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 Driven
to Precision
By Diane Gudat
And other lessons learned from June and Esther, Donald and
Alexandra
It is my belief that everyone who has passion for their work
has been brought to that place by the influence of someone
else—a hero, a role model. That passion is then fueled by
others who embody the qualities that you desire to develop in
yourself. I encountered my first professional dance heroes
long before I had ever taken a dance class.
The first ones to catch my eye were that kaleidoscope of
perfection known as the June Taylor Dancers, who appeared
weekly on
The Jackie Gleason Show.
These fabulous females, filmed from what seemed like heaven,
created perfectly symmetrical patterns while lying flat on the
floor. At the same time, I remember being transfixed by films
starring swimming sensation Esther Williams and her posse of
dripping beauties. What June Taylor did on land, they
perfected in the water. Who would not want to don a nose plug,
grease her hair, and dive off a swing into a wreath of
floating femme fatales? Watching swimmers dive sideways into a
crystal lagoon as the camera passed by their perfectly painted
faces one by one was captivating.
Those precision-filled routines influenced me then and helped
shape me as a choreographer. As a child I had an extensive
collection of trolls, those 3-inch-tall plastic creatures with
protruding eyes and huge tufts of brightly colored hair. I
spent endless hours using those little symmetrical oddballs to
create my versions of the routines I saw on TV and at the
movies. I gave them identical hair twists and eventually
clothed their naked bodies in spectacular silver costumes made
of duct tape. I used to sit on the bump of the floorboard in
our family car (no seatbelts required in those days) and
create wonderful formations on the back seat. My favorite
stage, though, was a glass-topped coffee table, which allowed
me to peer at my formations from below as well as above.
Later, a slightly more mature version of myself made intricate
formations of pennies. I began by moving two at a time, and as
I gained dexterity, I found I could move four or five at once.
In my quest for symmetry, all of the Lincoln heads had to face
the same direction.
Over the years I have tried to capture that same kind of magic
with my own dancers, but without devising a tilted mirror the
size of the stage or placing the audience in a helicopter it
has been impossible. But there’s hope—with the new trend
toward mixed-media performances, maybe a well-placed camera
and a few widescreen TVs will someday bring my dream to life.
Those early influences were enduring. I realize now that in
creating portraits of my two daughters, I often photographed
them from overhead. My favorite pose put them ear to ear, one
facing north and one facing south, so that no matter how you
rotated the photo, one was always upside down. I do the same
thing by placing my dancers on their backs with their heads in
a circle at almost every competition. I have always been a
stickler for perfect formations and straight lines and
tickling the audience’s eyeballs; I get goose bumps from
watching the Rockettes. No doubt those quirks are residual
effects from growing up watching June Taylor and Esther
Williams.
Another personal hero is Donald O’Connor. After watching his
classic performance of “Make ’Em Laugh” in the great MGM film
Singin’ in the Rain,
I dreamed of running up a wall and flipping over backwards.
The trick usually went perfectly in my mind. To this day I
long to do a back flip off the wall, but I have placed it,
along with back handsprings and a full straddle split, on my
list of things to do if I ever get diagnosed with a terminal
disease. I did, however, conquer the “stand on the back of the
chair as it falls over” trick that Donald and crew made famous
in the “Good Morning” routine from the same movie. I did it
once onstage and knew in my heart that I would never again
feel the same combination of fear and freedom that that
experience provided.
O’Connor’s partnership with the likes of Gene Kelly and Debbie
Reynolds highlighted his comedic brilliance. Not only did he
do everything Kelly did, some would argue he did it better. He
performed with a nimble flair that left you loving him as the
underdog in almost every situation. Whether doing pratfalls or
a comedy sketch with a talking mule, singing in perfect
harmony or dancing with his signature brand of humor and
flawless technique, he could not help but influence those who
loved him. To this day I enjoy making an audience laugh by
inserting a comedic concept or movement in a dance routine. As
a judge, I love seeing comedy produced by other choreographers
and that type of flair in young performers.
I discovered my third hero later in life when, as a young
studio owner, I saw a newspaper article announcing a master
class to be given by legendary ballerina Alexandra Danilova.
With youthful innocence (we were definitely out of our league)
I loaded up the van with my dancers and off we went.
The experience began with a film depicting the highlights of
this amazing performer’s life. It became increasingly clear to
me that we were about to be in the presence of greatness. In
the studio my dancers and I stood in our blacks and pinks,
obviously more sincere than talented. Around us were members
of the local ballet company and dance majors from a nearby
college, all eagerly awaiting Madame’s arrival.
Suddenly a hush fell over the studio and the air itself seemed
to change. In floated the smallest, frailest woman I would
ever see. She seemed to be made of dust held together with
fierce pride, to defy gravity by remaining upright. She was
flanked by two assistants who never left her side and never
dared to touch her. When she lifted her perfectly coiffed head
we could see a sparkle in her eyes that told us she was happy
to be there. She was everything I had hoped she would be. I
was both awestruck and intimidated.
I am still not sure how my students or I found our way to a
barre, but as we did I heard her utter the only words I
understood for the next 90 minutes: “Ve vill begin.”
She clung to a barre and never left that spot for the
remainder of class. I do not think her feet ever moved, but
they didn’t need to. A slight incline of her head, a lowering
of her eyelids, and an almost imperceptible lift of her right
arm indicated a demi plié as clearly as if she had done it
with all the passion and perfection of her youth. She murmured
what sounded like angry Russian as she shot frightening
glances of disapproval toward some dancers and offered gentle
glimpses of a smile and a nod to others. Two sharp head
movements followed by a lengthening of the spine and an eyelid
droop had us all immediately doing two quick tendus followed
by one slower one, ending in demi plié, without question or
doubt.
Perhaps the most amazing thing was how she communicated what
we were to do in center floor work solely by head angles and
miniscule twists of her upper body, as she stood frighteningly
unsupported inside her full-length dance skirt. Thankfully,
she also wore a beautiful scarf over her shoulders, which
added bulk to her tiny frame.
I learned so much that day, not the least of which was that my
students were survivors. They completed the entire class and
were so proud of themselves. They too were inspired and
probably will never forget the tiny Russian woman whose words
they could not understand but who spoke their dance language
with perfection.
I have since tried to be a better ballet teacher. I want to be
an important part of a world in which such a fabulous creature
existed. I measure all of my ballet teachers by her simplistic
perfection: kind and intense; great yet humble.
I also learned that movement can be a state of mind. You do
not have to move brilliantly to cause others to reach their
potential. When my knee hurts or I have some other nagging
problem, I throw on a scarf, do my best “Danilova,” and demand
the loving respect I deserve.
Photo caption:
MGM’s Esther Williams swam her way to movie stardom.
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