LITMIR.BIZ

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human being. I’d like for my parents to say they are proud to call me their son. This is more important to me than anything else. Those of us who live in the dance world view what we do as valuable to our society and culture. But as one who has danced on the great stages of the world—performed with the Kirov Ballet, the Royal Ballet, and New York City Ballet, and American Ballet Theatre—I find myself asking, what does it all really mean? When you consider that there is hunger, disease, terror, and war in the world, you realize that what we do is of secondary importance.”

      “Do you think your ambition to be a decent and honorable human being comes across in your dancing?”

      “Time will tell what audiences actually understand about me. I think what makes a dancer an artist is the ability to project one’s individuality. I don’t think you can have a weak personality and have something come across from the stage. Unlike a writer who can be more literal about his views, I’m working in nonverbal communication and interpreting the expression of others—the choreographer and the composer. But I do think it’s possible for people to learn something about me from the aesthetic choices I make. And I’d like to believe that my core essence—that thing that distinguishes me from someone else—will always be understood on some level. If not, then I should probably stop dancing.”

      “As a dancer your job is to interpret your character or, in an abstract ballet, a story or viewpoint. What’s it like for you when you feel your own identity surface?”

      “I can’t really describe what that feels like, but I do know that it’s what keeps me going, even through all these injuries. I can try to explain it with words like joy, fulfillment, euphoria, but these words are insufficient and inaccurate.”

      “When you get into that emotionally charged place, do you try to linger there a while?”

      “To try to linger there would suggest that you have some control over it. I don’t. I’m only in control of the steps that I’m doing and the training and the musicality that I possess. I only have the tools to go for the ride. I’d be foolish to think I control what happens out there. I’d be foolish to want to.”

      “Are you in search of artistic perfection?”

      “I think to strive for perfection is a misdirected ambition.”

      “Why?”

      “Because perfection doesn’t seem relative to what we do. Art is about creating something that will inspire, engage, confront, and enrich. How can you say we’re striving for perfection when, being a subjective medium, this is not art’s original intention? Yes, you aim to be clean and precise while always giving your all, but dance is a refine and redefine art form.”

      “What’s a typical day in the life of a professional ballet dancer?”

      “My routine has changed over the years, but in general I try to sleep as much as I can and wake up at the last minute. Sometimes I only get three hours of sleep a night. During the performance season, I try to get into the studio about thirty to forty minutes before the others. I believe in preparation for class. It sets up you physically and mentally, and when it’s quiet you can shut out distractions. The studio is where you put in the blood and the sweat. That’s where you figure it all out, where things are molded and shaped. Typically class takes an hour and a half and is followed by a rehearsal that usually runs five to seven hours, depending upon what I’m dancing.”

      “Do you feel a responsibility to enlighten society about the beauty and wonder of dance?”

      “All I really know how to do is function as a principal dancer and teach what I’ve learned. That’s why I mentor others, created a dance camp in Martha’s Vineyard. I hope one day also to direct my own company or school. We spoke earlier about the fragility of the dancer’s body, but the truth is that the art form itself is fragile. And while I’m not a crusader, I am interested in keeping dance alive the only way I know how—by maintaining respect for the history of ballet, while continually trying to promote innovation and progress.”

      It had been more than a year since I last saw Ethan, when I noticed that American Ballet Theatre was coming to the Orange County Performing Arts Center for their 2007 season. He would be dancing the role of Prince Désiré opposite Gillian Murphy in the West Coast premiere of The Sleeping Beauty. Curious to know whether Ethan had maintained his powerful stage presence, I purchased a ticket. When Ethan made his entrance in the second act, the audience burst into applause. Adapted from Marius Petipa’s 1890 original choreography, Ethan’s role called for highly athletic moves—jetés, cabrioles, and entrechats—as well as subtle displays of character and physical strength for lifts, which he performed with astonishing ease and skill. Watching him perform, I knew that the only thing he had lost during his convalescence was time. His artistry and technical skill remained as vital as ever. During the bows, Gillian acknowledged Ethan by handing him a rose from her bouquet. Ethan accepted it and then tossed it lovingly to the audience. Then he kissed her on the lips in a clearly unrehearsed expression of pure joy.

       New York, 2006Costa Mesa, California, 2007

       Leslie Caron

      The morning of our scheduled meeting, Paris was dark and chilly. On the Métro I worried that if it rained, my planned outdoor portrait of Leslie would have to be scratched. I was traveling with my twenty-five-year-old daughter, Ariella, who would assist me with the shoot. Once we arrived at the entrance to Leslie’s building in one of Paris’s most fashionable districts, I pushed the button next to her apartment number and whispered to my daughter, “Prepare to meet a living legend.” Moments later Leslie Caron responded over the intercom. I recognized her low-timbred voice and French accent from her many films.

      “Yes, Rose, so sorry to keep you waiting. I’ll buzz you in, just take the elevator to the second floor.” Leslie was waiting for us in the hall when we stepped out of the elevator. Even without makeup and her hair hidden inside a beret, she displayed striking beauty and refinement.

      “Thank you so much for having us.”

      “Please do come in,” she said, opening the door wide and leading us through her foyer decorated with romantic oil paintings and sculptures. Placing my camera bag on the rug of her parlor floor, I scanned the airy room for mementos of her fabled career. On a small dresser in an alcove stood a bronze statue of a ballet dancer alongside a framed portrait of a smiling Rudolf Nureyev. On the coffee table lay a copy of Secret Muses: The Life of Frederick Ashton.

      “May I offer you some coffee? Please make yourselves comfortable.” Leslie excused herself and returned moments later holding a silver tray bearing three cups of espresso and a small bowl of sugar cubes. She was no longer wearing her beret. Her brown curls now framed her face and accentuated her delicate features. She sat down next to me.

      Turning to Leslie, I asked, “Is it all right to begin the interview now?”

      “Yes, of course.”

      “Once you’ve committed yourself passionately to the dance, does that passion ever leave you?”

      “Probably not. Dance is something I know so well, so profoundly, so intimately. It’s been over forty years since I danced professionally, but when I hear music, I still feel like dancing. When I gave up my dance career, it was like getting a divorce. I had to make a painful decision—to be a movie star or a ballerina. I was only eighteen when Hollywood came calling, and I knew if I were going to pursue acting, I would not be able to keep up with my ballet training. To be a prima ballerina you have to be in top form and possess a victorious attitude toward every aspect of life. I found myself deeply conflicted. After much soul-searching I decided to stop dancing. I gave away my toe shoes and informed MGM executives that I wouldn’t dance anymore. I was twenty-three.”

      “This must have been terribly painful.”

      “Yes,

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