A Little Tea or Something

Branded by A Little Tea or Something

I am a terrible patient and thus avoid doctor visits like plague. Plus. It is my firmly held belief that doctor appointments spawn more doctor appointments—and who has time for that? But I relented last week and saw an orthopedist after I took a spill on pavement during mile three of an otherwise glorious run in late October. Seems the problem—a hematoma in my right quadriceps—took a couple of weeks to insinuate itself into an otherwise pretty smooth semester at the ballet school. That, and fluid in the joint that is now causing my knee to feel as if it will explode when I engage in certain kinds of activity, like, say, bending it. Grand plie and passe are out of the question for the time being. If nothing else, this bit of unpleasantness has forced my students to rely less on me to prop them up during class.

Anywho. Yesterday in traffic, on my way to spawned appointment number one with my physical therapist, I noticed a number 37 decal on the pickup truck in front of me; I’m guessing 37 is a NASCAR driver. Then I started wondering how famous dancers could be marketed, in the absence of a car or jersey number. A dear friend pointed out that all those race cars also have advertisements plastered all over them, and suggested this idea might not translate so well to tutus. (And this observation after I had described the gorgeous tutus in Clark Tippet’s Bruch Violin Concerto No. 1 at ABT, how well they were designed to emphasize movement: those Tide and Budweiser stickers could be a problem….) (Polina Semionova and Dimitrij Semionov in Bruch Violin Concerto No. 1 at German State Ballet Berlin; photo, Dieter Hartwig)

Some time ago my dancer, writer, photographer cyber-pal Matt Murphy had this clever idea: dancer trading cards. You can see an example here, in one of Matt’s posts over at The Winger. And how about this worlds-in-collision marketing idea: wrap the dancer trading cards in packages of snuff and sell them to the guy with the 37 on his truck. Matt: do you suppose it would work in Missoula?

Well, maybe not. But in response to her own question, What is your greatest dream? Twyla Tharp says this:

To be paid on the same level as professional athletes and pop stars. This would mean I live in a world where dance is as popular as soccer or rock ‘n’ roll. If the luckiest people in the world are the ones who get paid for doing what they would otherwise do for free, I am already lucky. But I’m an optimist. My greatest dream is always to be luckier.

(She can dream, can’t she?)

Disclaimer: I know nothing of NASCAR. Nothing.

Col. Ross Bentley Young, Jr., USAF, retired, came into this world on September 26, 1915, and left it November 10, 2008. In between was a life of adventure, humor, and learning through his service to God, country, and family.

He grew up in Memphis and at the family farm, Castle Barn, Fayette County, Tennessee, the namesake son of his father and the former Louise Hobson. His early years were spent on the farm, around Memphis Machine Works, and the Memphis Press, for which his Yankee father was founding editor.

He married his wife of fifty-seven years, Mary Clayton Long, of Lewisburg, Tennessee, and whisked her off to be part of the occupation of Japan shortly after their marriage. What followed was a series of assignments around the world and around the country that they faced together with love, friends, and laughter, and a tight, eccentric family that he encouraged and loved.

He was commissioned in the Army Air Corps after getting his degree from the University of Tennessee in 1937, with additional studies at Auburn. He was stationed in Alaska, awaiting orders for the Philippines, when he was stranded during an airplane sightseeing joyride in the Alaskan backcountry. His engineering unit was shipped to the Far East and most did not escape the Bataan death march. He ultimately transferred to Europe, where he worked for Army Intelligence, and did interviews with Nazi scientists as the German lines were collapsing to determine their knowledge, allegiance, and faith in Nazi doctrine. He was in both Paris and London on VE Day, and spent time with the British Army as the lines were being pushed back in Belgium. Once in the U.S., he honed missile delivery systems at Kirtland Air force Base and White Sands Missile Range. At Arnold Air Station he directed the destructive testing and strengthening of the Saturn V rockets.

He was Director of the Advanced Research Projects Agency Office of Special Development in Thailand, where he ostensibly authored the Blue Book of Coastal Vessels, Thailand, in two volumes, on the Thai fishing fleet while developing listening and tracking devices for the CIA in Laos and Cambodia. He let slip once to his son that they could tell the difference in the gait of a man or a woman walking down a trail. He held numerous patents, all of them classified.

After declining a post to the Sudan, Dad retired to a life of investment, learning, service, and family. He was an avid golfer, and a good one, and loved fine, Spanish wines, good Scotch, invention, and politics. Prior to his membership at First United Methodist Church of Knoxville, he was an active member and volunteer for twenty-six years at First United Methodist Church of Oak Ridge. He was also the founding president of the East Tennessee Senior Golf Association. Dad gave good advice that was founded on doing what was right and taking the long view. While he could not tell a joke to save his life, he enjoyed telling them; he never complained, preferring wry comments instead.

Only rarely would he reminisce about where he had been, and it came out only in tiny pieces, some of which are recounted above. Once, when it was pointed out to him that a local Indian restaurant was serving goat for lunch, Col. Young said, “I haven’t had goat since I was in Turkistan. You all thought I was in Spain.” During his career he received the Legion of Merit, for exceptionally meritorious service, the Air Force Distinguished Service Medal, the Bronze Star, and numerous campaign and service medals for Europe, Asia, and Korea.

Col. Young is survived by his wife, Mary; daughter, Edna Young, of Charleston, SC; and son, Ross Young, III, daughter-in-law Deb Young, and grandson, Ross Bentley Young, IV, all of Knoxville. He is preceded in death by his parents, his sister, Lois Young, and nearly all of his friends and comrades in arms. Services will be private, with interment at Arlington National Cemetery. His secrets are safe; rest in peace.

Deb-Style by A Little Tea or Something

This is more or less my default style; it has not changed much since I was ten. Sensible. Simple. Acceptable Under Most Circumstances. A couple of times in my adult life I have dabbled in what some might call high fashion, but those were super-skinny moments, and fleeting. Haut Couture does not lend itself to a somewhat older, slightly lumpier build. I’ve tried a couple of times, and mostly end up tugging at my clothes all day.

If you have children, you understand what I mean when I say most of your coolness evaporated the instant you became a parent (the first part left you when you were married). Most people don’t consider spit-up stains on the shoulder or lapel a fashion accessory. Nor the diaper bag. I started using a backpack diaper bag when my own child was very young, which eventually morphed into a slightly fancier L.L. Bean leather backpack when diapering days were over, because I discovered I liked having both hands free all the time. The rest of it, though—turtleneck, jeans, clogs, and maybe some dangly earrings—it’s my life’s uniform.

One morning about a year ago I had the news on as I prepared breakfast, mainly as background noise, when a comment about “mom jeans” grabbed my attention. A high-power fashion consultant was making over Mrs. Everyday Mom, who was standing there in sensible shoes and jeans that looked alarmingly like my own. This got me thinking about whether I needed to tweak my style a tad—you know, keep up with the times. So I went online and ordered a pair of low-rise boot cut jeans, almost exactly like the ones in my collage: NOT-mom jeans. I followed the size guidelines carefully, but when push came to shove, so to speak, I simply could not get into these jeans. So I tossed them aside and forgot about them.

Until last week. I started a weight-loss plan to shed a few pounds back in early September. Slowly, slowly, I have begun to lose weight (fifteen pounds to date), and my shape to change. Those jeans caught my eye when I was washing clothes, sitting there in their original mailer on a shelf in the laundry room. Impulsively I ripped open the bag, dropped my drawers, and slipped into them. Sure enough, they went right on, kinda. In truth, they were now a little big in the hips and the general vicinity of the bum. But because they are cut thin through the leg, and I have ballet dancer legs, they are pretty dang tight in the thigh.

I decided to wear them anyway. In short order I discovered that every time I sat down, the waist fell so low in the back that my (ahem) underpants were exposed. Likewise, every time I reached up, say, to put away clean dishes on a high shelf, my middle—belly button and all—was exposed. I demonstrated this for my teenager, who said, That’s what they’re SUPPOSED to do (in his best “you moron” demeanor). A slightly older friend in Memphis, and possibly the only real Flower Child I have ever known in my life, merely quipped, Then wear a thong; it’ll be sexy. And the nice, young U.T. student who helps me with chores was quick to supply me with the name of a mall store where I could find better low-rise jeans that would not slip quite so low when sitting.

Hmmmm. It’s all interesting advice. But. My inclination is to keep looking for the jeans that really make me happy. They’re just jeans. Five pockets. No pleats. No elastic in the waist. Cut close around the ankles. I had scores of them in college, but I’m hard-pressed to find them these days.

And just one final word about the high-power fashion consultant. Seems she believes that women over a certain age should NEVER wear a mini skirt; it’s ridiculous, she suggests, that a “more mature” woman show that much leg. Well. I happen to like my legs a great deal, thank you very much. I have lots of mini skirts. Lots. I like to wear them when I go out to the theatre, even though that breaks all kinds of fashion rules, I know. (My husband also likes it when I wear mini skirts.) So, dear consultant, shall we don our mini skirts and step outside? The one who gets leered at first wins, what? I don’t know, how about a lifetime supply of mom jeans?

As much as husband enjoys a robust political argument with friends over a cold beer, I eschew that kind of thing. The main reason is that political conflict—especially between friends—gives me a stomach ache. I already have plenty of conflict in my life, thank you very much. I disagree with many of my friends where politics are concerned, but we are connected in so many other important ways; the disparity is not worth possibly tinkering with cherished friendships. Plus, my political inclinations—like my religion—are exactly nobody’s business but my own.

BUT. Seeing as the election is nearly upon us, I decided to share this song. Over the Rhine is the band, and while they are not, strictly speaking, a country band (and I am not, strictly speaking, a huge fan of country music), this is a very country song. (Listen for vocalist Karin Bergquist’s spectacular channeling of Emmylou Harris in the bridge.) OtR is a recent discovery; I love their music. Enjoy.

EEEEWWWW. Well, homage to Theatre Knoxville Downtown, anyway, currently mounting a production of Blood Relations—The People Against Lizzie Borden. (And incidentally, my dear friend Betsy is cast as Lizzie’s sister, Emma; go, Betsy.) You may be surprised to learn that Lizzie’s story has been made into a ballet. I sure as heck was. It’s called Fall River Legend (music by Morton Gould), choreographed by Agnes de Mille in 1948 and revived in the late 1980s and early 1990s for various companies. American Ballet Theatre’s Julie Kent and Melissa Thomas are seen here in a performance of the ballet last year. (Photo: Andrea Mohin/New York Times)

Here is an excerpt of Fall River Legend as performed by Dance Theatre of Harlem in 1989, with founding member Virginia Johnson (current editor-in-chief of Pointe magazine) cast as Lizzie Borden.

Blood Relations runs through November 9; Thursday, Friday, and Saturday performances at 8:00 pm, Sundays at 3:00. Tickets $10 on Thursdays and Sundays, $15 for Friday and Saturday shows. Theatre Knoxville is at 319 N. Gay Street, opposite Regas Restaurant; 865.544.1999. (Just don’t expect pointe shoes.)

Good ballet is tough to find. So tough, in fact, that two or three times each year I gather a few of my students who are willing, and a couple of their parents, depart Knoxville Ballet School at the crack of dawn, drive to Louisville, have lunch, see the ballet, and then more or less repeat the whole thing in reverse. Four hours in the car, about five hours on the ground once we’re there, and four Very Long Hours again in the car. It’s insane, really. But obviously worth doing, or we wouldn’t keep it up. (Seen here: Allen, a student of Johnson City Ballet Academy, flanked by Knoxville Ballet School Level II students Zoey and Madi)

Louisville Ballet has never disappointed me; this time they positively outdid themselves. I can’t remember when I’ve had so much fun at a matinee. Helen Pickett’s Etesian opened the mixed rep billed as “Ladies’ Choice” this past Saturday, a work premiered by Boston Ballet in 2006 (seen here; photo, Gene Schiavone), and danced to music of Bach and Beethoven (and also silence in some places); this was Louisville Ballet’s premiere of the piece. We were introduced to Pickett’s work last season in upon your held-out hand, a ballet she made for Louisville. Of the three works rolled out on this program, this one is the most likely to land in the “high art” category. And although my small group liked it least of the three, I’m inclined to place it closer to the top of my list. It is a stretch for little people: sinewy bodies moving through space in unconventional ways, with mere curtain panels for sets, high brow music, and no real story. But that’s probably why I like it so much, and why I also like Balanchine’s leotard ballets. Stripped of all the usual sparkly tiara and handsome prince glam, the dancers are truly at the center of the dance. Costuming and lighting were magical, and the dancers did justice to Pickett’s demanding choreography.

Next came Twyla Tharp’s crowd-pleasing Nine Sinatra Songs (premiered in 1982, and in 2006 by Louisville); there is always a little thrill as the curtain rises and the gigantic disco ball on stage casts thousands of tiny sparkles over the dark house. (And who better than Tharp to insinuate a gigantic disco ball into a ballet?) I’ve seen this one a few times, and it is pure fun with universal appeal. My gang loved it, as did the crowd in Whitney Hall that afternoon, who actually gave the dancers a standing ovation—something I’ve never seen in the middle of a mixed bill performance. Go, Louisville. (Carlos Guerra and Jennifer Kroneneberg of Miami City Ballet; photo, Joe Gato, Miami City Ballet)

And as always, they saved the best for last. Lila York’s Celts (premiered in 1996 in Boston, and this season in Louisville), danced to a compilation of music from The Chieftans, Bill Whelan, and William J. Ruyle, is a collision of Riverdance and classical ballet: lots of heavy Celtic drumming and girls in pointe shoes. In one all-male ensemble piece, which could rightfully be called the Testosterone Movement, bare-chested men wearing, well, practically nothing, joyously chest-bang and fight each other to the death. At the end of the first section of Celts, a large man seated in the row ahead of us shouted, “YEAH!” The white-haired woman next to him could not help smiling. Celts is the answer to Giselle for all those guys whose wives insisted they come to the ballet; I’ll bet they’d even stop listening to the game through the earbuds for this one. Writing for Louisville’s Courier-Journal, Andrew Adler says this: “Celts is a flat-out, mouth agape pleasure, the ballet equivalent of riding a motorcycle 100 miles an hour on an open, twisting road.” I could not agree more. The crowd was on its feet before the curtain even hit the stage. Score. I could not scare up any images of this ballet, still or otherwise. I will just say, See it if you have the chance.

Louisville Ballet markets itself very, very well. This performance continues artistic director Bruce Simpson’s theme, “Ballet: it’s not what you think.” Something for everyone, and a rollicking good time at that. And this inserted into our playbills: The Fund for the Arts, with the headline, “2008 Fund for the Arts Campaign Exceeds Goal: Earns Louisville ‘Best in America in Support of the Arts.’” Louisville’s got it going on, evidently. The Knoxville Ballet School crowd had a great time, including a post-performance chat with the endearing first soloist Christy Corbitt Miller, and an impromptu visit to the company headquarters, where JCBA student Allen caught up with familiar faces from Louisville Ballet School’s summer intensive. Thanks again, Louisville. Until next time….

Teenager has decided to go Goth. Not because he wishes to assume the Goth demeanor and all that goes with it (which we’re still a little unclear about), mind you, but because he wants to irritate somebody. And no, it’s not his parents in this case. Seems somebody at school said something to him of a religious nature that was, shall we say, Extremely Annoying. Rather than ignore the comments, teenager has elected to fan the flames. I was lured into the haircut—the first transformation—because, he said, his hair was bugging him where it hit his collar. Hair cut. Check.

Once at the salon, though, he whipped out his trusty laptop and loaded a picture of his favorite rocker, whose hair he professed was “pimp.” I thought the rocker was a girl, at first. Turns out it was the eyeliner. Silly me. Goth? Pimp? I am confused. After a brief meeting with the very accomodating stylist, who pointed out more than once that the rocker’s hair was curly, and teenager’s hair was, er, NOT, the transformation began:

Teenager had a chance to sport his new look in public over the weekend, at a Children’s Theatre of Knoxville production of Little Women. A couple of his friends were cast in the play, including his pal Kat, who played Jo March:

Word to the wise: take care to limit your Goth hair goo when there is a chance you might be hugging a really cute girl after her curtain call. The black nails and eyeliner are a nice touch, though. (Black eyeliner. Check. Black nail polish. Check.) You really showed that kid at school, huh?

One thing I miss an awful lot from my now-teenager’s early childhood is reading great children’s books with him. When it was at last time to clean off his shelves and store the wonderful juvenile books he had outgrown, there were a few I could not bear to put away. These are on our coffee table, and this in particular may well be my favorite; I discovered it on Rosh Hashanah in 2000 while listening to an interview on NPR’s Weekend Edition between Scott Simon and children’s literature expert, Daniel Pinkwater, in which the two of them read aloud much of the book—Gershon’s Monster: A Story for the Jewish New Year—and then discuss it with joy and fervor.

Today is Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year; Eric Kimmel has retold this traditional Jewish story beautifully, and illustrator Jon J. Muth’s watercolors are enchanting. Whatever your faith tradition, I promise this story will speak to you. You can listen to it and the interview here; click on the Real Media link. Stick around for the commentary at the end; it is thoughtful and inspirational.

I have been on a nostalgia kick lately for some reason. Last week I received a long-anticipated DVD by mail from Zipporah Films called Ballet. I knew of this film about five years ago when it was available only to rent in 16mm and for a princely sum at that. Award-winning documentary filmmaker Frederick Wiseman shot the movie in 1992 at American Ballet Theatre’s studios on Broadway in New York and on location with the company in Athens and Copenhagen during their tour of those cities that same year—the year after Mikhail Baryshnikov stepped down as artistic director, but before current director Kevin McKenzie was hired. The film aired on PBS in 1993. Imagine my joy when I opened last month’s Dance Magazine to discover its release on DVD for a paltry $29.95 plus shipping and handling. Ballet is 170 delectable minutes of footage documenting a period in the life of my favorite company. There is no dialogue; Mr. Wiseman simply takes his camera into the studios, into the company lounge and offices, and finally on tour, recording everything. He links carefully chosen rehearsals of some of the company’s repertoire that season with footage of the same moments in performance later in the movie. I could easily go into seclusion for weeks to study every minute of this film, but then my family would be forced to subsist on frozen dinners and my ballet school would fail. So instead I watch snatches of it late at night. And remember my ballet roots.

We get precious little help identifying dancers and staff in the film’s credits, but the Dance Magazine story revealed many clues, and I could name several at first blush: here is David Howard giving company class; here is Susan Jaffe in rehearsal with Irina Kolpakova (seen here working with two ABT dancers), coaching her on Nikiya’s variation for La Bayadere; here is Michael Somes setting Symphonic Variations on Cynthia Harvey and others; here is Georgina Parkinson taking issue with Irina’s instructions on how a ballerina should carry her shoulders in a particular variation; and here is the company writhing around seductively on the floor in Le Sacre du Printemps rehearsals.

But Amanda McKerrow in particular caught my eye, rehearsing a ballet unfamiliar to me in one of ABT’s smaller studios. I saw one of Amanda’s final performances as Giselle only a couple of years ago in Chicago. And her husband (and former ABT soloist), John Gardner, is a fellow alum of my old performing arts school. In this scene, there is an ancient woman at the front of the room, sitting in a wheelchair, crowing directions to Amanda in the cracked voice of ninety or more years: flap your arms, dear, like you are…you are absolutely broken; now pas de bourre around, like a snake—that’s right; now stop, and turn, slowly, slowly, and then you look up and see your beloved Jane.

Amanda is respectful and reverent. At one point she stops and walks forward, bends over and places her hands on her knees, her face only inches from the old woman’s face: she is trying to understand exactly what it is she should do. And I am wondering, Who is this old woman? At long last her young assistant, seated beside her, calls her Agnes. Agnes de Mille. And this is the last ballet she made, called The Other. The ballet had its premiere in April of 1992, and Agnes died the next year. Immediately I recall a moment during a 1995 interview with Amanda McKerrow in which she refers to The Leaves are Fading rehearsals with Anthony Tudor as “a gift.” And it is clear to me why Amanda has been chosen to dance the lead in Agnes de Mille’s final work: she appreciates the magnitude of what is happening, of this moment, perhaps in a way that another dancer could not.

Maybe this movie has brought on the nostalgia. In performing arts school during the late 1970s my classmates and I were lucky to be in the company of ballet icons. Were we duly reverent and appreciative? To varying degrees, we probably were, but maybe not so much on occasion. Some of these iconic figures were ancient, like Ms. de Mille; they smelled funny; they spoke broken English; and they had strange habits, like carrying little dogs around inside their dance bags. I recall my mother threatening me with unmentionable consequences if she ever caught me (in person or by way of the school staff) behaving disrespectfully towards my ballet elders.

With that threat still burning my ears at the start of a new term, I found myself along with my roommate, Leonessa, at breakfast one early morning sitting opposite an old man with twinkling eyes. And a funny smell. And speaking broken English. (You know where this is going.) He was in fact so ancient that his voice was nearly gone. Hunched over his burned toast and peaches, he carried on about the benefits of carbon on the digestive system. We did not quite know what to make of him. What’s more, there he was a short while later in the front of the studio teaching our morning technique class—an old-style Russian technique class.

Turns out the man was Vitale Fokine, son of Michel Fokine, legendary choreographer (Les Sylphides comes to mind) from St. Petersburg and the Mariinsky Theatre. Right there in that room with us. And eating burned toast and peaches at our breakfast table, too. (Leo: if you’re reading this, do you remember?) My mom nearly dropped the phone when I called to deliver this news. And then she reaffirmed those consequences for me, in case I had forgotten. That was not the only morning I was to sit opposite Mr. Fokine while he ate his burned toast and peaches, as my mother had used her Southern voodoo on me: Now, you be KIND to that old man and have breakfast with him.

Now that I find myself at the front of the studio, I am glad I had those moments with Mr. Fokine. Amanda McKerrow was right—that is indeed a gift. I like to think that a strand of ballet DNA made its way from St. Petersburg and the Mariinksy Theatre, through Michel and Vitale Fokine, to me, and now on to my students. It is a tiny strand, as my own teaching style bears little resemblance to Mr. Fokine’s, but still carries some little echo from nineteenth-century St. Petersburg.

ABT’s tour of Athens in 1992 opens the second disc in Wiseman’s Ballet; the venue is the amphitheatre at the Parthenon, which looms just beyond in the night sky on the Acropolis. Here is a clip of Symphonic Variations from the film. If you are an ABT fan, you must add this movie to your collection. (Note: the YouTube text suggests the female lead may be Susan Jaffe. It is actually Cynthia Harvey. If anyone can identify the lead male dancer here, I would love to know who it is. In the rehearsal footage it was, I believe, Ethan Brown.)

Balloon Dog by Jeff Koons at the Chateau de Versailles exhibition; photo, Ed Alcock for the NY Times

I meant to post about this a few days ago, when the picture above appeared on the cover of the NY Times Arts section; Kristen Sloan over at the Winger beat me to it. Drat. Of course, she is actually IN FRANCE at the moment on assignment with NYCB, so I suppose that gives her first dibs (plus, she made her own sexy pictures of Koons’ sculptures). Anyway, this exhibit made me laugh out loud. It opened in New York not all that long ago as an outdoors exhibit. But Koons’ Balloon Dog—at Versailles? Life is indeed good; I suppose Versailles is now home to ballet AND balloon sculpture (gigantic balloon sculpture in day-glo colors, that is).