The Dance Lens Podcast

In this episode, we review the luminous interpretations of The Firebird at Dance Theatre of Harlem and its relationship to New York City Ballet’s. Both works are a deluge of beauty and an ocean of visual richness. Though distinct in style and staging, these productions are deeply connected through history, lineage, and artistic exchange.At the center of that connection is Arthur Mitchell, founding force of Dance Theatre of Harlem and former principal dancer at NYCB under George Balanchine. Mitchell’s career bridges these two worlds in profound ways: shaped by Balanchine’s choreography, including works created on him such as Agon and A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and later transformed by his mission to build something entirely new. In 1969, in the wake of the civil rights era and the assassination of Martin Luther King Jr., Mitchell co-founded Dance Theatre of Harlem with Karel Shook—establishing a school and company where Black dancers could train, perform, and thrive in classical ballet. In that context, DTH itself became both artistic achievement and cultural critique, a bold act of resistance and redefinition.Balanchine’s influence carried forward not only through aesthetics but through direct support: he served as one of DTH’s early board members and encouraged Mitchell to create a version of Firebird for the company. When it premiered in 1982, it was met with acclaim, praised for its inventive staging and audience-shifting energy.Where Balanchine and Fokine’s versions of Firebird evoke mythic, wintry Russia, Dance Theatre of Harlem’s interpretation transports us into a Caribbean dreamscape—lush, humid, and alive with color and sound. Giant tropical florals hang over the stage, and Stravinsky’s score anchors the work across all versions, while the Firebird herself arrives in strikingly theatrical ways, including a flash of red light that feels almost playful in its simplicity.The production thrives in its contrasts: methodical character work against playful theatricality, luminous principals against a shifting ensemble, and moments of imperfect stagecraft that remind us of ballet’s evolving relationship with illusion. At its center is the Firebird, whose presence is a metaphor and a force of nature.Though Firebird has not been performed by DTH since 2004, its legacy remains a significant part of the company’s identity, reflecting both its artistic ambition and its historical role in reshaping who gets to inhabit classical ballet’s most iconic roles.If you want more reviews, interviews, deep dives, and LIVES, make sure you join me on Dance Lens Substack—linked HERE: https://thedancelens.substack.com/ Get full access to The Dance Lens with Cynthia Dragoni at thedancelens.substack.com/subscribe

REVIEW: Kyle Abraham’s Cassette Vol. 1 at NYU Skirball transforms the 1980s into a neon-lit dreamscape of camp, nostalgia, and grief. Blending choreography, pop culture, and memory, the work moves through vignettes that blur the line between past and present, surface and undercurrent. In this episode, we explore how Abraham and his company A.I.M turn analog aesthetics into something more fragile and reflective—where memory is both a performance and a distortion, and the past is never fully retrievable, only reimagined.Join us on Substack for more reviews, podcasts, interviews articles and subscriber only lives! https://thedancelens.substack.com/ Get full access to The Dance Lens with Cynthia Dragoni at thedancelens.substack.com/subscribe

IN THIS EDITION: REVIEW: American Ballet Theater Spring Season 2026 “Othello” in 2 casts.What does Othello reveal about ballet, then and now? This episode revisits American Ballet Theatre’s landmark production through a contemporary lens, tracing its ambition alongside the questions it leaves unresolved—around gender, agency, and whose stories are allowed to take center stage.Join me on Substack for a closer conversation—essays, interviews, and live salons at the intersection of dance, culture, and history.JOIN US ON SUBSTACK: https://thedancelens.substack.com/ Get full access to The Dance Lens with Cynthia Dragoni at thedancelens.substack.com/subscribe

IN THIS EDITION-Review: Amercian Ballet Theater in The Firebird. Performed on March 13, 2026.-Misty Copeland at the OscarsFIREBIRD REVIEW:This was my first time seeing The Firebird by Alexei Ratmansky which premiered in 2012 and hasn’t been performed since 2018, almost a decade ago. This Firebird’s dark whimsy calls back to earlier fairytales, like those of the aptly named Brothers Grimm. It is at once childlike and very adult, equal parts dreams and wonder alongside power struggles and sexuality. It opens with Ivan, danced by Daniel Camargo, dressed entirely in white, lying in front of a large white building. He gathers the courage to go in search of his lost love—the first departure from the original story (where he is in search of a magical golden apple tree).We follow him into a forest of large, metallic, mechanical-looking “trees,” structures resembling monstrous wrists and hands reaching from the ground toward the sky. Their branches stretch directly upward at varying lengths, some topped with red lights that resemble fingernails. Then there appears not one but an entire flock of male and female firebirds. They are all dressed in red bodysuits: the women with feathered bustle skirts and the men with pointed feathered headpieces. They flood the stage, forming a luscious view—albeit a slightly cluttered one. The upper half of the composition feels oddly bare with so many grounded birds; it makes one wish they could actually make use of the sky.Suddenly the lady of the hour enters: the Firebird, played by Catherine Hurlin in her debut in the role. The casting is superb. When Ratmansky first choreographed Firebird, the role was created on Misty Copeland, Natalia Osipova and Isabella Boylston. Osipova who danced in the premiere, was a technical phenomenon, Copeland could be almost lethal in her exactitude and Boylston even in her early career moved with an untamed quality. Hurlin steps neatly into those responsibilities. A perfect inheritor, she is quick and precise, an excellent jumper, and more importantly: her presence rises to the task. She stood out among the flock even before it was fully clear that she was the dancer in the titular role.Catherine Hurlin at curtain call March 13, 2026 Photo: C. DragoniIvan, in his character’s entitlement, captures her, and their connection is sexually charged. She meets him not as a different species but as a female in disguise. She eventually escapes and gives him one of her magic feathers to wave if he ever needs help. In the original, Ivan takes pity on the freedom-loving bird and purposefully releases her, so the gift of the feather is an exchange of care and compassion. Here, her would-be captor is outsmarted, yet she still leaves a piece of herself behind.Ivan continues his journey and a horde of young women appears. They’re called maidens, though they read more like a cross between aliens and nineteenth-century bar wenches. They’re all dressed in green dresses with green and yellow curly wigs (the whole ballet is an exercise in color blocking). They are at once grotesque and charming, as if they’re only partly human. They proceed to dance, eat, nap and throw occasional temper tantrums. (Stomping tantrums are a motif you’ll see elsewhere in Alexei Ratmansky’s work, such as in the party scene of The Nutcracker, where you’ve never seen so many angry children at a Christmas party.)Ivan is nonetheless attracted to them—or at least to one. I suppose there’s no accounting for taste in fairytales or in real life. He thinks she may be his lost love; one can only assume it’s his intuition telling him this.Scene from Firebird. Photo: Gene SchiavoneThen in comes the evil magician Kaschei, played by Cory Stearns (who is sadly retiring this June), first revealed to us as an enormous, ominous shadow. It’s always enjoyable when story ballets fully sweep you into their larger-than-life worlds, and the technology in this production does just that. With ample use of projected visuals, it creates Kaschei’s foreboding presence, expands and contracts our sense of depth, and signals the passage of time.Kaschei matches his maidens: his hair is green, his face painted white, and he has the dark humor that makes so many villains fun to play. As if Batman’s Joker auditioned for the ballet and was immediately cast.The main maiden was played by rising soloist Sunmi Park. Park has beautiful lines and a supreme delicacy similar to that of longtime American Ballet Theater principal Hee Seo; the two also share the same early training at Sunhwa Arts Middle School in Seoul, Korea. The bizarre slapstick comedy required for this role made Park appear somewhat self-conscious. I was always aware that I was watching Sunmi Park pretending to be funny. This is not a comment on her overall talent, many of the world’s greatest actresses could not inhabit Lucille Ball’s roles, which is just as well.The maidens under the magician’s spell, are at once afraid of him and attracted to him. This is another note that sets this Firebird apart from the original: here the captive maidens have a more overtly complex relationship with their keeper, something like a case of mass Stockholm syndrome. Ratmansky’s version, even more than the original, makes Kaschei a figure who is both an individual dictator and a representative of a broader, more insidious patriarchy. Society is sickened and distorted under his rule. Women in particular are proprietary objects. In the original they retain their beauty, but are merely trapped. In Ratmansky’s, their identities are warped in service of the master—or the system.Cory Stearns in Firebird. Photo: Rosalie O’Connor PhotographyThis Kaschei also reminds us that many myths and fairytales are fundamentally about dominance and sexual predation. Why does this evil male figure have so many maidens in his charge? A similar dynamic appears in Swan Lake. In the prelude, the maiden is captured, and she (along with the other “swan maidens,” all owned by a single sinister male figure) is cursed to be a swan by day and a woman by night. The world-weary among us understand why they are permitted to regain their female forms after dark.Daniel Camargo & Sunmi Park The sorcerer begins casting his malevolent spell on Ivan when the hero takes out and waves his magic feather, and—as promised—the Firebird appears (though I still cannot work out why she owes her former captor a rescue; it still seems to me like a classic fawning response). It’s a relief to have her back onstage, for the maidens and for us, the audience. The Firebird’s choreography returns to musical sense, and I feel compelled to reiterate how thrilling Hurlin is in this role. One could interpret the musical disregard as a comment on Kaschei’s controlling nature, or on the group madness that sets in when the hive mind is agitated. Either way, the dissonance aggravates the eye (and the ear) of the beholder.Kaschei is a character who appears throughout Russian folklore, known as Kaschei the Deathless. His immortality comes from the fact that his soul is kept outside his body: in the eye of a needle, inside an egg, within a hare, inside of a duck, locked in a box, buried beneath an oak tree on an island far, far away. In The Firebird, it is simply inside an egg hidden within one of the metallic trees. The all-knowing Firebird (eventually) leads Ivan to the egg, and he smashes it, releasing Kaschei’s soul and breaking all of his spells. The maidens return to their true beauty, and to their loves—who have been trapped inside the trees all along. American Ballet Theater’s Firebird is one of three Firebird productions in New York alone, the others being staged at Dance Theatre of Harlem in April and New York City Ballet in late April into May. And additional productions being performed in Seattle at Pacific Northwest Ballet and in California at San Diego City Ballet. Artists and the arts institutions are frequently— intentionally or unconsciously—commenting on their times. Firebird is a fairytale, but is also archetypal folklore. It’s characters live within our psyches and our histories and it seems like no accident that it is being staged all at once all across the country.Misty Copeland 2026 “Sinners” Oscars Performance in Dance Theatre of Harlem Firebird CostumeSpeaking of our times, if you caught Misty Copeland’s performance at the Oscars last Sunday, then you saw her in Dance Theatre of Harlem’s Firebird costume. The appearance of Misty Copeland in the Sinners Oscars performance draws directly from the film itself, which features a surreal “red ballerina” figure moving through one of its musical sequences. That image, already evocative of myth and transformation, was brought to life onstage by casting Copeland, whose own career is closely tied to roles like the Firebird. In this way, the performance translated a cinematic metaphor into a live one, using ballet as part of the storytelling. At the same time, her presence carried a broader cultural resonance, positioning ballet within a mainstream, highly visible space and quietly asserting its continued relevance.We’ll take a deeper look at DTH’s Firebird (playing in NYC April 16-19) in another episode but it is a historic and beloved production. Its vibrant, Caribbean inspired sets and fantastical costumes were designed by multi hyphenate artist Geoffrey Holder and choreographed by John Taras. Premiering in 1982 its first firebird was the gorgeous DTH star Stephanie Dabney. FIREBIRD DRAWING R METCALF COLLECTION. Courtesy of Dance Theatre of Harlem Get full access to The Dance Lens with Cynthia Dragoni at thedancelens.substack.com/subscribe

IN THIS EDITION: -Interview with Serge Laurent, Director of Dance & Cultural Programs at Van Cleef & Arpels on the role of curation in dance’s development.-Upcoming LIVE TALK Seeing Dance: The Sleeping Beauty Then & Now Tues Feb 24. As the Dance Reflections Festival returns to New York City (February 19–March 21, 2026), I spoke with Serge Laurent, Director of Dance & Cultural Programs at Van Cleef & Arpels, about how studying art history—rather than choreography—shaped the way he learned to see dance.For Laurent, dance is not only the art of movement but the art of space. He reads bodies the way others read sculpture or architecture, attending to structure, detail, and lineage. Choreographers, he argues, are researchers: artists who invent new languages while working in conversation with history.We discuss why contemporary dance cannot be separated from what came before, why curating is an act of support rather than direction, and why a festival should offer experience rather than consensus.Below are *lightly edited* excerpts from the interview, full conversation in the podcast above. EXITABOVE NYU Skirball March 5-7 Photo: Anne Van AerschotCynthia: You come to dance through a background in contemporary art and institutional programming rather than choreography itself. How did your background shape the way you first learned to read dance?Serge: In fact, I studied art history. My major at École du Louvre was ancient art and archaeology. When you study visual art and ancient art, you learn to look at things in detail. By focusing on details, you understand the work. So when I started attending dance performances, I was really struck by these moving bodies. The body is everywhere in art history—painting, sculpture, monuments—and suddenly seeing bodies in motion was fascinating.I remember looking at every single movement like a sculpture in motion. I didn’t have any background in dance, so it was a real discovery. Dance is a visual art, but in motion. One of the first shows I attended was Goldberg Variations by Steve Paxton. I was amazed by the precision, the fluidity. It’s probably because of this performer and a few others that I really fell in love with dance.When you look at a painting, you have a frame and a notion of space. Painters and sculptors deal with space all the time. Dance is, of course, the art of movement, but it’s also the art of space. On stage, choreographers and dancers invent new ways of using that space. They’re researchers, inventing new languages—just like contemporary artists.Artists are researchers. They invent new languages. —Serge LaurentEXITABOVE NYU Skirball March 5-7 Photo: Anne Van AerschotCynthia: And we think of dance as being the art of movement, but so much of it is about geometry and poses. It reads almost as beautifully in a photograph as it does in movement. So that translation makes a lot of sense.Serge: I had the chance to work after my studies in contexts combining different art disciplines—trans-disciplinary institutions—with Fondation Cartier. I created this program called Nomadic Nights, and it was the wish of the director at that time to bring inside the gallery other art disciplines: theater, music, dance, fashion, et cetera. And I was dealing with that for four years at Fondation Cartier.When I discovered dance a bit later, what interested me the most—is dance can be an art form in itself. I mean, no music, no stage, nothing. Just pure movement. And at the same time, it’s a discipline that can bring together all the other ones: visual arts, music, fashion, text, lights, video art, everything. Also, choreographers—they’re also into philosophy, literature. So I think it’s a very complete art form. And also it uses, I think, the most beautiful medium you can create your art with: the body. Since we share the same thing together, our bodies—it creates a direct empathy with the audience. The first time I approached dance, I was really touched. I’m not an artist, I’m on the other side, but we have something in common above words, above everything.Cynthia: Yes, and when we watch the dancer’s body we empathize not as a concept, but immediately. It’s the mirror neurons in the brain. When we see someone else doing something, we merge and have that experience. It works on the other side too. If you see someone in pain—like if you see someone injured on their shoulder—you’ll instinctively hold your shoulder. And the same with dance. It shows us who we could be. Like if you take a stone from the ground, a precious stone, and it’s covered in dirt and whatever, and you take all of that off—the stone was not transformed. You’re showing what it truly was. And that’s what dance is. It’s what we really are.The Dance Lens with Cynthia Dragoni is a reader-supported publication. Join me for subscriber ONLY live talks & classes (next one is Tues Feb 24)Cynthia: When you select artists for Dance Reflections, what are the non-negotiables? What must be present in the work or the artist?Serge: My curatorial practice started 25 years ago, so it’s a long time ago. And I would say that I always had the same approach with artists. They are free. I select them because of what they do. I will not ask them to do something.And today I work in a private institution, like a public one, managing this program on a curatorial basis. The idea is to support artists, but in fact, there is no limit. For example, sometimes people ask me, “When you approach a dance company and you support them in production, do you ask them this or that?” No. But I know who they are.What I want through this program is to invite people to experience something, it’s more than attending a new show for me. A festival is like an invitation to a journey. A journey where you discover something. Sometimes you appreciate this and that, sometimes there are things you appreciate less, but you experienced something—and that’s what is most important for me.Cynthia: That’s a beautiful analogy. When you’re on long journeys, actually a lot of the time you’re uncomfortable, and then you have these beautiful experiences, and it’s all part of the experience.Serge: What I like also is the way you enlarge your vision of the world. Because these languages—even if you attend the full season in the same city—you see different ways of re-transcribing the world, with different vocabularies, different approaches.It’s a way to enlarge your vision of the world, because when you travel, most of the time you don’t understand the local languages. And of course, English is very practical, but sometimes it’s difficult to communicate in certain countries. So you have to accept to communicate differently—through your eyes, your body, whatever.And I think when you approach a new language in contemporary art—we’re talking about dance, but we could say that for other artistic approaches—you have to receive things differently.What I appreciate is that when you get in a theater, hopefully people applaud at the end, and sometimes it’s very enthusiastic reactions. But if you look, no one receives the same thing. We are together attending something together, part of a community, and at the same time we keep our individuality and we can share opinions about the work with no crucial issues.The same show is presented in New York, in London, in Tokyo, in Shanghai, in Saudi Arabia recently, and I’m so moved by how different people from different cultures can receive something. Probably they receive something different, but they get something. We have something in common, and it’s something very essential to me.Mycelium New York City Center Feb 19-21 Photo: Agathe PoupeneyCynthia: Does location affect your curatorial choices?Serge: I would say yes and no. Because I have a curatorial vision, so I want to share it with all the different audiences we approach. But at the same time, when I’m in New York, I’m inspired by the history of New York. This city has such a strong history with dance. When I’m in London, it’s different. For example, recently I was in Sydney, Australia, and they were very keen to welcome us. And I met with Aboriginal dancers and traditional dance, and I said to myself, if one day I do a festival over there, I will probably include something local.We’re going to have a festival in Shanghai next year, and it’s such an exciting exercise for me too—to add in the programming two Chinese dance companies, one from Beijing, one from Shanghai.So the curatorial approach is the same. I say yes and no, because for me, even if I include a Chinese dance company from Beijing or a local dance company from Australia, it’s the same intellectual approach. For example, in London I decided to close the festival with pieces by George Balanchine from the twenties, and everybody said to me, “Wow, how come in the context of a contemporary dance festival you put works dating from such a long time ago?” And I said, because it’s a reference. It’s a reference we cannot miss. If contemporary dance is here now, it’s because of them, of what came before. There is an anchorage for this art discipline, and I think it’s essential to talk about it.Cynthia: The former dance critic from The New York Times, Alastair Macaulay, talks about how he mostly covered ballet and traditional modern dance. It sounds funny to say “traditional,” but Martha Graham’s company is turning 100 years old. And he was talking about how he would try to go see hip-hop battles, because he said you can find so much about an immediate culture from their folk dances, and it’s such an important part of the conversation that’s easy to overlook.Serge: Yes, it’s true. I remember when I was a young curator, I was focusing on a certain range of dance and I thought what happened before was not interesting. And there are these wars between classical, modern, avant-garde, et cetera. And I think it’s a shame. I realized that a bit later. If we talk about dance in the West—without classical dance, you would not have modern dance or neoclassical. And because of modern dance, we had the birth of postmodern dance, and because of postmodern dance, we talk now about contemporary dance. But all of this is linked. Some people say, “I like only this,” or “Only this has the right to exist.” But if you really are into an art discipline, you need to look at the history. I think it’s essential.That’s the reason why sometimes for the festival, I try to include a piece of reference before presenting a brand-new work. And if we take New York as an example, I’m very glad that with Ballet de Lyon we can present the same night Merce Cunningham and Christos Papadopoulos. Because it shows people how things evolve, but they have one thing in common: they invented a language.That’s what interests me the most. When I select an artist, I look at whether they found their own voice. And it’s because of this category of artists that the art form is continuously evolving. For me, the historical vision is essential if you want to approach contemporary art. If contemporary dance is here now, it’s because of what came before. —Serge LaurentLa Nuée New York Live Arts March 6 & 7 Photo: Luca IanelliCynthia: We get attached to small differences and make tiny art wars. It’s such a reflection on how we could improve our society—looking past these differences and seeing the links.Serge: Of course there are debates, but there’s a big difference between a curator and a critic. As a curator, I want to develop a vision, leaning on history and witnessing the evolution of dance. I want to show the diversity of dance and how rich it is. Even if artists are very different and come from different cultures, they have this in common: they research and try to find their own voice. And I thank them for giving us the opportunity to experience the art of movement.Cynthia: Looking ahead, what directions or questions are you most interested in pursuing through Dance Reflections?Serge: We decided to lean on three essential values: creation, transmission, and education. Creation is not only about a new work, but what is needed before the work—residencies, time, space. Transmission is essential to preserve works and heritage. And education is about awareness—not making everyone an expert, but giving tools to approach dance. This is what I want to develop, especially education and awareness.Cynthia: It gives people an access point—it pulls the curtain back without forcing anything.Serge: Exactly. My job is to be a mediator, a bridge between creation, artists, and the rest of the world.Listen to full conversation in the podcast above and The New York City iteration of Dance Reflections Festival takes place February 19 to March 21, 2026Seeing Dance LIVE TALK: The Sleeping Beauty Then & Now Tues Feb 24 7PM EST. Last month we took a look at Swan Lake from the classic Nureyev & Fonteyn version to Matthew Bourne’s male swans and psychological take. Christian Spuck’s Sleeping Beauty (courtesy of Marquee TV)This month, February 24 7PM EST, we’ll do a deep dive on the pivotal Sleeping Beauty. A ballet that was once considered a sellout to low popular taste, is now thought of as the crystalline example of the classical style. We’ll compare The Royal Ballet with Christian Spuck’s neoclassical version and finishing with another Matthew Bourne hit theatrical (and wildly different) production. UPDATE: Starting in March, we’ll still have a once monthly live for everyone but for a deeper look we’ll have weekly lives for paid subscribers. More on that soon. If you already know you’d like to join then go ahead and do so below. The Dance Lens with Cynthia Dragoni is a reader-supported publication. Join me for subscriber only monthly lives and paid subscriber weekly lives. Get full access to The Dance Lens with Cynthia Dragoni at thedancelens.substack.com/subscribe

Silenced for one and a half centuries, Kathak dance, suppressed under British rule, went underground—yet survived, through secrecy and lineage.SPEAK Artists (L to R) Rukhmani Mehta, Dormeshia, Racha Nivas, Michelle Dorrance; photo by Margo Moritz.Rooted in North India, Kathak is a classical form built on storytelling and rhythm, its name derived from the Sanskrit word katha, meaning story. It flourished in temple courtyards as a devotional practice and later in Mughal courts, where it absorbed Persian influences and evolved into a sophisticated interplay of rhythm and theatricality. Though nearly erased from public life during colonial rule, Kathak endured through family lineages and private teaching, preserving a rich vocabulary of footwork, gestures, and improvisation. By the 20th century, master artists revived it on stage, blending tradition and experimentation, reaffirming Kathak not as a relic but as a living, evolving form.What is the true intention behind Kathak dance? What place does a 2000 year old dance form have in modern times? To answer these questions and more, we turn to two leading voices in contemporary Kathak: Rachna Nivas and Rukhmani Mehta, Co-Founding Artistic Directors of Leela Dance Collective.Nivas, often described as a radical traditionalist, grounds her work in feminine consciousness and Eastern philosophies, challenging Eurocentric frameworks and insisting on Kathak as a living practice. Mehta, a Fulbright Scholar and cultural leader, bridges lineage and innovation through performance, education, and community-building. Together, they reflect on authorship, collaboration, and what it means to carry an ancient form into the present tense.This conversation is in anticipation of the What Flows Between Us Festival on Feb 21 at the 92nd St Y—a day-long celebration of Indian classical dance and music, followed by an evening performance of SPEAK, a collaboration between virtuosic Kathak dancers Rachna Nivas and Rukhmani Mehta, and American Tap legends Dormeshia and Michelle Dorrance.Below are excerpts (lightly edited) from the interview, listen/watch the full conversation in the podcast above.Rachna NivasCynthia: Rachna, you’ve been called a radical traditionalist. What does that demand of you in daily practice and not just in theory?Rachna: Linda Murray, the New York Public Library for the Performing Arts Curator, she’s the one who had used that term once. When she was introducing me, and I loved it because, that is how I feel on a daily basis because it’s this constant balance of being so deeply rooted in the integrity of the form that was instilled in me day in and day out for so many years.And the integrity of the form doesn’t mean being stagnant and being stuck in, “oh, well it has to be this way”. It’s not that, it’s being steeped in the spirit and understanding of an entire way of life and that way of life. How does, how does it translate daily is, well, it requires this choice of being really committed to my practice, understanding that, well, if I have to, you know, make choices. I have to decide to practice, maybe over doing a marketing flyer. And that was really, really instilled in us from, from day one. Like, if you can’t dance, what’s the point of all of these meetings? If if you don’t have the precision with your feet, what’s the point? If you’re not keeping your body in shape, in, you know, in tune with, in gear, our guru used to say, you should be able to dance a solo concert next week, an hour and a half solo concert. You should always be prepared. And then on top of that, it’s about trying to get better for the sake of getting better. Not for the sake of a particular performance for the sake of innovation. But for the sake of the pursuit of mastery. That that is the path that we’re on. And that’s not always sexy.I think the radical part of it is that even though I am committed to this responsibility of not only to the art, but to my training, but to my body, but also it’s this constant interrogating of, okay, yes, that this was a certain way. How is this fitting today?I have to take my own life experience and I’m a child of immigrants but I’m born here in the US, so I have this very specific lens of how I’m seeing things, both from the perspective of my parents who are immigrants, post-colonial, who have a post-colonial ethos. But then I’m an American kid also. You know, I have a tug of war between western hyper individualism versus the Eastern deeper community value systems. So I’m always thinking about what is the perfect kind of blend between the two?Cynthia: That argument between the hyper individualism and the community-based sensibilities, that’s always with us whether or not your parents were immigrants. As artists, I think we run up into that daily. It’s like entities show up every day to take us away from our devotion to the form, and it is a constant workout.Rachna: It’s hard. It’s really hard, especially today when we’re so distracted by it all, and artists are expected to do everything now.“Ultimately the form is about self-expression. Yes. But also, and almost more importantly, self-actualization. That takes time. It’s why so many Indian classical artists reach their prime in their forties and fifties, because their artistry is backed up by a life that’s been lived.” —Rukhmani MehtaThe Dance Lens with Cynthia Dragoni is a reader-supported publication. Join us for subscriber only live talks and classes..Cynthia: What’s the biggest challenge with carrying the tradition forward?Rukhmani: That’s kind of a tough question. I think for me, I would say the biggest challenge is time and the pace of modern life. I think passing on an art form like this takes time. I mean, that’s the challenge. Rachna and I, both of us, we studied with our Guruji for four days a week for 15, 18 years. On top of that, retreats and intensives and performances. The form is about self-expression, yes. But also, and almost more importantly, self-actualization. That takes time.It’s why so many Indian classical artists reach their prime in their forties and fifties because their artistry is backed up by a full life that’s been lived. And in addition to performing and making marketing flyers and all this, teaching is a big part of our artistic practice, and that was something that our Guruji, our teacher, instilled in us that performing and teaching go hand in hand. Being a performer and being a teacher, those are not separate identities. It’s all one. So I think the time it takes to teach students, the time that students have to give to the art form before you can enjoy the fruits of that labor, you have to invest years and years in technique before you can express yourself and many more years before you can, you know, actualize anything.Practice is a slow process. So here you have to wake up and post something on Instagram, and you have to answer some emails and there’s so many things you have to respond to and practice is, whoof, it slows you down, it stops you in your track and it lives at a very different pace.SPEAK Artists Racha Nivas, Michelle Dorrance, Dormeshia , Rukhmani Mehta; photo by Margo Moritz.Rachna: And I would say it’s challenging to uphold certain standards of the art. And that’s getting more and more challenging in an open market. I mean first of all, the art form was already so behind, we lost 150 years of the masses in India having any access to the art form during British rule.It was outlawed, it was disenfranchised, it was underground. It wasn’t even seeing the light of day. So it was only during Indian independence, which was in the 1940s that. Indian people started even getting exposed to it. And they were already, for so many generations, had been indoctrinated and conditioned to believe that western things are better. That western way of thinking, western education, all of those things are superior. Our guru comes from a very fringe, sadly fringe deep, deep, artistic world. But it’s a world that, for example, that my parents didn’t have exposure to in India. And so we’re already up against that obstacle of our own community, not having a lot of knowledge about the form. Also trying to bring it to the west. And then on top of that, then you have the internet, and then you have YouTube, and then you have, you know, Instagram, and now you have a whole generation of people and anybody can put up a video of themselves saying they’re doing Kathak. But before this was all guru based, what I mean by that is it was all oral transmission. It was all students and practitioners were legitimized by their group.They were not legitimized by an Instagram like they were. It was only a master, or like in Japanese, a sensei that will say, this is the next artist, this is the next one to pay attention to. That’s not really the case anymore. And so without that, it becomes very difficult to defend our work. You just kind of have to do it. And we have come to this thing where we’re just gonna keep doing our work and believe that those who are moved by it, those who can see the excellence of it, can feel it in their bones, can feel it in their soul—because integrity will always transcend, they will come to us and we will make progress that way.Rukhmani: I think, just to add, going back to the time thing, that’s where time connects because standards and excellence take time. But beyond standards, it’s also about the core intent of the form. In the West, it’s easy to extract cultural traditions like yoga or dance as performance, but Indian classical music and dance are paths to consciousness. Masters teach them that way.It’s that spiritual depth that takes time. It’s not just mastery of technique or artistry—it’s mastery of oneself: ego, psyche, heart. That’s what takes time. Students want pirouettes, footwork, compositions—but without the intent to face oneself, overcome ego, and connect with the divine, it’s just turns. Not dance, I’d say. That’s the stance of my teacher and our lineage.SPEAK Racha Nivas photo by Margo Moritz.Cynthia: You’ve spent decades shaping Kathak education in the U.S. How do you navigate holding power in a hierarchy-based tradition while fostering contemporary relevance? How are students brought into the conversation?Rachna: I love this question. It’s so relevant today. Hierarchy has been questioned because it’s been abused, so it’s important to rethink it. In my classes, we don’t see it as hierarchy—we see it as reverence. And reverence cannot be forced; it has to arise organically from the energy in the classroom.In my classroom, I don’t even like the word “respect.” It implies obligation. I ask students, “Why are you doing this?” so they critically engage.At the beginning of class, we do an invocation to center ourselves and contribute to the room’s energy. We chant ancient shlokas and mantras, and students often assume it’s about respecting the teacher. I tell them no—it’s about opening themselves, respecting their own power. Once they do that, respect for teachers comes naturally.Rukhmani: I’d add that my early days with Guruji were eye-opening. I came in very independent, questioning everything. Guruji didn’t force respect; he welcomed inquiry. Over four years, I learned to trust him—not surrender to him, but trust the process. That trust opened the art form to me and fueled my growth.Teachers wield power in service to the art form and to the student. Saying “no” isn’t about control—it’s about creating a tight container for learning. Ultimately, education is about relationship: trust, vulnerability, intimacy, allowing another human to shape you. Like deep friendships, parenthood, or romantic relationships—it’s relationship at its core.Cynthia: The teacher-student relationship is truly unique—probably closest to a parent, but really on its own plane. A truly intelligent teacher senses when a student’s “no” is genuine inquiry. Rachna: One thing I wanted to add is that our guru loved being called the “modern guru in training.” One of his students called him that, and he loved it because it really captured his philosophy: he was learning every day. He would say, “The day I stop learning is the day it’s over.” He shared his failures and how he overcame them, always modeling intimacy and vulnerability. That’s something I do a lot too. It’s about wielding power in a way that builds trust—not by asserting authority, but by honestly sharing what you’ve experienced. That’s an evolution from older times, when you didn’t ask questions; you just did.  “Before British rule in the courts, the practitioners of Kathak were women and they were courtesans, but they were part of a very esteemed cultural institution where they were the ultimate authority on art, music, dance, conversation. They were quite powerful women. Men who affiliated with them, their was status increased.”-Rachna Nivas Racha NivasCynthia: Your choreography interrogates Eurocentric and patriarchal paradigms. Where do you feel those pressures most acutely? Institutions? Audiences? Funding?Rachna: All of the above. There are so many stereotypes about Indian classical art, and continual pushback against it. Indian women, in particular, get exotified. For example, in our teacher’s company, we trained for months on a complex nine-and-a-half-beat cycle piece, dripping in sweat, and audiences commented first on our colorful costumes, not the artistry or athleticism. So we changed the costumes to black tunics for a show and got great reviews highlighting precision, unison, and skill. We basically had to shed our femininity to be “seen.” That’s just one aspect.Funding is another challenge. Often, we have to fit Western narratives, like creating a work about anti-racism, climate change, or some theme. Kathak is 2,000 years old; being forced to constantly create “new works” for Western contexts is restrictive. Even every performance, in a way, is a new work—improvisation is at the heart of the form—but externally, the system imposes constraints. SPEAK Rukhmani Mehta; photo by Margo Moritz.Rukhmani: Everything Rachna said. Kathak is traditional, but “traditional” carries assumptions. Tradition has always evolved; it adapts to its environment. Our Guruji would choreograph based on contemporary sounds, like a train he danced along with. Choreography itself is an evolution. North Indian classical dance is improvisational; each performance responds to the audience, musicians, and moment.Rachna: Exactly. Tradition isn’t static, but we constantly navigate Eurocentric frameworks and patriarchy. As women, performing publicly means confronting internalized patriarchy daily. The funding climate and pressure to politicize work compound that. Doing Indian classical dance as a woman is inherently political—your very presence, your body, your artistry, your choices—they’re all political. And internally, after colonialism and assimilation, there’s still a tendency to value Western over our own culture. These barriers are both internal and external.Rukhmani: Climate change, colonialism, racism—it’s all there. The fact that Kathak survives is a testament to resistance.Rachna: Exactly. Kathak carries so much history—the syncretic blending of Hindu and Muslim cultures in North India. Persian-Islamic aesthetics merged with indigenous Hindu practices, creating embodied knowledge. That’s already embedded in the form.The Dance Lens with Cynthia Dragoni is a reader-supported publication. Join us for subscriber only live interactive talks and classes.Cynthia: You touched on reclaiming the divine feminine. Historically, how does Kathak make room for energies like desire and destruction, and where are you pushing its conventions?Rachna: Kathak has a history that isn’t often discussed: before British rule, many practitioners were women. They were powerful cultural authorities, skilled in dance, music, poetry, and conversation. Desire, pleasure, sensuality, and precision were intertwined—they blurred the lines between eroticism and artistry. When colonial and puritanical forces arrived, these aspects were suppressed.That history informs my work. For example, my piece on Kali draws from Indian philosophies that aren’t strictly Kathak but resonate deeply. Kali, though worshiped, is often framed around male figures. I wanted to highlight her autonomy—the primordial feminine energy, paradoxical and whole. This work was also semi-autobiographical: divorce, fertility struggles, moving across the country. Through Kali, I explore feminine energy in its contradictions—only embracing wholeness restores balance to the self and the world.Cynthia: Beautiful. You’re tapping into a zeitgeist—these goddesses resurfacing reflect the feminine making itself known, a reckoning for the earth and for society. And the dancers historically had power, education, and autonomy. That archetype has long been underground.Cynthia: Can you tell us a little about Leela Youth Dance Company and what you see as the most critical technical, cultural, and psychological needs of South Asian women in classical training today? You could also address students who are not South Asian women.Rukhmani: In some classical Indian music and dance circles, and in Western classical music and dance circles, there’s often lamenting about the younger generation not valuing this art and how classical arts are dying. My experience with young women tells me the opposite. Their desire for discipline, excellence, and passion for classical Indian dance is strong. The arts have a bright future.What they need are teachers and mentors. Mentorship is labor-intensive and doesn’t have much funding or glamour. Raising a dancer requires dedication. Artists are often forced to choose between performing and teaching. These young women need teachers and mentors who will create a container for them. Dance can be a container for conversations about bodies, patriarchy, race, immigration, and culture. They need a space to address these issues, dance through them, and experience joy.Cynthia: Rhythm is central to your practices. How do you teach it as consciousness, not just speed, virtuosity, or mastery?Rachna: Rhythm is the most fundamental aspect of being human. The first thing you hear in the womb is your mother’s heartbeat. All indigenous cultures have rhythm as fundamental to rituals. Our guru made it impossible to learn anything in the classroom without first understanding its relationship to the rhythmic structure of Indian classical music, which is cyclical, not linear. There are 16-beat, 10-beat, 12-beat cycles, and half-beat cycles like nine and a half or seven and a half beats.To master it, you must be embodied. Time, patience, slowness, nature, repetition—all build consciousness because they teach awareness. From the moment students walk into class, it’s about awareness: bowing to the room, crossing thresholds thoughtfully, observing the space, and being present. These rules and discipline open us up to higher consciousness.Rukhmani: Yeah, and one of the reasons why Kathak and tap can come together is because improvisation is core to both art forms. I would say that improvisation is a phenomenal way to teach rhythm and music as consciousness. Improvisation can be scary. To improvise in the moment can be scary. I can tell you, I’m historically extremely afraid of improvising. I’m still afraid of improvising. I really like to have a plan. I really like to know what I’m doing. I really like to be in control. And improvisation is exactly the opposite. You have to enter life. You have to surrender to some greater force—the collective consciousness. That leap, the minute you let go of self and trust that from somewhere deeper, something will come out in the moment that a tap dancer has just thrown you a rhythm, or a percussionist has just thrown you a rhythm, with 800 people watching—you have to let go of control and enter life. Improvisation is a phenomenal way to teach consciousness.SPEAK Artists (L to R) Rukhmani Mehta, Dormeshia, Racha Nivas, Michelle Dorrance; photo courtes of Leela Dance Collective.Cynthia: The festival What Flows Between Us is coming up on February 20. The 92nd Street Y places North and South Indian classical forms side by side while also highlighting residencies with Western classical and jazz traditions. What distinctions do you most want audiences to perceive, and what parallels do you hope they feel?Rukhmani: The beauty of these forms, all the Indian classical forms, as well as the forms they are engaging in collaboration with, is that the artists are deeply rooted in their own forms. The collaboration is not for the sake of doing a cool project or a gimmick. It comes from deep discipline and devotion to their own forms. That’s when you start to see common currents. Without enough knowledge of your own form, collaborations can feel superficial. The festival title, What Flows Between Us, also reflects that. It centers women and their fluid energy, like rivers.There are different juxtapositions: Western classical, jazz in the daytime, a poetry reading with dance, an all-female percussive battle between different regional drums of India. North and South India are culturally and artistically very different.Cynthia: The day culminates in the New York premiere of Speak, which is a conversation between Kathak and tap. What does it mean for this cross-cultural exchange to be led by women, and how do you want audiences to experience the dialogue and the performance?Rukhmani: One responsibility is to carry forward and evolve our own tradition. Another is to be in dialogue with the world and participate in the conversation happening in our communities. This collaboration carries forward the legacy of our Guruji and Jason Samuel Smith, who began the conversation between Kathak and tap and their communities. We are honored to evolve the tradition and bring female artists’ voices into the mix. All four of us—myself, Rachna, Michelle, and Dormeshia—feel strongly about honoring women in our lineages and elevating our peers.What we want audiences to take away: in moments during rehearsals, we forget which art form is Kathak and which is tap. Those differences fall into the background because something more universal is at the forefront. It would be incredible if audiences saw how these dramatically different art forms have a seamless conversation while staying rooted in their own lineages and identities. We are not fusing or compromising tradition. Tap dancers are not borrowing Kathak vocabulary. We are having a phenomenal conversation while staying rooted in who we are.For me personally, this collaboration represents what America has made possible: I am an Indian classical dancer participating in a conversation across artistic disciplines, cultures, races, and communities. I would not have access to these artists and their communities at this level of intimacy and depth without the pluralistic environment I live and work in.FULL CONVERSATION IN THE PODCAST ABOVEJoin us for the What Flows Between Us Festival AND performance of speak with tap legends Michelle Dorrance and Dormeshia at the 92nd St Y on Feb 21st.Find Rachna Nivas and Ruckmani Mehta on instagram and on Leela Dance collective.The Dance Lens with Cynthia Dragoni is a reader-supported publication. Join us for subscriber only live talks and classes. Get full access to The Dance Lens with Cynthia Dragoni at thedancelens.substack.com/subscribe

Alastair Macaulay is one of the most influential dance critics of all time—or, as some would say, the greatest of all time (a title he himself disputes, though I wholeheartedly maintain that he is the singular GOAT). His career spans more than four decades across the UK, Europe, and the United States. A Cambridge graduate, he began writing about the performing arts in the late 1970s and quickly became a defining voice in dance criticism.He has written for The New Yorker, The Guardian, Financial Times, and Times Literary Supplement, and served as Chief Dance Critic of The New York Times from 2007 to 2018—a tenure that made him one of the most widely read cultural critics in the world. He has lectured at Stanford, Princeton, Harvard, NYU, Juilliard, and Oxford, and contributed to leading arts publications across the globe.Macaulay’s work spans essays on Petipa, Ashton, and Balanchine, in-depth interviews, and major historical analyses, including books on Margot Fonteyn and Matthew Bourne. He is currently Critic in Residence for Slipped Disc and preparing a major critical biography of Merce Cunningham. Across his career, Macaulay has shaped conversations about ballet, modern dance, theater, music, and criticism itself, bringing his deep knowledge, wit, and distinctive perspective to generations of readers, students, and artists.He is one of my personal dance-writing heroes, and I couldn’t be more delighted to have had this conversation—doubly so to be able to share it with you.The full podcast conversation is above, with lightly edited excerpts below & for more information here is his website. Cynthia: How did you get started as a critic?Alastair:Well, by accident really. I never meant to be a critic, surprisingly, because I now realize I had been training myself in a way, but I didn’t realize it at the time. I knew people who were educated to become critics, but we didn’t talk about that. I just came to London and already had a fondness, at age 21, for dance and music—opera in particular—and theater.That year, 1976, I got the dance bug and began writing letters, and that was the crucial thing. When I wrote letters about opera, I was probably writing to clever musical friends who knew much more than I did, which meant my letters were probably insufferable, trying to keep up with their level. But when I wrote to perfectly intelligent people about dance, none of us knew much about it. We were just undergraduates trying to share our pleasure, and I was seeing much more dance than anybody else, so I was the one describing the many performances I was seeing after I moved to London.I’d begun this while I was still an undergraduate. I was reading Classics at Clare College, Cambridge, and one of the women I wrote to—another undergraduate—when I arrived on my last term, she said, “Alastair, I loved your letter about ballet at Covent Garden. I read it aloud to my mother, and we both think you should be a dance critic.”I was 20, and I apologize to anyone who’s heard me say this before, but I just laughed and laughed. It was as if someone had said, “You should be a male model.” In one sense it was a terrific compliment, but I also thought nobody serious does that for a living.I went on writing letters obsessively. For almost two years, more and more friends said, “You’ve got to do this for a living,” and for more than a year I didn’t take them remotely seriously. But eventually, when I was 22 and working in bookshops in London, I began to realize that I was obsessed and should commit to the performing arts in one way or another. I wasn’t sure whether criticism was the thing.To cut the story short, I got a break as a critic in the beginning of May 1978, when I was still 22. The woman who was giving up her job because she had to remain in America called me—very glamorously, I think, from Heathrow—and said, “My dear, you are a dance critic, and you’ve got five days to file your first column.”It was for a fashion and gossip newspaper called Ritz that came out once a month. You had to make your subjects entertaining, put all names in capital letters, and make it fun, which was very good training in journalism. I wanted to show these fashionable, gossipy readers that I was serious about dance, but I wasn’t above gossip and I wasn’t above fashion.Cynthia: That comes through in your writing years later. I always read your column in The New York Times, and even when the review was scathing, you always made me want to see the dance. There was room left for curiosity—I always thought to myself, I wonder if I would feel that way too. It was entertaining, snarky, witty, but backed up by love of the art form. The door was still open even if you didn’t like it.Alastair:That’s good. I’m really glad if that came across. Thank you.Cynthia: Which critics or mentors shaped your understanding of how to write about dance?Alastair:I probably began unconsciously by steeping myself in music criticism. I learned so much about opera when I was 18, 19, 20. I used to sit in Cambridge Public Library, go through back issues of The Gramophone, read Opera magazine, and newspapers too.I had kind of forgotten about that, but I was reading very eminent critics: Desmond Shawe-Taylor, Philip Hope-Wallace, and above all Andrew Porter. I was reading Porter’s British reviews from the fifties, sixties, and early seventies, even after he had moved to New York to become the great music critic of The New Yorker.I only realized the influence of all that toward the end of my time in New York, when readers would say, “I don’t know anything about dance, and I don’t care terribly about it. You’re the only dance critic I read, for the pleasure of your voice. It reminds me of British music critics.” I thought, oh, something must have rubbed off, even if I didn’t know what I’d learned.When I became a dance critic, there was a magazine published by the Friends of Covent Garden called About the House. In spring 1974 it published several pages of reviews written by Clive Barnes for The New York Times about the Royal Ballet season at the Met. Suddenly here were these intoxicating reviews by Clive, who later became not a close friend, but a friend. That made a strong impression.I remember writing to him about 30 years later to apologize, saying I thought I’d filched a point or a good quote without giving him full credit, and he was very gracious. His writing showed me it was worth spending time watching ballet. Friends wanted to go to the ballet when I still wanted to go to the opera, and gradually I got the dance bug.Friends of mine wanted to go to the ballet when I was still wanting to go to the opera. I moved to London, and the best British newspaper critics were probably the ones I learned from in particular—three of them especially.I would always try to read John Percival in The Times, Mary Clarke in The Guardian, and before—no, before Mary Clarke—James Kennedy Monaghan, who was a weird name, because he wrote under James Kennedy in The Guardian and under his proper surname, which was James Monaghan, in Dancing Times. I kept thinking, why do these two men keep agreeing with each other, and about everything? I didn’t know then that they were the same person.And then Clement Crisp in the Financial Times. I was just 21 and I didn’t know anything, but I was learning as much as I could from all three of those critics.Occasionally, when you are ignorant and new, you think these people know much more than you do. For example, I hated Glen Tetley’s Voluntaries the moment I saw it. To me it was terribly unmusical, and all of them raved about it. So I thought, oh, I must be wrong, and I went on seeing Voluntaries and trying to see what was good about it.It was only later, when I read Arlene Croce, that I realized it was perfectly fine to dislike the choreography of Glen Tetley to that music.Then there was Clement, who really was a wonderful critic for sixty years at the Financial Times. Phenomenal. Very witty and very erudite. And it was fun disagreeing, even with Clement, because he just got deeper into the art. He gave you more things to think about. That was a lesson in itself.Then I began to read Edwin Denby, and then I began to read Arlene Croce. I knew about her a little, but I wasn’t reading The New Yorker yet. About a day after I became a critic, I was introduced to Mary Clarke, who was editing Dancing Times and was just taking over The Guardian review from James Kennedy Monaghan.She wrote to me saying, “Do you read Arlene Croce in The New Yorker? Her first collection, After Images, is just out—recommended reading for an elderly 22-year-old dance critic,” referring to something I had written in one of my early columns. It was just lovely that this woman had taken me seriously enough to make the recommendation.I ordered a press copy of After Images, which I still find more thrilling and more broadening than any other collection of Arlene Croce’s writings. Arlene—who just died last December, a year ago—was the biggest influence on me, other than the dead Edwin Denby, whom we all revered.Cynthia: It’s interesting to note how you feel when you realize that prestigious critics felt differently about a performance than you did. I think this comes up with dance a lot: people are afraid to trust themselves and their own viewpoint on a performance. You hear opinions repeated, and then the opinion itself takes on a life of its own.Alastair: I’m sure that goes on with all critics, and I’m sure there are people who espouse my point of view simply because they think, “Oh my God, Alastair Macaulay thinks this,” and wouldn’t dare disagree.Believe me, Arlene Croce was a terrifying person to disagree with, especially in later years. She was fine at first, but later she became more and more entrenched in her point of view. And maybe I’m the same as we get older—that’s what we are.It takes courage to think, “I like that review by that critic, but it’s not my opinion.” You have to know your own mind pretty well. I think it’s part of growing up. We probably all begin by espousing other people’s points of view.Cynthia: Do you remember the first review that you wrote that really felt like your authentic voice?Alastair: This just goes on and on and on. I mean, sometimes in some moods, I would discard everything I wrote for the first ten years, and I really learned. I thought I knew how to write a sentence. I thought I knew how to write a paragraph, and that some aspects of writing I was, let’s say, adequate at. And then after ten years, I worked on The New Yorker, and the editing there was the kind I had never encountered before.That experience really taught me to write much more precisely, to use a far more varied vocabulary—so many things. It taught me not to take second best—my own second best—as a solution, but to keep rethinking. And it’s a lifelong process, of course. From those ten years—even though some of my writing was very immature—I learned a lot. You also learn from disagreeing, as we’ve already begun to establish.In 1979 I made my first visit to New York, where there was a competition for young critics in Ballet Review, which existed for about forty years. I decided I was just at the right stage to enter, and I wrote a review of a ballet that I knew was very un-New York, by Frederick Ashton: The Two Pigeons.I wrote a whole essay about it. I traveled around England looking at performances of The Two Pigeons and trained myself to describe the choreography more thoroughly than I had yet known how to describe anything. I think it is very immature now, but I wrote with a kind of lyrical enthusiasm. That was probably a new kind of breakthrough on my part. It was something where my voice began to emerge.Later that year, New York City Ballet—which I had seen in New York—came to Covent Garden. I was so angry at the way most British critics wrote stupidly and insensitively about Balanchine. To me, he was wonderful. I loved Frederick Ashton so much, but he and Balanchine were the same age. It was obvious that you should write with the same esteem for both these masters, who were both seventy-five that year. It was astonishing how many British critics wrote with some degree of condescension about Balanchine.It actually changed my politics. I remember thinking it was shocking that we had to write Mr. Balanchine, Sir Frederick Ashton, and it made me question the British class system—that we should use honorifics that way. I’ve tried ever since never to use them if I can avoid it.So I wrote an essay for Dancing Times, just letting fly—really letting my voice emerge with a sense of the epiphany I had found watching those ballets and those dancers. I think it should look to anybody who reads it now like the work of a twenty-four-year-old. It was the work of a twenty-four-year-old, but it was a breakthrough for me.Cynthia: Within the dance world, in the classical styles of training—particularly the Vaganova style—the people trained that way are very condescending and dismissive of the technique and training of all the Balanchine companies. And you’ll see a little of that vice versa: Balanchine dancers will criticize the Russians for their absence of musicality, or for holding poses too long, et cetera. But it’s interesting to hear that there was that kind of dismissiveness from the classical school, even among the writers at that time. I wouldn’t have guessed that.Alastair: I was lucky because of the critics I knew. I began to know Clement Crisp, for example, who urged me to travel, and I already wanted to. I was so thunderstruck by the writing of Arlene Croce and Edwin Denby that I traveled to New York in January 1979, while I was only twenty-three. I had no money. It was before I’d met most London critics, and I spent three weeks there. I probably only met two New York critics of any importance: Tobi Tobias and David Vaughan. David Vaughan had a huge influence on me.But really, what I was learning was that I should travel and start looking at dance in different places. You feel differently about the Royal Danes, whom I saw that year, if you go to Copenhagen—you feel it in the context of the architecture, the society of Copenhagen. You start to understand the Royal Ballet London better when you’ve traveled. Once you see it, when you come back to your home city, you certainly feel differently about New York City Ballet when you see it appearing in your home theater or at Covent Garden, having already seen it at a New York State Theater and Lincoln Center. All of those experiences helped my mind to develop.In 1984, I managed to get to Russia, which was still very much the Soviet Union, to see both the Kirov and the Bolshoi. I didn’t see much of the Bolshoi, but I saw both companies, and all of that was a great education. Your love for all these examples—my hope is there—is because you have a curious mind.Some experiences were very hard. Looking at New York City Ballet at first was challenging, because it was so unlike what I was used to. I took one look at Suzanne Farrell or Meryl Ashley and I began to surrender to them at once. Then I had to analyze why and what it was that was thrilling, even though it was unlike anyone I had ever seen in London. I was just young enough to do that. I wasn’t stuck in a rut.I think that openness goes on. As soon as I say it, I feel I should bash myself for sounding complacent, because the truth is I’ve never fully surrendered to the Paris Opera Ballet, to put it kindly. Even though I was thunderstruck the first time I saw the Kirov Ballet in 1982, and again in 1987, many of the reviews I wrote of the Kirov Mariinsky seem to reflect various serious problems I’ve had with them.What I find fascinating about the Kirov—and I don’t mean today, but certainly up to, say, 2010, 2014, maybe later—is that someone at the Kirov, and maybe the Bolshoi, reads foreign reviews very seriously. The next time you watch that company, it won’t necessarily be better, but they would have attended to that particular problem. I thought, “Oh my God. I think somebody’s been reading my review.” That’s true—they’ve often developed a different kind of problem.Cynthia: It’s like they’re really taking the correction.Alastair: But they really are. Whereas you could be moaning about the Royal Ballet or New York City Ballet, and they wouldn’t make, you know, any change at all.Cynthia: It’s interesting to think about the companies looking different within their own locations. That the art form itself is not just part of the architecture, literally, but the architecture of the society. So then, out of context, it means something else, which is, of course, an issue with archival art forms like ballet in general. In a lot of ways, we’re always seeing it out of context unless it’s a new work, and even those, a lot of the times, are derivative. Cynthia: Who were the key dancers who influenced your early taste?Alastair: I’m probably not going to remember any of the most important ones now. Margot Fonteyn, of course, was your ideal. She was in the air; as you grew up, there were books and photographs of Margot Fonteyn. I saw her, I suppose, at the end of her career in ten roles, and I realized she had this legendary musicality.I probably never saw the musicality at its greatest because I was not seeing her in tutu roles any longer, you know? But God, she existed within and around the music with such clarity, beauty, and complexity. But the two ballerinas who perhaps I saw much more—maybe three, who I’m adding quickly—are Meryl Park.Meryl Park was probably not the most wonderful in terms of line. I didn’t analyze what was wrong with her line at the time. She had a terrific theater presence, she was a very intelligent artist, and she had the most astonishing musicality. It was the kind of musicality where you could feel her playing with a phrase in the way that one hears Violette Verdi did.Antoinette Sibley put it to me once. She said, “There are two kinds of musicality. When I dance, when Margot or Monica dances,” she said, “we are the music. But there’s another kind of musicality, and that is what Meryl has and what Violette has—they can play with the music.” And she said, “I wish I was like that.” Meryl was like that.I don’t think, I dunno, that you could see it at all in any films, but believe me, when you were there live—up to about the time of her fortieth birthday, or a little later, when injury began to change the dancing—it was extraordinary.But the two ballerinas from whom I probably learned most were Natalia Makarova and Lynn Seymour.Makarova had the perfect body, very beautiful, highly intelligent dancer. What drove me into shock with Makarova was in the world of which she was most famous, which was Swan Lake. She—and I don’t think any film shows this, but now they’ve all been edited—went after the music in a way I had never known.I mean, she would follow it a whole bar or two bars later; particularly, she would end two bars later. So if you saw her do Swan Lake, she would always end Odette’s variation seconds after the music could stop. I had never known what seemed to me un-musicality like that. And quite a lot of critics enthused about it. I just went into shock. Why aren’t people clamoring about this?Then there was Lynn Seymour. Her body was full of arches, lines, and curves in the most extraordinary way, all of which were intensely expressive. I’ve never known a ballerina—and I’m never a dancer—capable of that kind of intensity of expression.And it came from the center of her being. I was so lucky with Lynn Seymour that I saw her in great roles made for her by Frederick Ashton, and above all, Kenneth MacMillan—which I don’t mean “above all,” I knew above all Frederick Ashton—but he only made three roles on her. I did see her twenty times in A Month in the Country, and I’m very glad I saw all of those twenty performances.Cynthia: Are there dancers today that you find as exciting?Alastair: Well, I certainly find some dancers very exciting. I should also have added Anthony Dowell, who probably was the man I wanted to be, had I been a dancer, you know? And then it was so good for me to have him coming to the Royal. He just seemed to surrender himself to so many aspects of Royal Ballet styles.Having seen those, then—I mean, how lucky I am to have lived to see David Hallberg. Perhaps not what he dances today, but his first years at ABT, and Herman Cornejo—those were two miraculous male dancers. I’m thrilled that I had the chance to write about Sara Mearns in the years in which she came to so many of her great roles at New York City Ballet. How amazing it was to have seen Natalia Osipova when she first emerged. I haven’t quite seen her in recent years, but to see her between her ABT debut in 2009—I think I’d seen her a little bit with the Bolshoi before then—up to about 2015, when she became a member of the Royal Ballet, performing a lot of different roles, was thrilling.I just remember thinking, well, here I am in 2015, I was sixty years old. I had seen in the late seventies a period when, within a couple of months, I had seen the Giselles of Natalia Makarova, Gelsey Kirkland, Eva Evdokimova—who, for some people, was the greatest Giselle, by the way—often overlooked now. Margaret Barbieri, who many British people adore, Galina Samsova, who gave the most astonishing mad scene, among other things, I ever saw.All of these were greats, and they happened to me when I was 22, 23—not 21, 22 actually. But here I was in 2012, 2013, looking at Natalia Osipova, Diana Vishneva, and Alina Cojocaru. To watch those three, often on the same weekend during Giselle with ABT, I thought, this is an astonishing thing. These three really are showing me the younger generation, the span of what Giselle can be between them—just as much as those dancers years ago.You know, I’ve lived through a golden period.Cynthia: You’ve written about a lot of different styles: classical, modern. Did you have a preference in the beginning?Alastair: Ballet was really what I knew. It was what was available to me. And frankly, I had no money when I first came to London, so it was cheaper to sit in the cheap seats of Covent Garden than it was to go to Sadler’s Wells to see modern companies or whatever. And I certainly did see the Martha Graham Company in 1976.Then, in 1979, when the company came back, I saw them lots of times. I began, as soon as I became a critic, I don’t think I’d particularly had any bias between ballet and modern. I just had to see some really great modern work to realize it was as great as ballet. I was aware that Merce Cunningham was taken very seriously by people before I saw his company. I went to Edinburgh in 1979, and my first reaction was, “What’s the problem?” I was just in love with what I was looking at. Then I heard the music, and I realized how strange the music could be.I think it really was love at first sight with Cunningham, and then a few question marks later on.Cynthia: As with all great love affairs.Alastair: Nicely put.I think I always loved Fred Astaire. There are so many different kinds of dancing. There are always new things to see, and then gradually I began looking at various national forms of dancing.I forget when I first really began to look at flamenco. Probably about 1980. There was a good company run by Mario Maya, very connected to the political, angry side of flamenco, and that was thrilling. And then Indian dance—I think I began looking at it seriously, probably not at very great examples in the late ’80s. But then I did start to go, maybe at the beginning of the century. There was a wonderful weekend at the Edinburgh Festival in London. We didn’t get the great exposure to Indian dance that New York had, at least when I was at the New York Times. And I was lucky that I had coincided with a great period of Indian dance at the New York Times.That became a very deep fascination for me. I went twice to India for four weeks, partly because I was middle-aged and wanted to look at temples, and I took the opportunity to see as much Indian dance as I could. And I’m sure I’m extremely ignorant to this day. But I realized I was writing about Indian dance in a way that Indian critics weren’t. I think that helped me, and maybe helped some people in Indian dance.The general convention in Indian dance was that you looked, and the dancer or choreographer was trying to express and convey, and then you commented on whether they were succeeding or not. I just thought, “Never mind this. I’m not qualified there, but let’s just describe what is going on.” They are using Kathak or Odissi, or whatever, in this way. And I tried to analyze it—very good for the mind—when you were in your fifties and sixties.Cynthia: Is there a choreographer or maybe a dancer that you wish more people knew about today?Alastair: Well, it’s sad to me that my home choreographer—Frederick Ashton—is not better known, and that there are more great examples of what was wonderful about Ashton’s style. I truly mean it when I say that. I think Ashton, much of the time, was as musical as Balanchine, or more musical than Balanchine. And that’s against the law to say now. But I mean it. Whereas, of course, I think Balanchine was actually a greater dramatist, which nobody takes seriously at all—or at least he was a more radical dramatist.When I began to watch both of their versions of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, I thought Ashton tells the story even better than Balanchine, but Balanchine tells a better story. Once I got into that, I began to realize that was true of all Balanchine’s story ballets. Prodigal Son is a great story—he really tells it so amazingly. Ashton wouldn’t have had the guts to go for the radical sexuality of The Siren, or the humiliation of the final scene.I mean, in London, I just wish we saw more of Pam Tanowitz, but at least we see Pam Tanowitz, and I very much wish London saw much more Alexei Ratmansky. We have Wayne McGregor in London, and we had Liam Scarlett. I can go on. Basically, London’s choreographers at present, to me, are a disappointing choice and a bad choice on the whole.The first British choreographer I took very seriously when I was discovering British modern dance was Richard Alston. He began by being a Cunninghamite and working without music. Then he began to use music, and I realized he was acutely musical. Trying to analyze musicality—I think—is about the hardest thing in criticism.Cynthia: It’s interesting how even the musicality can be cultural. Because in Russia, the ballerina is the queen of the world, and the conductor is expected to follow her. I saw one time a performance with Lopatkina doing Giselle, and it was almost like an argument between her and the conductor. She was truly on her own time, and he was just refusing to respond to her. I thought, wow, that’s fascinating. That would never happen at New York City Ballet. They’d be fired.Alastair: There was a legend that Svetlana Beriosova had to stop dancing Giselle after Act One for months. So Lynn Seymour leapt into the breach for Act Two and managed to find the point of coming close to the orchestra pit, bourrée-ing, and saying over her shoulder to the conductor, “Too f*****g slow, Ashley,” to the conductor. But I’m sure she was on the music while she said it.Cynthia: If someone were just beginning their journey as a dance audience member, where do you think they should begin?Alastair: If you’re just beginning and you think you’re taking it seriously, just look at what you have at home and analyze it—but then quickly, just travel. Look around at what you can. You can’t these days go to Russia, which is something I would always have recommended. I think I was about twenty-eight when I first went to Russia.I would go to Copenhagen. I think at the moment I would encourage people to go to Amsterdam. When I came to the New York Times, I was already aware there was a lot of important ballet, in particular from outside New York. I’d looked at the Suzanne Farrell Ballet, I’d looked at the San Francisco Ballet. Over the years, I looked at Pacific Northwest Ballet. So I thought, there is so much going on around America, and I should shake up New York by reminding them that New York did not contain all that’s great about American ballet.It’s still on my conscience that I never traveled to Dayton, Ohio, to look at the Dayton Contemporary Dance Theater, which, when I saw it in Washington, had some of the most fabulous dancing I’ve seen. There were great forms of hip hop. Of course, I wrote a lot about Jookin in the Memphis form—Lil Buck is the famous one—but going to Memphis to see whole battles was electrifying. Then going to Detroit to look at their form of hip hop, which is called jit.I wish I had gone and spent time in Chicago and San Francisco to look at their local forms. I just never had the time. I think you can see, particularly with something like hip hop, that by looking at a local folk form, you learn so much about this country and its local dialect. It was curious for me to be often the whitest and most European and the oldest person in the audience looking at these things.It made me laugh when I was watching one Memphis Jookin event. I think I was, whether I was fifty-nine or sixty-one, so much the whitest person in the room, so much the oldest person in the room, and I was having a great time. Cynthia: You answered fifty of my questions in one—about the myriad of styles and different countries: Indian classical dancing, flamenco, hip hop, ballet. Alastair: I just think, you know, one of the reasons I came from New York was to grow, to extend myself.I was giving up quite a lot by coming because I had loved—and over the years had become, above all, a theater critic—and I was having such a good time reviewing the final plays of Pinter and almost the final plays of Tom Stoppard, and so many other great British playwrights, and looking at so much Shakespeare. I had very, very mixed feelings about giving that up to take the New York Times job. I nearly didn’t take it.So I just thought, if I’m going to come, I really have to feel I’m going on an adventure to new things in my mind and new things in the world. I went back to London quite often and would think I had made the wrong choice. I should have stayed in London, because London theater is yet better than New York dance. Then I eventually shrugged and thought, well, right. It was a mistake, but it was a very interesting mistake—the most interesting mistake of my life: writing about dance in America.Cynthia: And you know, I feel like so much of the time our lives become about our most interesting mistakes.Alastair: I hope, I hope.Cynthia: There’s a lot of discussion that criticism is dead, that there aren’t any negative reviews because it’s all tied in with commercialism. What do you think? What do you feel is the critic’s responsibility to artists, to audiences, and to the art form itself?Alastair: That’s a really nice question, a good one. And it probably is true that there aren’t enough negative reviews. People have been saying that for a long time, but it’s getting more intense. I do remember that the New York Times, particularly under the long regime of Anna Kisselgoff, you had to decode her reviews to know what was really negative under the apparent surface of praise.I had imagined that was the style of the New York Times when I was considering the job. Finally, after three months of dangling it in front of my nose without giving me an offer, they offered me the job and said, “You’re going to have the weekend to think about it. Ask us any questions you want during the weekend.” I think I only wrote one question, because I happened to be ill. I was honestly in bed for the weekend.When I came through from my fever, I remember sending an email to my future arts editor at the New York Times, whom I came to adore. I just simply asked him the question: if I were to take the job, do you have any clue how many negative reviews I would write, or how severe they would be? Because I had imagined the New York scene was much worse.Sam wrote straight back and said, “That’s what I want from all of my critics. I don’t want any soft-soaping.” I thought, oh, that’s not the way I thought the New York Times expected. So I thought, I can work for a man like Sam. Within my first month, I did see work I just did not like at all, and I thought, I’ve got a choice: I’d either be gentle about the choreographer’s work, who is unknown to me, or I can blast it out of the water.I deliberately thought, I’m going to test my readership and test the New York Times by blasting it out of the water. I probably would never write quite so severely again, but I really went for it, because I really wanted to see whether the readers, and in part my editors, would support me throughout all of that. Thank God—they laughed. I remember editors coming up to me and just saying, “Why don’t you say what you really think?” They were with me, and they weren’t saying I was going too far.Cynthia: Did it affect the readership? I would imagine that people became more interested in dance during your tenure. I know I did, and I was already obsessed to begin with.Alastair: Who can say? I’m sure I lost readers because people weren’t used to that kind of anger or opinionated quality. I hope—I think I did gain readers at the New York Times. I can’t do the sums between those two. I love the readers I had, and I should say that the readers were the main reason I took the job. I loved working at the Financial Times in the nineties, but suddenly, around the year 2000, I remember feeling that the demographics had changed, and then I only really heard from interested parties after that.I did hear from them when I was often quoted outside theaters and on publicity, but I wasn’t hearing from the general reader, whatever that is, at the moment. I remember the New York Times got in touch in late 2006 to consider offering me the job. I remember thinking they were never going to offer it to me because they’d have to bring me across the Atlantic, and nobody spends that kind of money anymore.Then, after a week, the man I knew at the New York Times, who had worked with me—Evan, a New Yorker, Chip McGrath—called me and said, “We just want you to know that you are way at the top of the list of everybody we are considering at the New York Times.” That was a surprise straight away.This was probably the beginning of November 2006. They wanted to know whether I was seriously interested in the job, or if I just couldn’t get a pay rise at the Financial Times. I laughed straight away and said, “Well, I would like a pay rise at the Financial Times.” Since they weren’t mentioning money, I didn’t know what this was about. I said, “I can tell you what would interest me: coming to the New York Times, and that is the readers. My impression is that if I wrote for the New York Times, I would hear from the general reader. I’ve stopped hearing from what I consider the general reader at the Financial Times.”I remember Chip laughed. He said, “Oh boy, we have readers.” I said, “I’m always grateful for them, but we certainly have one.” And it was absolutely true.Cynthia: You also had writers writing under you that you commissioned during your time.Alastair: It’s a very important thing to have an editor taking you as a young writer where you haven’t been before. I didn’t see it much as my responsibility to comment. Most of what they wrote, if they wrote well, I wrote them emails just to say, “Bravo, brava.” But I couldn’t do that every time. I think it was very important for them not to be writing to gain my approval, otherwise that could be very infantilizing. I hope I showed all of them that I did approve of some of their work, that I wasn’t there judging the whole time, and they shouldn’t hang around waiting for me to say the right thing.Cynthia: Looking back at your career, what do you hope your writing contributed to dance?Alastair: I think I’m very proud that I covered hip hop and flamenco, as well as ballet and modern dance. I’m very proud that I’ve covered a lot of music and theater, as well as modern dance, and I’m very proud that I’ve held two—or three—top jobs on both sides of the Atlantic. That’s unusual. I’m pleased with that.When I was moving to the New York Times, I became conscious, especially when I realized I got a thousand words’ power on you, that I should start writing more about music and musicality than anybody had done before. I hope that aspect of my work will stand up.It was very strange—the power of the New York Times, because it’s actually not always the powerful newspaper you think it is. I could tell you about things I wrote on a Wednesday paper, and you’d go back to see it on Friday, and the audience was not there, so to speak. You didn’t automatically command people to see what you were raving about. But I suppose gradually, bit by bit, I realized I did have some effect. Certainly, the ballet audience read me. I probably did have a big effect on the Merce Cunningham audience. I hope I had the effect on the Mark Morris audience, because he is given to such genius and such awfulness, depending on the show, but truly genius when it works. Those are some of the things—I could go on, couldn’t I?Cynthia: What advice would you give to emerging critics who would like to build a voice within the current times?Alastair: Building a voice—it’s such a complicated thing. Well, make sure it’s your voice, and that it’s not just your newspaper’s voice. And while occasionally you find the right critic for the right newspaper, I never felt I was, and that’s fine. Just think you’re swimming against the grain. Use it.My first newspaper reviews of ballet were for The Guardian. I imagine that everybody around the arts page at The Guardian tended to be pro-modern arts or pro-postmodern or whatever. So I was trying to show why you could take ballet seriously to those readers.And I probably wrote a lot of modern dance reviews too when I was at the Financial Times, which I was for many years. I never felt I had a financial bone in my body, so I never, and I felt it was generally read by the establishment, and I think I did learn quite quickly that people who read the Financial Times could afford anything you recommended, which I wasn’t used to. So it was a shock to realize I was writing for a different kind of class, shall we say, financially.But with the New York Times, it was so extraordinarily diverse, and I think I was getting my voice because while I knew that the New York Times was a big deal in the eyes of Americans and the world, I did not know how big a deal. Within a year I remember saying particularly to Claudia La Rocco, you know, when you write for the New York Times, it feels as if half your readers are blaming you for what’s wrong with the world, and half of your readers assume you are the fount of all truth and beauty and wisdom. And of course neither is true.Cynthia: Is there something you’d hope to see moving forward in the realms of dance writing and particularly education?Alastair: I just hope people will read the great work of Edwin Denby, Arlene Croce, Joan Acocella, others of my contemporaries, and build on what we achieved. You know, we didn’t do it lightly and we didn’t do it easily.I hope my reviews seemed fluent and entertaining, but very few of them were written in a hurry. They didn’t just drop off a log, you know. It would be too simple to say that there is a tradition of dance criticism, because, for example, Clive Barnes and Arlene Croce were on the whole at loggerheads and writing in very different ways, but one could learn from both of them. I think I did learn to some degree from Clive and to a very large degree from Arlene. Likewise from Clement and other British critics, you know, just learn what you can and gradually, as you do, you learn your voice.Cynthia: Dance is really a fringe subject. The amount of people who are, who have a depth of knowledge of its history and its artists over the years, are so few.Alastair: Well, one of the great joys of the New York Times job was realizing I could ask questions of lots of people. I think I was always aware, as a young critic, that too many critics kept their cards too close to their chest. I thought quite often, we are given special information by press officers or whoever, fellow colleagues—why not share? Share the wisdom wherever you can. Be the student, not just the expert.Cynthia: Alastair, thank you. Thank you so much. Thank you for all of your work, all of your writing, all of your passion. You have been an inspiration for me since you started at the New York Times. I’m sure it would’ve been before that, but I just hadn’t been introduced to your work. I used to live on the Upper East Side, and I had a membership to the Met Museum. Every week I would take the paper, go to the Met, sit in the sculpture area, pretend it was my living room, and read your reviews.Alastair: That’s—well, that’s a huge compliment. Thank you very much.November 17th 2025. I had the great pleasure and luck to meet Alastair Macaulay in person at New York City Center. Where he was moderating a panel on Dutch National Ballet and the work of Hans van Manen as part of City Center’s Studio 5 Series. Here is the selfie I asked him to take with me. I posted it on instagram letting everyone know that I met the GOAT dance critic (GOAT stands for Greatest Of All Time) and hence began our argument on who should claim the title. The Dance Lens with Cynthia Dragoni is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Get full access to The Dance Lens with Cynthia Dragoni at thedancelens.substack.com/subscribe

“People say, ‘stay in your lane, you’re just an artist, but art was born out of politics—revolutions, wars, oppression. Tap dance emerged because enslaved people weren’t allowed to make music. Dancers come from communities impacted by inequity—Black, brown, queer, immigrant, women. There’s a direct political dimension to that.” Bridgie NixWhat is the life of a showgirl? It might just be in politics. Bridgie Nix is not your typical political candidate — she’s a dancer, fire performer, and lifelong creative who’s no stranger to America’s working-class grind. Dancers often assume they live outside the political bloodstream — yet it’s lawmakers with no understanding of the industry who shape realities from the ensemble to the headlining stars. Dance may be the only industry where the majority of workers are women, immigrants, and LGBTQ — making it an arena that is not only notoriously underpaid, but also a direct reflection of marginalized America.Nix’s views have radically shifted — once a conservative, she has taken a sharp turn to the left. After a decade in LA working across entertainment and organizing, and later building her own production company in Nevada’s growing film industry, she’s stepping into politics with a perspective forged onstage, backstage, and in the cracks of America’s safety net. Now she’s channeling that lived experience into a campaign for Lieutenant Governor.“I’ve always been politically passionate,” Nix says, “I grew up watching Fox News, identified as conservative—but social issues weren’t openly discussed. Moving out of Texas, freelancing, facing the realities of the American system…2016 was my turning point. I realized the Republican Party as I knew it was no longer the one I believed in.”Her campaign for Lieutenant Governor is fueled by that realization. In Nevada, the Lieutenant Governor’s role is both ceremonial and pivotal: tie-breaking votes in legislation, stepping in when the Governor is absent, and overseeing tourism. “The role varies by state depending on the dominant industry,” Nix explains. “In Texas it’s oil, in California it’s film and TV, and in Nevada it’s tourism. As an entertainer who also experiences Vegas as a consumer, I feel really suited to help fix tourism issues and expand nature-based tourism here too.”But Nix’s vision extends beyond the Strip. Her platform emphasizes creating a new creative economy in Nevada, diversifying the state beyond casinos and tourism. Central to this is the Hollywood 2.0 initiative: building permanent production studios in Las Vegas to sustain local employment and establish long-term industry infrastructure. “International tourism—the backbone of Vegas—has collapsed. Gen Z doesn’t gamble like that. Entertainment isn’t just actors; it’s hundreds of local jobs,” she says.Her advocacy is rooted in lived experience. Having danced, taught, and produced, Nix has seen firsthand the inequities faced by creatives. She draws parallels between the precariousness of the performing arts and the broader labor landscape. “Dancers risk their health and careers daily. No one is buying tickets to see the executive director perform. Priorities are upside-down,” she observes.Nix’s political awakening also emerged from civic activism. In 2020, she organized protests and registered over 200 voters across three states. Following the overturn of Roe v. Wade, she was struck by how many performers were unaware of its implications. “People believed their vote didn’t matter.” That realization propelled her toward candidacy, revisiting programs like Vote Run Lead and learning how surprisingly accessible running for office could be—especially in a state like Nevada.Her campaign, however, is not just about policy—it’s about bridging two worlds: art and politics. “People say, ‘stay in your lane, you’re just an artist,’” Nix laughs. “But art was born out of politics—revolutions, wars, oppression. Tap dance emerged because enslaved people weren’t allowed to make music. Dancers come from communities impacted by inequity—Black, brown, queer, immigrant, women. There’s a direct political dimension to that.”For Nix, the message is clear: performers and creatives cannot remain in a bubble. Politics shapes the structures that determine whether they survive in their fields—from healthcare access to workers’ rights. “Start local,” she advises. “City council, state representatives—they directly impact your life. Go to meetings, ask questions, understand budgets. Even small advocacy work matters. And don’t underestimate your voice on social media. Performance is influence.”Nix believes that women and nontraditional candidates must take up space in politics. “Our current political class is aging, disconnected, and unfamiliar with the modern world. People want leaders who understand their reality. It’s time for older politicians to retire, relax, and pass the baton.”Nix’s candidacy, in many ways, challenges the notion of what leadership looks like. Her campaign is grassroots, focused on door-to-door engagement and community connections—particularly within the creative sector she knows intimately. She wants to inspire a broader cultural shift in political engagement, demonstrating that governance is accessible, and that lived experience, problem-solving, and creativity are valuable assets in public service.“From dancers to veterans, from teachers to service workers—those voices need to be in the room. Politics is about people. If you’ve had to hustle, if you’ve navigated unstable industries or systems, you know how to advocate.”As she knocks doors and posts updates on Instagram, Bridgie Nix’s message is clear: politics isn’t just in the Capitol—it’s everywhere, even backstage. And for performers across America, her candidacy is a call to recognize that their votes, voices, and perspectives are not only relevant—they are necessary. For more information on Bridgie Nix’s platform and campaign, visit: https://www.bridgienix4nevada.com/ or follow her on social media @bridgienix4nevadaFULL PODCAST ABOVE Get full access to The Dance Lens with Cynthia Dragoni at thedancelens.substack.com/subscribe

Dance and the military might seem worlds apart—but their histories are surprisingly intertwined. Some of the world’s oldest ballet schools were tied to state military academies, and Napoleon himself organized the Paris Opera Ballet’s uniforms and promotion system that is still in place today. The physical rigor, the hierarchy, the discipline—the dancer and the soldier have much in common in their daily experience. But the paths diverge—the physical and psychic injuries of war lead us away from our true nature and dance offers us a way back, a way in, a way home. Black Box Dance Theater a North Carolina-based modern dance company works extensively with veterans and active duty service members, in educational spaces, therapeutic spaces, performance spaces—often they are one and the same. In this episode, we interview Michelle Pearson, Artistic Director and founder of Black Box Dance Theater, and Alfredo Hurtado, dancer, founding company member, and Purple Heart–decorated Combat Wounded Warrior who served three tours with the 118th Military Police Company, 82nd Airborne Division.A documentary on Black Box Theater’s work: “We Lift Each Other” is premiering on November 10th in Asheville NC. Find details for the free Nov 10 screening HERE and the documentary trailer HERE. Below are excerpts (lightly edited) from the interview:Alfredo: Before dance, I was like 260 pounds, barely moving. I was on all these medications, and dance wasn’t the love story it is now. I had to grow into it and really dig because, with injuries and everything, sometimes I wouldn’t even show up to rehearsal.I remember someone—Mindy—called me once and said, “Hey, I get that you’re in pain, I get what you’re going through. But just come by. You don’t have to do anything. Just sit there, relax, and be a part of this.” And I was like, oh, she made it sound so easy. I showed up. I just kept showing up. Then this woman right here would push me in a way that made me realize I could do things. I just needed time and effort, like anything else.Being in the presence of the most amazing dancers on the planet gives me the best seats in the house—but in order to have those seats, I have to move with them. I have to flow with them. One of my greatest joys is being in this little world on stage with these people who move in ways that leave me in awe—and they trust me, and I really trust them too.Alfredo Hurtado Courtesy of Black Box Dance Theater & Arts Impact CollaborativeMichelle: Now Alfredo’s on zero medications. That’s not right for everybody—I’m just saying. He’s overcome short-term memory loss, depression, balance issues—there’s all kinds of things that come with TBI (traumatic brain injury). And now he’s in the core company, which comes with knowing at least three hours of intricate choreography. At any moment, I might say, “Face that direction instead,” and you have to execute it in a canon. You could actually get kicked in the face if you’re one second off—which has happened.Alfredo: I’ve learned that’s not gonna happen again.Michelle: The heart, stamina, and rigor of it—it’s pretty awesome. I wish you could come to rehearsal one day and see.Michelle Pearson and dancers courtesy of Black Box Theater and Arts Impact CollaborativeMARQUEE TV has 50% off for DANCE LENS students and educators. Subscribe for 100s of contemporary, classical dance, documentaries, theater opera & more.Alfredo: You’re definitely welcome anytime to watch the process.Michelle: Especially with the military—we love to show dancers that pairing. They really appreciate that discipline, that body discipline.Alfredo: We share the stubbornness of being a dancer—sometimes ignoring our bodies when we shouldn’t. Like, “Oh, my knee’s a little funny today,” but I’m still gonna do it. But now I know my body so much better than in the past. I don’t always need to have my feet perfectly high. I can adjust. I don’t need to, but I do. And who does it?Michelle: I try to watch and adjust your movements, your arms, your legs…Alfredo: Trust me, I’m at home kicking my leg over the counter so I can get it as high as I need to.When we’re with our military newcomers, one of my favorite lines is, “You all know anything can happen as soon as you sign that dotted line. You could get sent to war. So you’re afraid to do a little plié? Come on.” It puts them in perspective—they’re okay.Michelle: And when he talks about dance, bootcamp’s got nothing on modern dance.Still from “We Lift Each Other” Photo: Lou Pepe Alfredo: Still. I’ve jumped out of planes, played Division I soccer my whole life. It’s intense, physically demanding—but there’s something about dance that lets you dig deep inside yourself. It’s a collective, whole-company thing. Soccer taught me plays, kicking the ball in the army—jumping out, doing things—but learning choreography, trying not to hurt anyone while lifting or spinning, it’s another level. You practice a lift 10, 15 times to get the mechanics right—then you execute it perfectly with your partner. Dance has so many layers beyond scoring goals.Michelle: Our work with active-duty military really launched us into this. Then our curiosity led us toward veteran groups, which opened a whole different reality, a whole different lived experience. Over the past three to four years, particularly with the Patriot Project, we’ve worked with veterans of all ages—men, women, from different wars, with varying levels of emotional and physical trauma. We’ve learned so much about what it means to create dance in that community.We still have our little arc, but it looks very different now. It’s about staying open, paying attention to how people are in the room, knowing the right push. FULL INTERVIEW PODCAST ABOVE.Find out more about Black Box Theater’s work and how YOU can get involved here. American Ballet Theater has really interesting season coming up in March, from Othello and Firebird to Mozartiana and Raymonda’s Grand Pas Hongrois. More on this later but tickets start at $35 are available HERE. Get full access to The Dance Lens with Cynthia Dragoni at thedancelens.substack.com/subscribe

Ahmad Joudeh’s phenomenal path is the subject of a new Documentary “The Dancer”, which premiere’s at San Francisco Dance Film Festival on November 8th. Born in a refugee camp in Syria, Joudeh literally risked his life to study dance in secret and eventually became a dancer with Dutch National Ballet. He’s now a member of Golden State Ballet in California alongside being an international activist for refugee rights and the arts. Joudeh’s path is truly miraculous and a reminder that with dance (and the internet) all things are possible. Below are a few excerpts from the conversation. Watch and listen to the full interview above. Cynthia: In your situation, because of your experiences, your work is inherently political. Even if you’re doing Sleeping Beauty or The Nutcracker or whatever—it becomes a statement.Ahmad: Yes.Cynthia: For artists in general, even if they don’t have that kind of background, what do you think their role is in times of conflict or collective difficulty?Ahmad: We fight for culture and art because culture and art are very important. I always say that artists have the same duty as soldiers—we fight for culture, for art, and for our countries. Because a country without culture and art is a country not worth fighting for. I think that explains what I do and what I wish every artist would do. We are the window—people look through us as artists. Our platforms are not only ours; we represent a lot more than we think.I was born in a refugee camp for stateless refugees in Syria. My father is a musician and artist—he taught me, my brother, and my sister music. Singing was my part. At the end of each school year, the best performances from different schools were chosen for a big celebration in the city center of Damascus. From our camp, they selected our school’s performance, and they liked our song.Then the next performance was from the girls’ school—they did a small piece from Swan Lake. There were about six little girls dancing, and I was fascinated. It was the first time I heard classical music, and when I saw how they moved with it, I thought: why am I playing music with an instrument when they’re playing music with their bodies? So I started moving like them. I thought ballet was only for girls, so I practiced secretly in my room until my mom found out.My mother’s uncles are from Palmyra, and when we visited them, I used to watch the dervishes—their rituals with the drums and whirling. I was fascinated, but I thought it was something purely religious. Later, I realized I was drawn to that same sense of movement. When my grandmother saw my Eurovision performance years later, she said, “When you were a little kid, you used to do that with the sheets—so what’s new about it?”I was sixteen when I joined Enana Dance Theatre in Syria. The company’s training was based on the Vaganova method, taught by our ballet master Albina Belova from Russia. So yes, I was trained in the Vaganova method in Damascus—which surprises people. They say, “Really? You had a ballet company in Syria?” And I say, “Yes, we had an opera house and an amazing ballet company.”Cynthia: What’s going on with the dance company and the dancers in Syria now? Are they still able to work or train?Ahmad: Yes. The Opera House is still there, and we still have the Higher Institute for Theatrical Arts. It has several departments — it’s kind of like our version of Juilliard. But right now, people there are very scared. They don’t know what’s allowed and what’s not allowed.In Syria, there are many different religions — some that people outside the region may never have heard of — and for a long time, we all lived together peacefully. But now, things are becoming more extreme, and that’s very concerning.Personally, I can’t go visit my family, even though technically Syria is “free” now. But the dancers there are still training. I try to support them however I can. Sometimes the teachers call me to ask about specific movements — for example, how to teach the flic-flac or other ballet steps — and of course, I explain everything.When I studied at the Dutch National Ballet Academy I wrote all my notes in Arabic because I wanted to create a resource — something like a ballet manual in Arabic — so that dancers and teachers there could read it and really understand the technique.FULL INTERVIEW ABOVE (VIDEO & AUDIO)AHMAD JOUDEH WEBSITEAhmad JoudehMarquee TV is 50% off through DANCE LENS for students and educators. This is truly a great resource to see recent productions from the best companies all over the world including Royal Ballet, New York City Ballet, Australian Ballet, Cloud Gate Dance Theater + documentaries, theater and more. Cannot recommend this platform enough. SUBSCRIBE HEREAhmad Joudeh in front of the ancient theater in PalmyraPSA: Thanks so much for your patience while we get organized for the live talks and interviews. There were a couple of delays but we are getting ready to restart! NEW YORK CITY BALLET NEGOTIATIONS SET TO RESTART NOV 11. Stay tuned for more updates and a deeper dive on what’s really going on. MORE SOON! Get full access to The Dance Lens with Cynthia Dragoni at thedancelens.substack.com/subscribe

At CARVALHO, New York gallery in Brooklyn, Cuban choreographer and interdisciplinary artist Claudia Hilda turns the experience of migration into a moving meditation on memory and belonging. Her new installation, Neither Here, Nor There – The Migrant Body, expands the language of dance into a 24-foot projection where silhouetted figures emerge and fade, moving as memory does—sometimes vivid, sometimes lost.In this immersive environment, choreography gives way to apparition. Figures rise from the dark, press their palms against a glowing wall, and dissolve back into shadow. Beneath them, a pool of ink-black water reflects their fleeting gestures, evoking rivers, seas, and the crossings that define so many migrant stories. A 40-minute soundscape weaves together interviews and testimonies from Latin American migrants across the U.S. and Europe. The work’s physical and sonic layers speak to the psychic weight of exile and the fragmentation of identity—what it means to inhabit the “in-between,” a space that is neither here nor there.Claudia Hilda:Neither Here, Nor There – The Migrant Body, site-responsive video installation, CARVALHO, New York, 2025. Courtesy of the artist and CARVALHO, New YorkHilda, a former Principal Dancer with the Cuban National Company of Contemporary Dance, has spent the past decade translating the body’s unspoken history into movement. Her practice—shaped by recent residencies at BAM and Paris’s Cité Internationale des Arts—blurs the boundaries between performance, video installation, and sculpture. The result is work that is at once deeply personal and politically charged: choreography as cultural memory and as archive.Her work represents the Cuban artists’ paradoxical world: the country’s state-supported arts education is among the most rigorous and respected globally, producing some of the finest dancers, musicians, and performers in the world. Yet this excellence is accompanied by severe scarcity—limited access to medicine, food, and basic resources—conditions shaped by decades of political regimes, economic embargoes, and global geopolitics.All artists and their work—however original and unique—necessarily emerge from their times and collective circumstances. In Neither Here, Nor There – The Migrant Body, the gallery becomes a liminal space where the body remembers even if we try to forget. Here, movement carries the weight of displacement—and the hope of belonging.Below are excerpts (lightly edited) from an interview with Hilda. Listen to the full conversation in the podcast above.Cynthia: Can you speak to what first sparked the idea for this work?Claudia: I think the idea really came from the process that felt almost like mourning and identity. I mean, when you migrate, it’s very similar to losing someone. You go through denial, anger, sadness, resistance, and then little by little you start accepting the new reality and you start surrendering yourself to this new environment.You create a rhythm with it. And as migrants, I’ve been in constant negotiation with myself and my identity. A process that I already started living in London and I continue when I moved to New York. And it’s interesting because after maybe five year now I was ready to approach this experience, be open about it, and translated it into an art piece, and I guess with neither here nor there with the installation I wanted to speak about this process, about memory and displacement, that in between spaces here, their past present and what truly means living between that gray area.Cynthia: It really comes through and merges choreography, sound projection in an immersive installation.It’s like we walk into this dark cave and we see these bodies on another side of a screen reflected in a pool of dark water. It’s like very interesting, very surprising. Can you talk to us about your process? In creating the piece.Claudia: I think there’s a thin layer between control and spontaneity in the work. The move to speak about the movement itself, there was no fixed choreography. Instead, I guided each performer through a process. Rooted in physical and emotional memory. Inviting them to recall sensations of crossing and transitioning, um, belonging.I was really interested in activating those memories and lived experiences and through them, translating them into movements. So I wasn’t interested in choreography itself but more of a lived body movement. Something that felt more real. The movement had to feel lived and not choreographed.Sometimes it’s pedestrian, sometimes chaotic, sensual. Fragile. So I filmed behind a translucent screen. That’s the way I found to approach to this idea of metaphorical and physical border and create this space between absence, time, memory. The gestures and the body movement of the dancers appear and the solve, just like memory itself.And the work carries this anthropological dimension, not only through the movement, but through the oral history component. All the interviews we created, we interviewed a large number of Latin American migrants, not only in the United States, but in Europe, and they were all true stories.It was so beautiful to reach out to this extended family and extended community and get to the understanding as performers and also as just humans, that our bodies are cultural bodies, right? So we carry not only our experience, but the memory of others in our own movement.Cynthia: I think it’s so interesting the arc that your work is on, because your background, you were trained in Cuba at the Cuban National Contemporary School and a principal dancer in the company. And your work has been presented by BAM, Brooklyn Academy of Music and in Paris and this is so multifaceted, was this kind of mixed media work always a part of your dreams for yourself ?Claudia Hilda:Neither Here, Nor There – The Migrant Body, site-responsive video installation, CARVALHO, New York, 2025. Courtesy of the artist and CARVALHO, New YorkClaudia: I think with time I’ve been getting closer and approaching my ideal practice, let’s say.Everything has informed the kind of practice I create today. The 10 years working for the national company and then the masters that I did in Arts and choreography in London, which really helped me to approach a more multidisciplinary practice since I worked there with opera singers, theater directors, I collaborated and assisted directing operas over there.So I really connected with all this sense of cross pollination in arts of how theater, the visuality on stage, the music component, everything came together to create one piece and I fell in love with it and I, I always say I translate and I translate ideas that come to me and they always come to me in a different way.And they demand to be brought into this world in a different medium, let’s say. So I try to be super disciplined and, and to translate them as close as they are. I felt at the beginning when you are a dancer, your mind is closer to the thinking of am I doing it right?As a dancer, you pursue the technical aspect. You are pursuing perfection. But then I think also with age, you become more courageous. You are more brave to let that perfection go a little bit and come closer to the creator’s mind. I feel more calm letting that go and coming closer to intuition and everything comes together somehow, you gotta trust that process.LISTEN TO FULL INTERVIEW ABOVE (PODCAST/VIDEO)Claudia Hilda (b. Cuba) is a New York–based interdisciplinary artist working across choreography, performance, and visual installation. Her work explores migration, identity, and the politics of the body, informed by her decade as principal dancer with the Cuban National Company of Contemporary Dance and residencies at the Brooklyn Academy of Music and the Cité Internationale des Arts in Paris. Her installation Neither Here, Nor There – The Migrant Body is on view at CARVALHO, New York gallery through November 1. Get full access to The Dance Lens with Cynthia Dragoni at thedancelens.substack.com/subscribe

In This Edition:PODCAST: Alec Knight on Balanchine, Dreams, and His Western Symphony DebutIn this episode of The Dance Lens podcast, we sat down with Alec Knight, Soloist at New York City Ballet, on the cusp of his debut in George Balanchine’s Western Symphony. From early frustrations training in Australia to chasing the Balanchine dream across continents, Knight takes us through the unlikely path that brought him to Lincoln Center.He speaks candidly about tackling Western Symphony’s fourth movement, the ghosts of a brutal knee surgery, and the ways every debut reshapes both dancer and ballet. Knight doesn’t shy from the industry’s messier edges either: the risks of typecasting, the fragile alchemy of partnerships, and the pressure to carve out individuality within a towering legacy.He talks about how an artist can bring fresh energy to a Balanchine classic, how resilience fuels artistry, and why Western Symphony for him is a reckoning between grit, glamour, and survival in ballet’s most exacting arena.Alec Knight Photo: Jean Claude Billmaier‘Western Symphony’ is a ballet that at first glance looks like a raucous exercise in camp, but it is actually deeply rooted in the classical lexicon and all the accompanying difficulties. Choreographed by Balanchine in 1954, it is a true homage to American folk music and dance. Set on a street in the wild old west, the music is classic American folk songs, including “Red River Valley,” “Good Night Ladies,” and “Oh Dem Golden Slippers” all orchestrated by Hershy Kay. Knight makes his debut in the lead role on Saturday September 20, 2025 at New York City Ballet. TICKETSEmily Kikta and New York City Ballet in George Balanchine’s Western Symphony. Photo credit Erin Baiano Get full access to The Dance Lens with Cynthia Dragoni at thedancelens.substack.com/subscribe

In This Edition: -INTERVIEW Podcast With Ballet Conductor Garrett Keast.—REVIEW: The Art World & Dance: Meaningful Collaboration or Performative (literally) Fluff? OBSERVER REVIEW -DEEP DIVE Episode 1 of Our August Swan Lake Deep Dive: The StoryINTERVIEW (full podcast above)Garrett Keast, an American conductor whose career spans both opera and ballet across international stages, has emerged as one of the most dynamic figures guiding ballet orchestras today.Garrett Keast. Photo: Kiran WestWhile the conductor's role in opera is often highly visible, ballet conductors operate largely out of the spotlight. "You don't get feedback from the performers on stage in the same way as in opera," Keast notes. "But it's vital to take care of the people on stage, maintaining direction and cohesion." Over the years, the boundary between ballet and opera has softened for Keast, as he finds the collaborative demands of both art forms increasingly aligned.Keast's ballet journey began in earnest in 2013, when he stepped into a decade-long partnership with John Neumeier's Hamburg Ballet. Over the course of more than 125 performances, he immersed himself in works ranging from Bernstein Dances and Midsummernight's Dream to Purgatorio. His repertoire now includes staples like "Swan Lake" and "Romeo and Juliet," conducting for companies as prestigious as Paris Opera Ballet, Royal Swedish Ballet, Royal Danish Ballet and New York City Ballet. Currently he is a regular guest with Les Ballets de Monte Carlo under Jean-Christophe Maillot.Yet, ballet presents its own unique challenges. Dancers rely heavily on tempo, and each performance can demand subtle shifts. "You have to be flexible," Keast says. "And when you commit to that flexibility, the energy from dancers and directors tends to flow back to you." While opera may center around star vocalists, ballet is a deeply collaborative endeavor—a collective effort where choreography, rehearsal, and performance demand seamless integration.Garret Keast. Photo: Kiran WestKeast's career has been defined by pivotal moments—including an impromptu debut conducting Mahler’s 10th Symphony at Hamburg Ballet without rehearsal. These opportunities, seized with devotion and preparation, propelled him forward. But challenges remained: from navigating complex scores to adjusting to diverse cultural expectations within ballet companies around the world.Raised in Houston, Texas, Keast credits the city's vibrant public music programs for launching his journey. He studied at the University of Texas and benefited from mentorships, including with Christoph Eschenbach at Houston Symphony Orchestra.In 2020, in the midst of the pandemic, Keast founded the Berlin Academy for American Music (BAAM), an orchestra devoted to American repertoire and transatlantic musical exchange. It's another expression of his commitment to bridging cultures—this time between continents, not just artistic disciplines.As ballet companies worldwide look to expand their reach and relevance, conductors like Garrett Keast are vital figures at the intersection of tradition and innovation. Whether backstage in Monte-Carlo or in the rehearsal rooms of Berlin, Keast continues to shape the sound of ballet with nuance, empathy, and unwavering dedication.Find out more about Keast’s work at www.garrettkeast.comFiled Under: Classical Music; Ballet; Christoph Eschenbach; Houston Symphony; Hamburg Ballet; Jean-Christoph Maillot; Bernice Coppieters;John Neumeier; Lloyd Riggins; Stathis Karapanos; Craig Urquhart; Berlin Academy of American Music; Earl Blackburn; Kanzen ArtsEchoes on the Wall by Ingrid Silva at CARVALHO, New York. Image by Quinn Wharton.REVIEW This week I wrote an article for the OBSERVER on the validity and the vapidity of the cross pollination between dance and the visual art world. As more and more galleries and museums invite dance into their spaces and programs, they very often do so without a real understanding of what it takes to develop meaningful dance work. That is until a well constructed performance series was created at CARVALHO gallery. Which has supported the work of varied artists: from the conceptually rich Jodie Melnick and Neo-Classical Prima Sara Mearns, to NYC Ballet dancers Taylor Stanley and Alec Knight and most recently Dance Theater of Harlem’s Ingrid Sylva and her dancers. You can read the full critique HERE in the OBSERVER. DEEP DIVESWAN LAKE THE STORY (ON YOUTUBE)Beginning our monthly deep dive series that will be 2-3 videos (depending on the theme) and will end in a live lecture and Q&A section. This month is Swan Lake. Coming off of the beauty and the drama of Gillian Murphy’s final show–I felt there was no other logical place to begin. In this first video we’re jumping right into the story that has different endings depending on which company you’re seeing. Special thanks to MARQUEE TV for the incredible footage from English National Ballet, Rudolf Nureyev & Margot Fonteyn and Zurich Ballet with Polina Semionova. Have a look and let me know what you think. And if you want to join me in real time for the lives you can subscribe below. SWAN LAKE THE STORY (ON YOUTUBE)Want to join me for the lives? Subscribe below. Get full access to The Dance Lens with Cynthia Dragoni at thedancelens.substack.com/subscribe

In This Edition:-Podcast with Karen Valby, author of Swans of Harlem-A few book recsWith the approaching slow slog of August upon us, it’s a perfect moment to catch up on the books we’ve been meaning to read. Here are a couple that I really can’t recommend enough and one to look forward to. Swans of Harlem by Karen Valby About (and partly by) the founding dancers of Dance Theater of Harlem, whose stories—until this book was created—were mostly, and incredulously, forgotten. I’ve also included an interview I did last year with the author that I think you’ll enjoy quite a bit. Apollo’s Angels by Jennifer HomansThe most phenomenally researched and written ballet history book of all time, truly the GOAT all things considered. It’s not just for dance lovers either, if you like history and fascinating inspired writing this is for you. And if you are a dancer, you can’t consider your education complete if you haven’t read this.COMING SOON! Martha Graham 100 Years by Ken Browar & Deborah Ory Coming out in October is another gorgeous photo book by NYC Dance Project! I love their work, it’s a visual feast and a fun way to get to know dancers and dances. Starting with Swan Lake in August, I’m going to start doing monthly Q&A lives and deep dives that are for subscribers. It’s always a lot of fun and we can get into things in a way that’s hard to do in prerecorded vids. However there will still be loads of free content, articles, reviews podcasts etc, this is in addition to not instead of:). Details coming in another email. Get full access to The Dance Lens with Cynthia Dragoni at thedancelens.substack.com/subscribe

In This Edition:-Podcast interview with Yuan Yuan Tan-Notes on the complexities of artistic exchange and the new work Lady White Snake.Yuan Yuan Tan, San Francisco’s great ballerina, almost never became a dancer. Her entire career was decided by a single coin toss.Arguing about whether or not she’d be allowed to study such an impractical pursuit as ballet, her parents said, “The Buddha will decide.” A coin was thrown. It landed in dance’s favor, and her fate was sealed.Now, 40 years after the Buddha’s coin toss, Tan has been a pillar on American ballet stages for three decades. It was under her tenure—and Helgi Tomasson’s artistic direction—that San Francisco Ballet became one of the best companies in the world.Tan recently retired from San Francisco Ballet and, not missing a beat, is already the artistic director of Suzhou Ballet. Separately, she is directing and co-producing an inventive and spectacular ballet, Lady White Snake, coming to Lincoln Center on July 26 & 27. Blending Chinese classical dance, Kung Fu, contemporary dance, and ballet, it tells an ancient fairy tale that, like all myths, is surprisingly relevant to our modern experience. The projections are immersive and explosive, wrapping subconscious archetypes within a story of inner conflict—the tension between what we want and what’s expected of us.Artistic and cultural exchange is always important, but sometimes it’s event more pointed and urgent.We have many examples in history, particularly during the Cold War, when the arts—music and dance in particular—were used as cudgels of soft power.Great jazz musicians (funded by the CIA) traveled to the Soviet Union; New York City Ballet and Moscow’s Bolshoi Ballet toured each other’s homelands. Perhaps these tours were meant to flex each country’s assertion that their society was superior, that their cultural and intellectual development would lead humanity forward, eclipsing other economies and philosophies. But what’s left in our collective memory is the beauty of the work—the windows opened to one another’s talents and rare gifts, the knowing that through the arts we connect above space, time, and government tension.These exchanges bore tangible fruit. The Kennedy Center—America’s national theater—and Lincoln Center, art’s temple in the middle of the country’s cultural heart, were born of Cold War competition with the Soviets. Even if it’s a pity that they arose from jostling for perceived superiority, the creation of these theaters has elevated what we’ve been able to experience and develop artistically—and the way we see ourselves. Now, over half a century later, history in its cycles and rhymes is again asking us to face ourselves, our systems, each other.And once again, it is through the arts that we may find a shared language. Yuan Yuan Tan’s Lady White Snake arrives not just as a performance, but as a bridge—between East and West, past and present, tradition and reinvention. In an age of fractures and firewalls, such works remind us that the most resonant forms of communication still come through beauty, discipline, and story.Listen to the podcast to hear Tan’s journey—from a coin toss in Shanghai to center stage in San Francisco, and now to the helm of an international ballet production—mirroring the very ideals Lady White Snake embodies: resilience, transformation, and the enduring power of choice.Perhaps the Buddha's coin was always going to land this way. Get full access to The Dance Lens with Cynthia Dragoni at thedancelens.substack.com/subscribe

IN THIS EDITION:-Podcast & Note On Gillian Murphy’s Career-Recommended show (Lady White Snake)-Update on this Substack:)The career of American Ballet Theatre’s Gillian Murphy has spanned a rare arc. A jewel in the annals of ballet history, she has escorted the changing times and evolving art form for the better part of three decades. And on July 18, the artist makes her final departure from the ABT stage in Odette/Odile — a role that, as Murphy notes in an interview about her career, continues to reveal something new each time. Murphy burst onto the scene in a then all-too-infrequent recording of “Le Corsaire” (1999), when, still a soloist, she performed as one of the Odalisques, completing a full diagonal of triple pirouettes. Her gifts were again cemented in film eternity when “Dance in America” recorded “Swan Lake” (2005) for the PBS series “Great Performances,” and the performance of the young principal dancer was given to all of us to keep, as long as the VHS tape would hold, and in our collective imaginations ever after. Her rise through the ranks at ABT, and these recordings alone, would have been enough to frame a great career. But Murphy performed far longer than most classical dancers — and, as a result, she both bridged and led the way between the old world and the new. Swan Lake Rehearsal: Gillian Murphy & Michael de la Nuez. Photo by Britt StiglerThis edition of the Dance Lens newsletter is thanks to my absolute favorite ARTS ONLY streaming service MARQUEE TV. Where you can find a plethora of recent classical, neoclassical, contemporary dance productions PLUS documentaries, theater and opera. Subscribe HERE.When Kevin McKenzie stepped into the role of artistic director at American Ballet Theatre in 1992, he was walking in Mikhail Baryshnikov’s wake — and what a wake it was. A wave of glamour and excitement had flooded the dance world with the defections of Soviet legends like Rudolf Nureyev, Natalia Makarova and Baryshnikov himself. Combined with the drama (onstage and off) of American ballerina Gelsey Kirkland, American ballet soil was fertile ground. What followed were some of the most thrilling generations of dancers — defined not by a few standout stars but by a bevy of brilliance: Alessandra Ferri, Julio Bocca, Susan Jaffe, Paloma Herrera, Ethan Stiefel, José Manuel Carreño, Ángel Corella, Julie Kent, Amanda McKerrow, Ashley Tuttle, Max and Irina Dvorovenko, Marcelo Gomes and, of course, Murphy. It seemed American Ballet Theatre had fully come into its power — not relying on a few imported celebrities but with a voice of its own that was both homegrown and a landing spot for the world’s most compelling talent. As that group — which seemed like it would last forever — gradually left the stage, ABT began to look decidedly eastward. While the company had exceptional in-house talent, the marketing emphasis began to rely heavily on guest stars from Russia (and occasionally England), and its identity and point of view as a company becoming less defined. A template emerged: rotating classics with an international guest star in the leading role. And yet, a few dancers who had ascended the ranks acted as scaffolding upholding the prestige of the company. Among them, Murphy stood as a luminous pillar. ABT Company 2003 Photo Michael Thompson. Left to right: Freddie Franklin, Julio Bocca, Amanda McKerrow, Maxim Beloserkovsky, Ethan Stiefel, Paloma Herrera, Ashley Tuttle, Julie Kent, Gillian Murphy, Angel Corella, Alessandra Ferri, Jose Manuel Carreño, Marcelo Gomes, Irina Dvorovenko, Kevin McKenzieMeanwhile, ballet was undergoing a global athletic transformation in a post-Sylvie Guillem world. Guillem — the French phenomenon — was instrumental in radically reshaping what we expect from a classical dancer. Extreme extensions (the height of the leg), multiple turns and hang time in the air became the standard rather than the exception. We’d seen exciting technique before, but never at this level — and never so widespread. We were drunk on our newfound standards, which had heretofore been accessible only to a select few. The rise of cross-training, Gyrotonics, pilates and a deeper, more holistic understanding of how to support technique opened the door for this potential to be reached collectively, rather than relying solely on the blessing of the fairies of inherent ability. There were other dancers who helped show us what was physically possible: Baryshnikov, with his multiple turns and gravity-humiliating jumps; Ferri, with arches shaped like coat hooks and a delicacy so extreme it became its own kind of strength; and Murphy, with the turning and jumping prowess once seen mostly on male dancers — matched by her translucent beauty, a supreme Titian femininity. If Botticelli’s Venus had stepped out of the clam, she would have been called Gillian Murphy. Swan Lake Rehearsal: Gillian Murphy & Michael de la Nuez. Photo by Britt StiglerThen came the digital age. Suddenly, the ballet studio — once a protected, sacred space — was transformed. The drive to go viral seeped into even the most private corners of rehearsal and class. Barre work, makeup application, quick changes and formerly closed rehearsals became fair game. At the same time, ballet technique had reached such extreme levels that further development threatened to disrupt classical lines or obliterate musicality altogether (which, it must be said, occasionally happens). And yet, the internet also flung open doors. Thousands could now access an art form long-considered elitist or out of reach. Live performance is inherently exclusive — barred by money, geography and time — but digital platforms offered a way in. Some dancers have managed to walk the tightrope — preserving depth and nuance while welcoming audiences into their world — Murphy first among them. Thousands of her fans see performance and behind-the-scenes clips, yet we never for a moment lose the feeling that we’re accompanying a serious artist — a dance titan. It’s her world, and we are graciously invited in. As Murphy prepares for her final performance as Odette/Odile, we are left in a ballet world wholly different from the one she first entered in 1996. Her career stands as an archive of the art form itself. She upheld the traditions of classical ballet while guiding it into the 21st century, adapting without compromising. In this way, she became a living bridge — linking ballet’s past, present and future. She didn’t just survive the shifting tides of taste, technology and leadership; in the tradition of the great ballerinas of old, she helped steer the ship — a disciplined and elegant example of artistic depth, breadth and virtuosity. Stream the interview “Gillian Murphy: Departure Diary” on the ALL ARTS site.Gillian Murphy being interviewed by Cynthia Dragoni and filmed by Daniel Yadin (Walkie Talkie NYC) at ABT Studios. Photo by Britt StiglerStay tuned, the next podcast is an interview with another great ballerina: Yuan Yuan Tan.If you’re in New York I HIGHLY recommend seeing her new production of Lady White Snake at Lincoln Center on July 26th and 27th.Below is a photo from the performance:UPDATE: This newsletter will start to be a lot more consistent starting this month. It will include:-A weekly podcast, some short like today’s & some longer interviews. -Reviews-A monthly deep dive into a particular dance work and/or artist-Show recommendations-COMING SOON: Live talks and interviews that will be for subscribers only. More on that later, it’s going to be loads of fun. ***If there’s something specific that you’d like to see you can always respond to this email and let me know, I read everything.Warmest,Cynthia Another gorgeous scene from Yuan Yuan Tan & Shanghai Grand Theater’s Lady White Snake. Get full access to The Dance Lens with Cynthia Dragoni at thedancelens.substack.com/subscribe

In This Edition:-Podcast of A Review of Paris Opera’s Sleeping Beauty-The Text of the Review in English-Where to Watch 6 Different Versions of Sleeping Beauty-The Review in French/La critique en françaisRevolution and Reverie: Paris Opera Ballet’s Sleeping Beauty at the BastilleTHE CONTEXTSeeing the Paris Opera Ballet in The Sleeping Beauty, or La Belle au Bois Dormant, is to look down history’s kaleidoscopic tunnel. A deluge of rotating tutus, rising monarchies, falling empires, exiled artists, fairy tales, and waves of Russian, French, and Soviet history are embedded in the costumes of fairies, pages, and princesses. At the same time, it’s a conversation in contradictions. This most opulent and classical of ballets, based on a fairy tale written in 1697 by Charles Perrault as an homage to the French monarchy, is performed not in the traditional 150-year-old Palais Garnier theater, but in the modern, cold, cool, and stark Bastille—a theater inaugurated in commemoration of the bicentennial of the French Revolution. Here we have a ballet revering the ideals of an antiquated state, in a theater built to commend and commemorate the revolution.The story was originally adopted by the imperial Russian court during a surge in nationalism following the 1881 assassination of Tsar Alexander II, the last reform-minded czar. The state was bracing against revolution, holding tighter to myths of divine monarchy (will we ever learn?). Layered onto that is the later history of revolution—and Rudolf Nureyev’s defection and subsequent exile.The original choreography is by the prolific Marius Petipa, and while the overall structure and iconic scenes remain—like the Rose Adagio and the fairy variations in the prologue—the version POB performs is by Nureyev, who served as Artistic Director from 1983 to 1989. During his tenure, he staged his own versions of many classics, commissioned major contemporary works like William Forsythe’s In the Middle, Somewhat Elevated (1987), and famously promoted Sylvie Guillem to Étoile at the age of 19 in 1984, unorthodoxly leapfrogging her over several ranks.Nureyev was a beloved star in the Soviet Union. He defected in June 1961 while on tour in Paris, landing in a life of both freedom and near permanent estrangement. His dramatic escape humiliated the Soviet state, a stain on their propaganda project—if Soviet society was so superior, why were its greatest artists fleeing? His family was harassed and his father’s military career was reportedly destroyed. While countless serfs had suffered under the czars, many—including Nureyev—also suffered under the Soviet regime and carried with them a complex nostalgia for the era that preceded it. That longing is felt in Nureyev’s Sleeping Beauty—a staging that honors the fairy tale’s monarchical origins, perhaps also mourning a vanished imperial Russia.Before we get into the review a huge thank you to this episode’s sponsor Marquee TV, my absolute number 1 favorite streaming platform. They have hundreds of classical and contemporary dance titles, including 6 different versions of the sleeping beauty! Among them Royal Ballet, Australian Ballet, David Hallberg at the Bolshoi and Matthew Bourne’s. Subscribe HEREThe REVIEWThe Prelude: A Cursed BlessingThe prelude is the most famous part of Sleeping Beauty—the moment when fairies gather to bestow gifts upon the newborn Princess Aurora: grace, beauty, courage, song—all the things a princess needs to function as an aspirational member of society. It’s also where the point of tension is introduced and Carabosse, the malevolent fairy left off the invitation list, crashes the celebration and curses Aurora to die at sixteen, just as she would be preparing to enter society. Carabosse is often played with more than a touch of theatrical humor—a serious threat, certainly, but sometimes camp or caricature, depending on the company and the dancer. At Paris Opera Ballet, her menace is quieter, more elegant. Fanny Gorse plays her as an understated danger, like a well-heeled politician whose destructive power lies beneath a façade of stately refinement. There’s some irony, as there always is in this role, but Gorse gives us a Carabosse who could have been just like the other fairies—had life unfolded differently. Instead, her powers are putrefied in malice.Technical Purity, Parisian ControlTechnically speaking, Sleeping Beauty is considered the purest of the classical ballets. The choreography is crystalline—there’s nowhere to hide. Unlike Swan Lake, where dramatic flair can mask a slip in form (or a slip in form can enhance the dramatic), Beauty demands absolute clarity, making it the perfect showcase for a ballet company’s stylistic identity and technical level. Paris Opera Ballet’s contained elegance can sometimes mute the dancers’ full virtuosity. In Beauty, this quality becomes an asset. But occasionally, dancers burst through their refinement. In this performance, two stood out. Laudeline Schor—a Quadrille, the company’s lowest rank—shone in the third fairy variation. (Paris Opera simply numbers the variations in its program, rather than listing the symbolic gifts.) Schor’s presence extended far beyond her rank. Her grasp of the layered musical and choreographic texture was complete, filling the theater with a quiet authority that suggests she’s destined to rise.Another standout was Hohyun Kang, a Première Danseuse (the rank just below Étoile), who performed the sixth variation—typically the Lilac Fairy’s solo. Kang is part of a stellar wave of Korean dancers flooding the ballet world. Paris Opera, once known for its insularity, is becoming more international. Kang, a radiant and technically refined artist, is a clear example of that shift—her rise has been swift and well-earned.The Lilac Fairy and the Royal ArchetypeThe Lilac Fairy is the guiding thread of the ballet, and in this version she is presented less as a mythical being and more as a dignified woman of royal power. She wears heels and a gown, not a tutu—honored not as fantasy but as a commanding regal figure. Lucie Fenwick, also a Quadrille, brings charm and poise to the role. Yet between the regency costume and the narrative constraints, the role reads more as a character archetype than a fully expressive part.Act I: Politics and PirouettesAct I begins with a little prelude of its own. The King, determined to avoid his daughter’s doomed fate, issues a kingdom-wide ban on spindles. In an act of enforcement, peasants caught with spindle needles are threatened with death—heads and hands locked into contraptions, awaiting execution—until the Queen mercifully intervenes. A funny thing to ponder when sitting in the theater that was built to celebrate the 200th anniversary of the French Revolution.Then the moment everyone waits for: the entrance of Princess Aurora. It’s her sixteenth birthday, the moment of her societal debut—and also the moment she becomes a pawn in dynastic matchmaking. Étoile Valentina Colasante is a powerful and gracious Aurora. Her innocence is seasoned, suited to a ballerina of her stature. She gives us not the sprightly debutante, but the woman Aurora will become—at 25, at 35. Her naiveté has been absorbed in time, and we love her for it. This complexity adds richness to the famed Rose Adagio, where four princes each offer her a rose as she performs one of ballet’s most demanding sequences: extended balances in attitude (leg lifted in the back, bent at a 90-degree angle) while changing partners mid-pose. Colasante’s version is Aurora post-coronation.Carabosse reappears to fulfill her prophecy. Disguised—barely—in the same costume with only a billowing cape, she lures the unsuspecting Aurora into pricking her finger. It’s hard to imagine the princess falling for the ruse, but it works and the plot moves forward.The Dream Scene: Ballet as ImpressionismWhat follows is one of ballet’s more visually arresting sequences: the dream scene. Paris Opera’s staging is narcotically beautiful—if Monet’s waterlilies became a ballet, this would be it. Prince Désiré, danced by the delicate and exacting Premier Danseur Thomas Docquir, is first seen on a royal hunt, distracted by flirtation with a radiant countess—a glimpse at paths not taken. The Lilac Fairy appears, leading him to a vision of Aurora, his ideal woman. Here, the corps de ballet proves its power. It’s very easy to think of ballet as an art form represented by its stars and soloists, but it’s often the corps de ballet that has the most powerful effect—and this is one of those moments. When the cosmic geometry of the group washes over our eyes in a visual and musical poem—that, unlike most of the ballet, is a section that could stand on its own outside of any narrative context.Act III: A Tableau, A Breath HeldAnd yet, the most breathtaking scene in the ballet—at least in this particular version, for you won’t see it in quite the same way elsewhere—comes at the start of Act III: the wedding act. A princess kissed, a curse broken, a prophecy fulfilled, we—the audience and the characters—are ready for a party. The curtain lifts, and a simple and yet surprising tableau of the royal court in suspended motion evokes an audible gasp from the entire audience. Many of the dancers have their backs to the house. It’s a moment of such subtle and completely unassuming visual beauty—one that serves neither story nor character—a distilled impression of the royal spirit. In this single gesture, we feel unequivocally Nureyev’s reverence for this ballet, for the comportment and order that the theater demands, the nostalgia for a royal Russia. And with our lost breath, we agree with him.Bluebird and Other TalesThe Bluebird pas de deux, one of ballet’s most iconic interludes, is a coveted opportunity for rising and established dancers. It’s familiar to most ballet-goers, adding to the pressure: audiences know how it should look. Théo Gilbert, Coryphée, delivered a convincing Bluebird, while Elizabeth Partington, Sujet, danced Princess Florine with a bright, spirited movement quality and clean lines. She constantly threatened to get behind the music, which was somewhat nerve-racking but also added to the excitement—until she actually did get behind the music with one too many revolutions in a pirouette. A lament you’ll hear about this generation of dancers is that their technique is so phenomenal (it is) that artistic and musical nuances are often sacrificed to their athletic prowess—a complaint I usually find exaggerated, but not in this instance.Paris Opera’s Puss in Boots and White Cat pas de deux is pleasant, but the cat costumes are hard to see, so without prior knowledge, one might wonder about the feline characterizations. And Little Red Riding Hood—an audience favorite—is absent altogether.Final ThoughtsWhatever one may think of any specific dancer or interpretation, or preference for one or another production, The Sleeping Beauty is for many reasons a pivotal work in the art form’s evolution, and can be absorbed and enjoyed as both an exercise in archival research and a wonderland for the eyes and ears. Especially on a company like the Paris Opera, whose history and hierarchies are housed in the bodies of its dancers.Sleeping Beauty runs through July 14th at the Opéra Bastille.And if you can’t make it to a live show, or if you want to compare versions, subscribe to the arts ONLY streaming platform Marquee TV in my bio or show notes.Thanks for listening, I’m Cynthia Dragoni, The Dance Lens.LA CRITIQUE EN FRANÇAISRévolution et Rêverie : La Belle au Bois Dormant de l’Opéra de Paris à la BastilleCONTEXTEVoir La Belle au Bois Dormant à l’Opéra national de Paris, c’est plonger dans un kaléidoscope historique. Un déluge de tutus tournoyants, de monarchies montantes, d’empires déchus, d’artistes en exil, de contes de fées, et de vagues successives de l’histoire russe, française et soviétique, se déploie dans les costumes de fées, de pages et de princesses. Et pourtant, c’est aussi un dialogue entre contradictions. Ce ballet parmi les plus opulents et classiques, basé sur un conte écrit en 1697 par Charles Perrault en hommage à la monarchie française, n’est pas donné dans le traditionnel Palais Garnier, vieux de 150 ans, mais dans la moderne, froide et austère Bastille—un théâtre inauguré en 1989 pour célébrer le bicentenaire de la Révolution française. Voilà un ballet qui vénère les idéaux d’un État ancien, donné dans un théâtre bâti pour commémorer sa chute.L’histoire fut adoptée à l’origine par la cour impériale russe, en plein regain de nationalisme après l’assassinat du tsar Alexandre II en 1881, dernier tsar réformiste. L’État tentait de résister à la révolution en se raccrochant à des mythes de monarchie divine (n’apprendrons-nous donc jamais ?). Par-dessus tout cela se superpose l’histoire ultérieure des révolutions—et la défection de Rudolf Noureev, suivie de son exil.La chorégraphie originale est signée Marius Petipa, mais si la structure globale et certaines scènes iconiques comme la Rose Adagio et les variations des fées dans le prologue sont conservées, c’est la version de Noureev que l’Opéra de Paris donne—lui qui fut directeur de la danse de 1983 à 1989. Pendant son mandat, il a remonté ses propres versions de plusieurs classiques, commandé des œuvres contemporaines majeures comme In the Middle, Somewhat Elevated de William Forsythe (1987), et promu de manière spectaculaire Sylvie Guillem au rang d’Étoile en 1984, à seulement 19 ans, bousculant les hiérarchies.Noureev était une star adorée en URSS. Il fit défection à Paris en juin 1961, pendant une tournée, et entra dans une vie à la fois libre et marquée par un exil quasi permanent. Cette évasion spectaculaire humilia l’État soviétique, mettant à mal sa propagande—si la société soviétique était si supérieure, pourquoi ses meilleurs artistes fuyaient-ils ? Sa famille fut harcelée, et la carrière militaire de son père aurait été ruinée. Si d’innombrables serfs souffrirent sous les tsars, beaucoup—dont Noureev—endurèrent aussi les brutalités du régime soviétique, et gardèrent une nostalgie complexe pour l’époque impériale. Cette nostalgie imprègne sa version de La Belle au Bois Dormant—une mise en scène qui honore les origines monarchiques du conte, et pleure peut-être une Russie impériale disparue.Avant de passer à la critique, un immense merci à notre sponsor de l’épisode, Marquee TV, ma plateforme de streaming préférée. Elle propose des centaines de titres de danse classique et contemporaine, dont six versions différentes de La Belle au Bois Dormant ! Parmi elles, celles du Royal Ballet, de l’Australian Ballet, avec David Hallberg au Bolchoï et celle de Matthew Bourne. Abonnez-vous via le lien dans ma bio ou dans les notes de l’épisode.LA CRITIQUELe Prologue : Une bénédiction mauditeLe prologue est le passage le plus célèbre du ballet : les fées se rassemblent pour offrir à la jeune princesse Aurore des dons tels que la grâce, la beauté, le courage, le chant—tout ce qu’une princesse doit incarner pour devenir un modèle social. C’est aussi le moment où surgit le conflit : Carabosse, la fée maléfique oubliée sur la liste des invités, interrompt la célébration pour maudire Aurore, qui mourra à seize ans, juste avant son entrée dans la société. Carabosse est souvent interprétée avec une touche d’humour théâtral—une menace sérieuse certes, mais parfois camp ou caricaturale selon la compagnie. À l’Opéra de Paris, sa dangerosité est plus subtile, plus élégante. Fanny Gorse la campe comme une menace feutrée, une politicienne bien mise dont le pouvoir destructeur se cache sous un vernis de raffinement. Il y a toujours une ironie dans ce rôle, mais ici Gorse nous offre une Carabosse qui aurait pu être une fée comme les autres—si la vie en avait décidé autrement. Ses pouvoirs, hélas, sont devenus des armes de malveillance.Pureté technique, retenue parisienneLa Belle au Bois Dormant est souvent considérée comme le plus pur des ballets classiques. Sa chorégraphie est cristalline—aucun faux pas ne peut se dissimuler. Contrairement à Le Lac des cygnes, où l’émotion dramatique peut camoufler une imperfection (ou l’inverse), ici, tout repose sur la clarté. C’est donc un test parfait pour mesurer le style et le niveau technique d’une compagnie. L’élégance contenue du Ballet de l’Opéra peut parfois brider la virtuosité des danseurs. Mais dans La Belle, cette retenue devient une force. Et parfois, certaines figures émergent malgré ce cadre. Lors de cette représentation, deux interprètes se sont distinguées. Laudeline Schor—Quadrille, le rang le plus bas—brilla dans la troisième variation des fées (à l’Opéra, les variations sont numérotées plutôt que nommées). Sa présence transcendait son grade. Sa maîtrise musicale et chorégraphique emplissait le théâtre d’une autorité silencieuse annonciatrice d’un avenir prometteur.Autre révélation : Hohyun Kang, Première Danseuse (juste en dessous du rang d’Étoile), qui dansa la sixième variation—habituellement celle de la Fée des Lilas. Kang fait partie de la brillante vague de danseurs coréens qui s’imposent sur les scènes internationales. L’Opéra, jadis réputé pour son insularité, devient de plus en plus cosmopolite. Kang, artiste radieuse et raffinée, incarne cette évolution avec éclat.La Fée des Lilas, une figure royaleFil rouge du ballet, la Fée des Lilas est ici dépeinte non comme une entité féerique, mais comme une femme de pouvoir royal. Elle porte talons et robe longue, loin du tutu—elle n’est plus un mythe, mais une souveraine. Lucie Fenwick, Quadrille également, apporte grâce et retenue à ce rôle, bien que le costume et les limites du personnage en fassent plus une figure symbolique qu’un rôle expressif à part entière.Acte I : Politique et pirouettesL’Acte I commence par un préambule où le roi, soucieux d’éviter le destin annoncé, interdit les fuseaux dans tout le royaume. Des paysans pris en faute risquent la peine capitale—les mains et la tête emprisonnées dans des dispositifs de torture—jusqu’à ce que la reine intervienne. Un clin d’œil ironique, lorsqu’on se trouve dans un théâtre érigé pour commémorer la Révolution française...Arrive alors l’entrée tant attendue de la princesse Aurore. C’est son seizième anniversaire, son entrée dans le monde, mais aussi son rôle dans les jeux d’alliances politiques. L’Étoile Valentina Colasante incarne une Aurore puissante et gracieuse. Son innocence est nuancée, adaptée au rang d’une danseuse de sa stature. Elle n’est plus la jeune fille naïve, mais la femme qu’Aurore deviendra—à 25, à 35 ans. Sa naïveté s’est fondue dans l’expérience. Cela enrichit la fameuse Rose Adagio, où elle équilibre en attitude pendant que quatre princes se relaient pour l’assister. Colasante incarne une Aurore déjà couronnée.Carabosse revient pour accomplir sa prophétie. À peine déguisée, elle parvient à faire se piquer Aurore. L’intrigue peut avancer.La scène du rêve : le ballet en mode impressionnisteSuit l’une des scènes les plus visuellement envoûtantes du ballet : le rêve. La mise en scène de l’Opéra est hypnotique—si les nénuphars de Monet devenaient ballet, ce serait celui-ci. Le Prince Désiré, interprété par le délicat et précis Premier Danseur Thomas Docquir, apparaît d’abord en chasse, distrait par une comtesse radieuse. La Fée des Lilas l’oriente ensuite vers une vision d’Aurore. Et ici, c’est le corps de ballet qui frappe le plus fort. C’est souvent le cas—ce ne sont pas les solistes mais la géométrie collective du groupe qui nous émeut. Un poème visuel et musical qui pourrait exister en dehors du récit.Acte III : Tableau suspenduMais c’est l’ouverture de l’Acte III qui offre le moment le plus saisissant. Un baiser, une malédiction rompue, une prophétie accomplie : tout le monde est prêt pour la fête. Le rideau se lève sur un tableau figé de la cour royale, et un souffle parcourt la salle. Beaucoup de danseurs nous tournent le dos. Une image de pure beauté, sans fonction narrative—une impression distillée de l’esprit royal. Dans ce seul geste, on ressent l’amour de Noureev pour ce ballet, pour la tenue, l’ordre, la nostalgie d’une Russie impériale. Et on l’approuve, sans un mot.L’oiseau bleu et les contes félinsLe pas de deux de l’Oiseau bleu est une épreuve de feu. Théo Gilbert, Coryphée, est convaincant, tandis qu’Elizabeth Partington, Sujet, interprète la Princesse Florine avec éclat. Mais elle menace souvent de dépasser la musique—ce qui ajoute de la tension—jusqu’à finir en retard après un tour de trop. On critique parfois cette génération de danseurs pour sacrifier la nuance artistique à la performance athlétique—critique que je juge exagérée, sauf ici.Le duo du Chat botté et de la Chatte blanche est agréable, mais quelque peu terne sans les masques félins. Et Le Petit Chaperon rouge, habituellement adoré du public, est absent.ConclusionQuelle que soit l’interprétation ou le danseur, La Belle au Bois Dormant reste une œuvre pivot dans l’histoire du ballet. Elle se savoure comme un objet d’archive, une merveille pour les sens. Surtout lorsqu’elle est dansée par une compagnie comme l’Opéra de Paris, dont l’histoire vit dans les corps mêmes de ses artistes.La Belle au Bois Dormant est à l’affiche jusqu’au 14 juillet à l’Opéra Bastille.Et si vous ne pouvez pas la voir en direct, ou si vous souhaitez comparer les versions, abonnez-vous à Marquee TV via le lien dans ma bio ou dans les notes de l’épisode.Merci de votre écoute,Je suis Cynthia Dragoni, The Dance Lens. Get full access to The Dance Lens with Cynthia Dragoni at thedancelens.substack.com/subscribe

In this edition:-A Review: Olga Smirnova in Giselle with American Ballet Theater. -Where Watch NowOlga Smirnova in Dutch National’s Giselle Photo: Alex GouliaevThe Review:American culture is a casual one, in its language, in its sartorial expression, in its treatment of the arts and artists. But when a ballerina like Olga Smirnova is in the house—a dancer that descends from a culture that for centuries has revered and invested in dance as both a high art and a practice worthy of being put even in prosaic public education—the entire theater on and off the stage is elevated.Smirnova is one of the moment’s biggest international stars. Formerly a Bolshoi Prima, she’s currently a Principal with Dutch National—one of the world’s most forward-thinking companies, who also famously hired Micaela Mabinty DePrince when ABT wouldn’t take her; and Ahmad Judeh, the boy born in a Palestinian refugee camp who honed his own talent in the desert, off of YouTube. She joined the company after very publicly denouncing the war in Ukraine, leaving her position and her country in protest.A choice she’s been frequently lauded for, while many others have been criticized for not doing the same. As if it isn’t an impossible sacrifice—Smirnova herself has spoken of the difficulties, the culture shock, and the losses she’s suffered in the transition.She trained with one of the most respected teachers in ballet’s history, Lyudmila Kovaleva. Also the lifelong teacher and mentor to another ballet mega star Diana Vishneva—among others.Like Vishneva, Smirnova possesses the encompassing Russian back. A back that does not end at the torso, for it is really a spine, an energetic center from which every movement initiates and even once appears finished—the pose arrived at, the angle complete—another extension continues like the tail of a comet.Lyudmilya Kovaleva, Diana Vishneva, Olga Smirnova, Kristina Shapran, Anastasiya Lukina Photo: Mark OlichGiselle’s DualityThe ballet Giselle, while not as obviously as Swan Lake, is in a way also a dual role. The ballerina must evolve the character from the first act’s innocent and delighted village girl, to madness—of one whose complete trust in love and the goodness of life has been suddenly lost and a schism created in the mind. To the second act’s mature and unearthly saint, a being whose love transcends human trespasses and betrayals.Smirnova’s first act is less believable than her second. In most of the first act she’s sweet enough and the excellence of her pedigree highlights the holes in American ballet training. But you don’t quite lose the feeling that you’re watching a great ballerina pretend to be a naive village girl—we begin to be rewarded for our patience in the mad scene.Smirnova lets her loss of mind be a layered and introverted affair, we are forced to lean forward and listen for her movements—made to feel as if we are eavesdropping on a woman coming undone alone in her cell, and not a performer demanding that we witness her plight.The second act is the true ballerina role, both the choreography and the character are filled with the grandeur and the humility of an ethereal being who is powerful enough to protect life from demonic underworld creatures, yet delicate enough to exist in the air, gross matter is made immaterial.Through her unbound steps, her arabesques that extend both inward and outward, she takes us into Giselle’s magnanimous transformation. Smirnova disappears and the archetype of a goddess, ghost, saint swallows the theater.Olga Smirnova as Giselle. Photo: Ashley TaylorLeading Men and Haunted LoversThe dashingly handsome Daniel Camargo played opposite her as the irresponsible and deceitful Loys/Albrecht. A nobleman cosplaying as a villager, Albrecht wins Giselle’s heart and depending on who is dancing, either has genuine feelings for her but is trapped by his social status, or, is a feckless cad forced to face himself when his casual flirtation causes another’s death.Camargo is an accomplished Principal, whose Albrecht portrayal is coolly privileged, as we imagine an eligible 19th-century bachelor would be. He gave us moments of introspection throughout but it wasn’t until the end that we fully felt his remorse—but feel it we did, in the last few moments before the curtain’s fall, when he is left alone on the stage, to live with the irreconcilable consequences of his deceit.A Superb Hilarion & the Queen—of the WilisHilarion, ballet’s answer to “nice guys finish last,” also loves Giselle and is a true and honest soul who sniffs Albrecht’s trickery and tries to warn her. Mirroring the unfairness in life, it’s Hilarion, rather than the two-timing Albrecht, who is danced to death by the Wilis.As we experience the ballet through Giselle’s eyes, Hilarion is often an unlikeable character—an unglamorous suitor sent to rain on our parade, but last night was a different story. Played by the corps de ballet member Joseph Markey, his rugged appeal in both stage presence and technique filled the stage.His Hilarion was honest, fiery and convincing. His onstage chemistry with Smirnova was felt, his entrance caused a silence in the audience. I was surprised to check the program and see that he’s still in the corps.Myrtha, Queen of the Wilis, was played by Principal Dancer Chloe Misseldine. Wilis are the spirits of betrayed women who died before their wedding day. They rise each night to dance men—foolish enough to walk through the forest at night—to their death.Misseldine is a gifted beauty, with a face that is seen in the rafters and a loyalty to the drama in her character. She is early in her career and like all young artists, still growing into who she is meant to be.If we look at a young Vishneva, Yuan Yuan Tan, Lopatkina even, they were also young principals, but their early career versions are incomparable to their fully actualized selves. Often times a young dancer’s technique outpaces their artistry and it is the latter that takes time to catch up to the former.With Misseldine however, we see her ballerina’s charisma and dramatic depth right away. Her Myrtha was not played as a one-dimensional she-zombie, but we felt her as a woman whose vulnerability was calloused over by the scars of betrayal. Her glint of innocence peeking through, but there was no question what choices her hardened soul would make—a nuance that we would normally only see in the most seasoned artists.Seeing her next to Smirnova, a ballerina solidly in her prime, it’s clear what we have to look forward to.Chloe Misseldine at Curtain Call as MyrthaThe Peasant Pas and Corps de StandoutsJake Roxander was playfully thrilling in the Peasant Pas de Deux. Today spectacular technique is par for the course, but Roxander makes it feel like a surprise, perhaps even to himself.His every entrance is fresh—charmingly aggressive. He approaches his jumps with the glee of a teenager hurling themselves into the lake and it’s infectious—one hopes to get to see him more and in major roles.Noticeable again from the corps de ballet was the bubbling Elizabeth Beyer in the first act, and a haunting Sierra Armstrong as Zulma, a solo Wili in the second act. Armstrong made the audience breathe with her; she extended her movements á la Smirnova—her arms and arabesques (when the leg is lifted in the back) hung in the air like the trail of a musical note—not an easy thing to do when pinned to the confines of matching the other dancers onstage.Giselle in the Human ConditionGiselle is one of ballet’s oldest classics. A Romantic-era ballet (although most versions we see today are based off classical-era choreographer Marius Petipa’s staging), it is replete with truly antiquated nobles, hunting parties, and a few too many peasant dances that don’t move the narrative forward.But its second act is a pearl in the classical canon. A masterpiece whose choreography—unlike some of the classics—remains largely true to the original, and you can see why the centuries would leave it untouched.We enter the beauty of its patterning through the archetype of redemption and forgiveness. We have all been Giselle: felt a love that doesn’t recognize the line between the lover and the loved; Hilarion: illogically rejected by our heart’s desire; Myrtha: understandably vengeful; and Albrecht: carelessly duplicitous.It’s these universal themes in the human experience that will keep this ballet relevant through the next 200 years.Marianela Nuñez as Giselle Courtesy of Marquee TVWhere to watch? A huge problem with ballet is that oftentimes it’s impossible to see a show and logistically and financially prohibitive to see many of the world’s greatest dancers. Even if you live in a major city, most dancers aren’t flying around the world performing all the time. For the most part in order to see a Royal Ballet star you have to go to London, or a NYC Ballet star to NY etc. Insult to injury, very few ballet companies offer meaningful digital access. Enter my favorite streaming platform MARQUEE TV. The have the best classical and contemporary dance library, I use them for myself and my students. In keeping with this edition’s theme, they have Royal Ballet’s Giselle with Marianela Nuñez AND Akram Khan’s Giselle on English National Ballet with Tamara Rojo who originated the role. Subscribe here and if you find a favorite dancer or ballet, or have any questions about anything send me a line! I read everything! Get full access to The Dance Lens with Cynthia Dragoni at thedancelens.substack.com/subscribe

The clangs in the march of time in the ballet world have gone from a few distinct notes to a cacophony of endings, beginnings and shifts in philosophies.In this edition:-Gonzalo Garcia’s new role at Miami City Ballet-Misty Copeland’s retirement and legacy —Ashton Triple on Marquee TV—Ballet of the week: Ashton’s A Month In The CountryGonzalo Garcia, former NYC Ballet Principal will become Miami City Ballet’s new artistic director.Gonzalo Garcia, Miami City Ballet’s New Artistic DirectorMiami City Ballet, founded in the 1980s by NYC Ballet superstar Edward Villella, was part of the Balanchine-inspired ballet boom in the U.S. Balanchine developed a distinct movement style and aesthetic at NYC Ballet—shaped by his imperial training, his partnership with Stravinsky, and his encounters with New York’s artistic ferment, including jazz music and modern dance (notably Katherine Dunham). His students and dancers carried those seeds across the country, shaping schools and companies in his image.Edward Villella, 1960, in the title role of “The Prodigal Son”, by the choreographer George Balanchine.Now, Gonzalo Garcia will become MCB’s third artistic director, following the sudden departure of Lourdes Lopez two years before her contract expired.Garcia has expressed a desire to build a stronger bridge between NYC Ballet and Miami, though what that means remains to be seen. In many ways, the connection already exists: a large percentage of MCB’s dancers come from SAB, NYC Ballet’s official school, and the repertory is closely aligned. Garcia has also said he wants to bring in works by Forsythe and Mark Morris, and to develop new choreographic voices.That last part is urgent. American ballet companies often recycle a familiar loop of “new” work—Peck, Tharp, Ratmansky, Forsythe—alongside the ever-present Swan Lake, Nutcracker, and Romeo and Juliet. A deeper pipeline is needed. But with arts funding in sharp decline, risk-taking is harder than ever.Maybe Gonzalo Garcia will be one of the few to take that risk—to discover, fund, and elevate the next generation of dance-makers.Misty Copeland Announces Her Retirement: Continuing a Legacy Beyond the StageMisty Copeland has announced her official retirement, which will be performed and feted in the fall. Copeland has not been onstage in the traditional sense for five years, but she has continued her work through various projects and is frequently in the media.Dancers have different legacies. Copeland’s—in addition to being the first Black female Principal Dancer at American Ballet Theatre, and all that that represents—will lie in her celebrity itself. The very fact that she is so well known has introduced countless young dancers—across all races—to the art form.There existed (and perhaps still exists) an older school of thought in the dance world that believed the dance artist should be humble—a renunciate devoted to their craft, letting others sing their praises and tell their stories. But it is through the reach of media—film, photographs, recorded performances, interviews, whether through their own channels or someone else’s—that many dancers are imprinted into the history books (literally and proverbially), and it is the way they continue to inspire the next generations.For example: ABT’s recording of Swan Lake with Gillian Murphy and Ángel Corella moved the hearts of millions; PBS’s airing of Gelsey Kirkland and Mikhail Baryshnikov in The Nutcracker sparked many a career. Yuan Yuan Tan—the great San Francisco principal—decided to become a dancer almost 50 years ago after seeing a rare recording of legendary prima Galina Ulanova.Misty Copeland’s use of her name and her historic rise through the ranks to keep herself and the art form in the media—to write books, to create programs—will be a light that continues long into the future.Ballet Of The Week! Ashton’s A Month In The CountryFrederick Ashton’s A Month in the Country is a delicate, aching portrait of repressed desire and fleeting joy. Based on Ivan Turgenev’s play—originally banned for its frank portrayal of emotional longing—the ballet unfolds in a single summer afternoon, capturing the quiet turbulence beneath a refined 19th-century Russian household. Set to the music of Chopin (arranged by John Lanchbery), Ashton’s choreography is lyrical, nuanced, and steeped in melancholy.Superstars Marianela Nuñez and Matthew Ball play the leads in this fab Royal Ballet production.Join me for the watch party available HERE on Marquee TV: https://marquee.tv/subscribe?promoCode=dancelens50&plan=web-annual&utm source=the+dance+lens&utmmedium=email&utm_campaign=50+discount+ju ne Get full access to The Dance Lens with Cynthia Dragoni at thedancelens.substack.com/subscribe

We’re back to regularly scheduled programming. Thanks for bearing with us during a brief hiatus while we switched coasts! In this episode, we explore how dance became a powerful tool of resistance, expression, and cultural identity during times of political upheaval. From Arthur Mitchell breaking barriers in classical ballet and founding Dance Theatre of Harlem, to Alvin Ailey’s deeply spiritual modern works like Revelations, Black dancers turned movement into activism during the Civil Rights era. We also look beyond the U.S., tracing the evolution of tango in Argentina—from its rebellious roots to its suppression under military dictatorships and eventual revival. Featuring the stories of icons like Judith Jamison, Alicia Graf Mack, and Carmencita Calderón, this episode reveals how dance doesn’t just reflect history—it helps shape it. Look out for upcoming interviews with Gillian Murphy and Yuan Yuan Tan on The Dance Lens Substack! Get full access to The Dance Lens with Cynthia Dragoni at thedancelens.substack.com/subscribe

By Cynthia DragoniWhat do Catherine de Medici, Louis XIV, Stalin, and Fidel Castro have in common? They all used ballet as a tool of power.In this episode, we trace the surprising political history of ballet—from Renaissance courts to Cold War propaganda. You’ll hear how dance shaped national identities in France, Russia, Cuba, and the U.S., and how kings, tsars, and revolutionaries all turned to ballet to project order, control, and cultural dominance.After you’ve had a chance to listen, was any of this a surprise? Let me know in the comments.Castro and the Bolshoi Ballet (Maya Plisetskaya on his right). Stay tuned, next week we’re going to jump into the class disparities that gave birth to the tango and dance in the Civil Rights Movement. Get full access to The Dance Lens with Cynthia Dragoni at thedancelens.substack.com/subscribe

From the streets of Harlem to the stages of ballet, Dandyism and jazz have fundamentally altered the way we experience beauty, dance, and sartorial self-expression in the United States; with the upcoming opening of the Met Costume Institute’s “Superfine: Tailoring Black Style”, the history, role, and gorgeous looks of Black Dandyism are having a moment.The Dinner Party. Tyler Mitchell (@tylersphotos) was commissioned by the Metropolitan Museum of Art (@metmuseum), New York, to document the Costume Institute’s exhibition “Superfine: Tailoring Black Style” for the accompanying catalogue.A moment that was none too prescient—right as government policies erase the histories of the Black and Brown, and the Kennedy Center, our national cultural center, gets rid of its DEI initiatives, one of the (other) foremost cultural institutions: The Metropolitan Museum of Art, lifts the histories, the glamour, and the contributions of Black fashion and identity.Exhibitions of Superfine’s scale are planned years in advance and I doubt the curators had any idea just HOW relevant and filled with compound resistance the timing of this opening would be.Fashion and ballet fall solidly into the camps of extremely elitist Eurocentric worlds and industries—or do they?Elitist, yes. No question.NYC Ballet even stopped selling their upper-tier “more affordable” seats until enough of the lower level (realistically) $100+ sell. A tax-exempt organization not even pretending to make their work available to a wider public—the laurels upon which they rest are thick and strong.But if you look just a little closer (or zoom a little further out—as the deep and narrow often reflects the wide and encompassing), you’ll see that Black culture has had a profound influence on the development of both, particularly the American ballet aesthetic.What is the American ballet aesthetic?You’ll find plenty of Western European and Russian-trained dancers (and certainly choreographies) on our stages, but the look that is uniquely ours is the Balanchine/NYC Ballet style. With its emphasis on speed, forward-thrusting (jazzy) hips, dynamic musicality, syncopation, and use of the off-balance. Many of these influences are directly from jazz music, dance, and Black dance artists. However, it’s worth noting, neo-classical ballet is decidedly without improvisation—a key tenet in jazz music. It’s still ballet after all—an art form rooted in a mix of royal hierarchy and military academies.Gonzalo Garcia & Megan Fairchild in “Rubies” Photo: Erin BaianoThe Origins of Black DandyismWhile the term "dandy" traditionally referred to an elegant and often flamboyant man of fashion, Black Dandyism developed as a means of resistance and self-definition. It had its earliest origins in the slave trade—where young African (usually boys) were dressed in ornate clothing serving as status symbols for their “owners.” Then, in post-emancipation America, it was reclaimed. Black individuals used sharp clothing and appearance to assert agency in a society seeking to minimize their humanity. It was a defiant rejection of the "slave" body, and a deliberate assertion of dignity in a world bent on denying it.Figures like Frederick Douglass and the "dandy" Beau Brummell—whose fashion was imitated in Black communities—helped solidify the idea that dress could be an expression of personal power. During the Harlem Renaissance, this style came into full bloom, with figures like Langston Hughes and Josephine Baker. Fashion became a medium through which Black Americans could negotiate visibility, status, and political resistance.The Roots of Jazz and Its Movement AestheticSimultaneously, another revolutionary cultural form was taking root: jazz. Emerging from the African American communities in New Orleans in the early 20th century, jazz was rooted in the experiences and histories of Black Americans, blending West African rhythms, blues, and European musical traditions. Jazz music’s hallmark is its improvisational nature, where musicians engage in spontaneous creation, interpreting the moment in real time.Jazz wasn’t just a sound, it was an aesthetic that influenced everything from music to fashion to dance. Jazz dance was a natural outgrowth of the music, marked by its grounded, rhythmic quality and freedom of expression. Early jazz dancers like Josephine Baker, and later figures like Katherine Dunham, used the dance floor as a space to inhabit a uniquely American form of movement, free from classical ballet’s constraints. The syncopated rhythms and more open movements of jazz became expressions of Black joy, pain, and resilience, offering a stark contrast to the structured steps of classical ballet.As ballet continued to evolve in the United States during the 20th century, it was impossible to ignore the influence of jazz. Though ballet initially presented an image of Eurocentric refinement, the rise of American modern (modern in the descriptive sense of the word, not as in the Modern style of Graham/Limón etc.) ballet—led by choreographers like George Balanchine and Jerome Robbins—began to incorporate jazz-inflected rhythms and movements. Think Balanchine’s Rubies, Slaughter on 10th Avenue, or Robbins’ Fancy Free. These choreographies signaled a shift in the American ballet aesthetic to one that was uniquely its own—rather than a European import.Even when Black bodies were largely excluded from the ballet stage, the syncopated rhythms and improvisational style of jazz music seeped into choreography.Later artists like the gargantuan Alvin Ailey brought Black dance aesthetics intentionally to the forefront. Ailey’s Revelations, for example, integrated jazz, gospel, and modern dance into a unique style that celebrated Black experiences. His works challenged the notion that dance concerts should be static or removed from the emotional power of Black culture.The Black Dandy Aesthetic TodayThe Black dandy aesthetic, like jazz dance, is not just about individual expression; it’s a language unto itself. The careful lines of a well-tailored suit, the sharp elegance of a top hat, are their own vocabulary.Today, the influence of Black Dandyism and jazz continues to inform fashion and performance, as seen in designers like Kerby Jean-Raymond of Pyer Moss, whose work reflects a deep understanding of Black cultural heritage and its intersection with modern aesthetics. Or think of the work of dancers like Lil Buck, who embody the fluidity between classical ballet, jazz, and the movement traditions passed down from Black culture.The enduring legacy of Black culture is such that even when it is consciously erased or marginalized—it lives—on our stages, in and on our bodies. The upcoming exhibition: “Superfine: Tailoring Black Style” holds this history up in conscious, glamorous light.Cynthia Dragoni April 2025 Get full access to The Dance Lens with Cynthia Dragoni at thedancelens.substack.com/subscribe

In this Volume:-Dance and Fashion Podcast Part 2: Dress The Women Undress the Men- Graham to Mcqueen + Tutus Through Time-Beatrix Potter Ballet WatchPartyThe tutu evolved alongside society and the ballerina’s place on the stage, and this particular piece of ballet attire hold’s the imagination of fashion designer’s across the era- creating a kind of timeless chic in ballet core. Though the intersection of dance and fashion does NOT live only on ballet’s stages, it is also front and center in modern dance. Martha Graham collaborated with Halston, he created work for her dances that were a type of character in the piece. Some costumes even kept their shape onstage once the dancers stepped out of them, literally holding their own. The work they did together also inspired pieces in his collections. Take a look below at Diana Vishneva in Graham’s “Errand In The Maze”:As compared to Model Karen Bjornson at Halston’s New York atelier in a caftan from his spring 1971 Halston Originals ready-to-wear collection.: Then you have the work that Rei Kawakubo did with Merce Cunningham, a true collaborative risk in the piece “Scenario”:On Europe’s contemporary stages, the late great master Alexander McQueen created costumes for none other than Sylvie Guillem, Robert Lepage and Russel Maliphant. The piece they co-created revisits the story of the Chevalier d'Éon, the French author, diplomat and cross dressing spy.McQueen designed transparent kimonos whose rigid crinoline structure was covered with organza. All but one has been lost. McQueen true visual world bender whose runways shows could in and of themselves be considered ballets they so were legendary for their dramatic and avant-garde presentations, definitively defining fashion as an art form.LISTEN TO THE FULL PODCAST AT THE TOP OF THIS PAGEWatch Party:Do you remember Frederick Ashton’s “Tales of Beatrix Potter”? It was made into a film in the 70s but is still sometimes performed onstage in Europe (too rarely I’m afraid because of the difficulty of the costumes) but it’s one of my personal off the beaten path favs. Especially this time of year with the sweet hope of April.If you have kids they’ll love it, it’s filled with joyful dancing pigs, frogs, ducks and foxes and other unusual (for ballet) animals. You can watch it here on MARQUEE TV and I’ll post a clip of my favorite character Jeremy Frog below.JEREMY FROG’S DANCE Get full access to The Dance Lens with Cynthia Dragoni at thedancelens.substack.com/subscribe

Welcome to episode 1 of our dance and fashion podcast series.In this volume you’ll find:-The Podcast-Podcast notes-Watch Party: Tokyo Ballet’s KaguyahimeDance & Fashion Part 1: Threads of PowerYou’d be hard pressed to find a time or place in history where ballet and fashion weren’t influencing and inspiring each other. From the aristocratic dandies to the enlightenment, from the French revolution to Napoleon’s dress code. Napoleon surprisingly took quite an interest in the Paris Opera and his promotion system for the company is still in place today. In this podcast we’ll take a wider fashion history lens. Starting with the meaning of the words haute couture: Much like the word ballerina, haute couture has a colloquial meaning and an insider’s meaning. Most of us recognize haute couture as meaning “high fashion”, “designer” or “hand made”- however it’s actually a legal French term that you are only supposed to use if you follow a certain set of very specific criteria like have a fashion atelier in Paris (no, London will not do). Then we’ll rewind the clock to medieval times. When fashion was used as a way to uphold a class system largely based on birth rather than wealth or merit. It was at some points illegal to dress above your station, and the laws, called sumptuary laws, were quite specific- even dictating the exact limits of how much your cloth could cost if you were beneath a certain station. Moving right along into the enlightenment when under our beloved Louis XIV, men’s fashion was the belle of the ball. It wasn’t until after the French revolution that women were centered both on ballet’s stages and sartorially speaking.Listen to the full podcast above and let me know what you think. Next week we’ll continue with the evolution of the tutu and a of costume in general. We’ll eventually arrive at Alexander McQueen, Sylvie Guillem & cross dressing spies- as one does.Photo: Vogue, Model in a Futuristic Tutu Situation. Want to learn more about ballet and fashion? There are 2 books I can’t recommend enough for this. One is “Back in Fashion” by George Riello. Then of course, Jennifer Homans’ “Apollo’s Angels”. Links are here for convenience but if your local bookstore has them, that’s way better. I think we should have a watch party of Tokyo Ballet’s Kaguyahime. Think princess from the Moon, discovered as a baby and raised by a bamboo farmer, she grows into a great beauty, attracting the attention of five powerful suitors. Testing their devotion, she gives each one an impossible task, finally revealing her celestial origins and returning to her lunar home. I watch most of my dance content my Marquee TV subscription. As they have a constant rotating library of NEW well produced classic AND contemporary work. A lot of it I’d have no other way to see as I’m not (yet) in the business of flying around the world based on who’s performing what. If you have a chance to watch Kaguyahime let me know what you think. Here’s a tiny clip of the lead dancer.The ballets that have remained popular through the centuries have fairly simple plots, complex enough to offer us insight into our archetypal psyches, direct enough to provide a scaffolding for great dance sequences. Now that ballet is becoming more and more popular in countries outside of Russia, Europe and the US, the myths and ancient fairytales of other cultures are now being set to dance and it’s thrilling.Let me know if you have questions/requests. Just hit reply, I read everything:). -CynthiaThanks for reading The Dance Lens with Cynthia Dragoni. Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. Get full access to The Dance Lens with Cynthia Dragoni at thedancelens.substack.com/subscribe