water, always helping me to survive and then They brought me a mother. i’ve had two mothers: one who tried very hard but was too damaged to mother well and one who gave my soul wings. I have been graced.

As for ballet, I was talking to my partner about why on earth I went into the field. It was my passion and I was thoroughly ensnared and obsessed by it. I broke my body reaching for excellence within its borders. He pointed out that it was beautiful and given the house I grew up in, I likely craved beauty. He was right. It was also a way out and for that, I owe the daemon of dance a great debt. He may have chewed me up and spit me out pretty quickly, but it gave me freedom from the drudgery and mediocrity of my childhood home, it gave me a glimpse and taste of magic, and it prepared me for Odin and my work now. It was boot camp, a beautiful and grueling boot camp and I am oh, so grateful for my time there.

Here is a picture of me when I was still dancing professionally. I don’t recall what the piece was. (I had thought this image lost but my friend Mary Ann worked some photography magic and repaired and salvaged it).

GalinaB2

End of an Era

I found out today that legendary Bolshoi ballerina Maya Plisetskaya died of a heart attack in Germany. For me, as a former ballet dancer, this is really the end of an era of ballet. Plisetskaya along with Maryinsky trained Galina Ulanova really defined a generation of Soviet dance. She was known for her power, passion, and dramatic flair. There are clips of her dancing into her *sixties*. She was a power-house. A full obituary may be found here and here. (the latter has several clips of her dancing).*

When I was small and just starting to study dance, wanting so desperately to excel (and having no one in my life who remotely understood or supported my desire/obsession), Bravo channel would show ballets every weekend, quite often the Bolshoi and Plisetskaya was one of the first ballerinas whom I saw perform (albeit it on tv, in broadcasts of performances at least a decade old). The choreography was nothing special (most of it was soviet era crap — that period was not known for its glittering choreographic genius) but she was fire. I wanted to be just like her as a performer when I grew up. I would have sold my soul at the time for the opportunity to study with one of the Russian schools. That training, rooted as it was not only in Vaganova style, but through Petipa and Ivanov to the greatest of the nineteenth century European schools turned out phenomenal dancers. To this day, in my heart of hearts, I don’t think American ballet schools come even close.

Ballet is an art form where the entire tradition is transmitted one dancer to another. Each dancer, particularly one of Plisetskaya’s calibre is a living repository of history, continuity, and the lifeblood of the tradition. No matter how careful the recording of a ballet, there are nuances that can only be communicated from teacher to student. Plisetskaya was a blazing jewel in that strand of lineage transmission. She was one of those dancers whose work sustained the entire tradition, a generation, over the stages on which she danced, a living icon to those students who sought to follow in her footsteps.

So may she be hailed.
May her journey to her dead be swift and sure.
May she be met with joy amongst her departed kin.

We in my family don’t get to serve the muses so, but we do get to foster there for a time and do our part, and come away ravaged, sometimes broken, but always transformed. For the time i spent in her world, bowed under the scintillating, seductive discipline of the daemon that rules that art, I honor her passage into the firmament of the dead.

Maya Plisetskaya 1925-2015

2837-49943505_dance_history_5

A Beautiful Tragedy – I don’t think so.

I started this pissy rant on Facebook, and then decided there was more I wanted to say so I moved it here.

So I watched a documentary about a girl who is now a soloist with the Maryinsky (she just did Swan Lake on their American tour to rave reviews.). It’s called “Beautiful Tragedy.” I saw it on youtube (I’ll give the link below) and both the title and some of the assed up comments there made me very angry.

I get so fucking tired of mediocrities whining about how hard the training is and how much these girls sacrifice and oh “let the children be children.” What bullshit. Excellence demands sacrifice. Period. Ballet is one of the most brutal of arts and if you want to excel you learn to suffer. There isn’t a dancer alive who doesn’t understand that and frankly, I think there’s a reason Russia turns out such phenomenal dancers and has since the early 19th century: the training. They choose the best raw material and absolutely no quarter is given. That is how it should be. That is what produces the best and highest of results consistently.

One of the commenters in the youtube thread said flat out that children shouldn’t be allowed to make such a choice (as to give their childhood over in the study of ballet) so young, and that even if her daughter wanted to be a dancer, she’d not permit it. I hope this woman has no children. No one, however young, should be denied discipline, the joy of following their dreams, acknowledgement of their capacity to decide upon those dreams, and their capacity to meet the sacrifices and challenges required, and the chance to be something other than mundane. Excellence has a cost. I’m glad there are those willing to pay it. We’ve enough mediocrity in the world as it is.

Moreover, the sacrifice of childhood is the price you pay for the *opportunity* to reach the pinnacle of excellence. It is no guarantee. It’s your god damned entry fee into the arena.

This, by the way is precisely why I dislike, in the extreme, watching American ballet companies perform ballets with the children from local ballet schools — or indeed any American school. Compared to those training at the Russian schools they are awful, sloppy, held to no standard other than that they “have fun.” We seem to idolize the cult of childhood in this country, treating it as something to be preserved at all costs but there are things so much more important. I still mourn the fact that opera no longer has its castrati. Oh I hear the arguments that this was cruelty and a horrific thing to do to a child, and how could any child consent but they could and either way art will have its sacrifices to the process of perfection. I started dancing at ten, after a year of working hard to convince my parents to allow it. That was too late, but I worked as hard as I could, sacrificed, bled, cried, and hoped. My body broke but I’d do it again in a heartbeat just for the opportunity. If you had told me that mutilating my genitalia as the castrati did would have ensured me a chance, just a chance mind you, for greatness in the art, i’d have done it without hesitation. I did damage my body and I knew from the very beginning — all dancers do, or at least the smart ones—that this was a very real, almost inevitable chance. We weren’t blind to that at all. It was the entrance fee and every whisper of pain was worth it.

I’m going to break this down very carefully:

those in service to such an art are greater than the sum of their parts. Their desires, their individuality, are only important in so far as it nourishes the art that they practice. Should they seek to nourish themselves creatively, spiritually, emotionally, yes of course but only up to the point that it nourishes their art as well. The moment it interferes with and stops feeding their art, well, at that point, their job — that they’ve taken on willingly— is to give themselves over fully to that daemon. Nothing else matters but that drive to excellence for the sake of this thing so much greater than any individual artist might be.

At their core, these arts (ballet, music, art, etc.) are the distillation of what is best in humanity. To step into service to one of these arts is to become part of something so much greater, so much longer lasting, so much more vital and important than one’s own individual self. Everything you are feeds the daemon of your art and that is how it should be. There is no excellence without suffering and sacrifice and anyone who says otherwise is deluded, stupid, or very, very naive. Besides, discipline is a lifelong gift and so much easier learned when young.

I object to anything that prioritizes the individual over the eternal. I object to anything that would tell you that being mediocre is ok, don’t even try to be anything more (this was actually said to me by a Heathen “leader” years ago “we should strive to be mediocre.” um, yeah, no. I don’t think so). The moment we are satisfied with being less than we have the capacity to be, is the moment we descend to depths even lower than that. We devolve spiritually, creativity, emotionally, intellectually, culturally and on and on. The push toward excellence is essential. I’ll tell you one more thing too, pursuing excellence in an art like ballet is a spirituality, a religion all its own. I suspect strongly that’s why I had to give it up.

I may return to this later, but for now, here’s the documentary I was talking about.