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Josephine Jewkes,
Middle Aged Welsh Housewife reporting.. | |||||||
Josephine Jewkes, dancer with Rambert and formerly an ENB Principal, writes each month on the "dancing life". Here is a link to the previous column in the series.After receiving assurances on behalf of my ovaries, I rendezvous on April 7 with Mr. Strachan, my trusty surgeon - the only person I trust near me with a scalpel or, as in this case, exceedingly large needle. Action replay as I am injected deep into the hip capsule to disperse the stubborn calcification which has been making my life a misery since September. A week later and I am already able to walk (although listing like the Titanic) along to Harley Street for my post-operative chat. In response to my myriad questions, Mr. Strachan answers thus: the calcification works in mysterious ways, seeming not to be linked to age, genes, diet, blood calcium or even excessive inflammation. All that is known at present is that joints, such as fingers, shoulders and elbows, are especially vulnerable to this form of injury, triggered sometimes by a small trauma to the area. The dispersal of the crystals by injections works well if pin-point accurate and the problem almost never recurs. So basically it was just bad luck. My recovery time is projected as 6-8 weeks. just in time for the holidays .... (Think bikini, Jo, think bikini). And so I begin my umpteenth comeback feeling rather like that middle-aged Welsh housewife on "Driving School" who had failed 48 times but kept on trying. Miraculously Maria Fay keeps on coming up with ideas and exercises to pique my interest as well as heal my body, and perhaps I will look back upon this time as a gift in that I have been able to work at length with this remarkable lady and will one day be able to pass on the things I have learned from her. Indeed, a second book is mooted following on from "Mind over Body" and I am glad to have the free time to read the writings in progress and discuss them in depth. Another book I was involved in and never thought would see the light of day has finally surfaced: "The Art of Teaching Classical Ballet" by ENB's beloved and late-lamented Woytec Lowski is out on sale at last. My contribution was mainly that of bugging Woytec to expand his modest text in response to my endless questions. Tim oversaw the translation into print of the sample classes. (You see, we do everything together!). This was a very happy time for us all as we worked away into the small hours in order to communicate something of Woytec's exceptional knowledge and taste to the dance world. I do realise in the case of both great teachers I have mentioned, that the printed word falls short of capturing the mood, the dynamic, the humour, the personality which is an indivisible part of their class. But, until video becomes a cheaper and more widespread tool in the dance world, the printed page is a great deal better than nothing at all. Rambert prefer that I stay at home these next few weeks in order not to tax the hip with unnecessary walking, but I did make it into the studios on one occasion (!) to view a Cunningham class taught by the dancers from the Cunningham company who were over in England to set "August Pace" - our latest acquisition from the Master himself. As inevitably happens, a company evolves its own style and, though our contemporary classes are mainly Cunningham-based and taught by some excellent teachers, small differences creep in, and here was a chance to hear it (and see it) as close as possible to the source. On my cursory viewing it seemed more straightforward, bolder, more depth of work demanded from various muscle groups, as Robert showed them how to get the maximum value from the warm-up exercises and back stretches as well as elucidating certain positions which had been a mystery to me up until then: I saw the shape but did not grasp the inner dynamic behind it. I watched the piece in progress and it was a direct development of class - cool, remote, abstract, impersonal shapes, relationships between the dancers seemingly arbitrary and, for the moment, no music. Robert times each section instead with a stopwatch to gauge the dancers' inner timing. It looks as if relationship with the music/sound is likely to be equally impersonal. In other words a complete contrast to the colourful drama of "Cruel Garden" which is being rehearsed concurrently. Interesting as it was to watch, it both pains my hip to sit for long and also my sprit as I sprawl silently in a corner feeling like a useless spare part. Somehow it is easier on the mind to blot out what I am missing and go at my own pace until I am at least able to join in with barre work again. Later in the month as the hip eased, I treated myself to a visit to a Tom Stoppard play "The Invention of Love" at the N.T. and felt my brain cells creaking rustily (along with those of my fellow theatre-goers) as I adjusted to the mercurial swallow-swoops of Mr. Stoppard's mind. My attention was annoyingly distracted by the audience 'cough-ometer' which communicated their waning attention during some particularly long and involved speeches. "I can't keep up" was overheard a lot during the interval. For myself, I winced on behalf of the actors each time a rash of unmuffled hacking was heard, because I know what it feels like on the other side of the footlights. I well remember a performance of "Les Sylphides" being recorded for TV in Brazil where I danced the Prelude: coughs echoed around the auditorium like the mating calls of some unknown species. A positive symphony of coughs. I felt at once angry and self-denigrating, trying to immerse myself in the magical world of Sylphides in order to draw in my audience but feeling every cough as a reproach at my failure to do so. I also had to fight off the urge to march down to the footlights, hands on hips, and tell them to SHUT UP!!! I suppose I should have contrived to fall over in spectacular fashion - that's a good attention-grabber, with the additional bonus of sympathetic applause for soldiering on. However, the best example of stage-to-auditorium communication I have ever seen was during a performance of Giselle at the Royal Festival Hall. As the mad scene began, a child in the audience began to wail. Very loudly. As the scene progressed, the wailing continued. The adult with the child was obviously either deaf or having too much of a good time to remove the child. The audience became somewhat restive and the ballerina's rendition began to manifest a more and more convincing air of desperation. As the child reached a crescendo, so did our Albrecht: he strode forward to the edge of the stage (twenty-four goggle-eyed peasants and assorted courtiers slack-jawed with amazement), glared in the direction of the offending child, shook his finger at it and gestured for it to be removed forthwith. It worked like magic! Meanwhile our Albrecht turned solicitously to his weeping Giselle, and I buried my face in the convenient shoulder of a courtly neighbour, whispering "No, Maurizzio, oh no......."
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