Dame Alicia Markova
In the late 1970s (perhaps 1977?), the Los Angeles dance world gathered to honor Lilian Alice Marks and Sydney Francis Patrick Chippendall Healey-Kay, the two brightest stars of 20th-century English dance, better known in the ballet universe as Dame Alicia Markova and (eventually, knighted in 1981) Sir Anton Dolin. Luminaries from around the world flew in and assembled at Ambassador Auditorium in Pasadena, California for heartfelt testimonials and presentations, and at the end of the afternoon there was to be a master class of sorts, with Dame Alicia and Sir Anton coaching a pair of dancers from the corps of the Los Angeles Ballet in the pas de deux from “Swan Lake”. For that, they needed a piano accompanist, and that is where I come in. I was 24 years old, newly-married, tall, skinny and red-haired, and piecing together a living playing piano in Los Angeles for any venue I could book, which included accompanying ballet classes. I had met Dame Alicia a few days earlier when she guest-taught classes for the Ambassador Dance Theater; company director Christa Long and her husband Gerry Long had murmured a few words and voilà! – on Sunday afternoon, there I was in front of an audience full of dancers, critics, and benefactors, each nearly as dazzling and renowned as the people on stage. I was new and out of place in the music world, with my forestry degree from the University of Montana and a failed winter sojourn as a roustabout in the oilfields of Wyoming. I had turned to piano playing as the one thing I could do as easy as breathing, and had chosen to do it in a place where I wouldn’t freeze to death. The piano teacher I auditioned with in Los Angeles, Earle Voorhies, said that I played like a barbarian, but that he could help me, and with my barbaric but still substantial sight-reading and improvising skills, I was slowly carving out a career.
Which is not to say that I knew much about Tchaikovsky or ballet or “Swan Lake”, or music in general. When Dame Alicia (think of it – she had known Picasso and Stravinsky and Diaghilev personally) sent me home with sheet music and an LP of the pas de deux, I forlornly realized that the written notes sounded nothing like the recording, and, not knowing enough to simply get my hands on the orchestral score, I learned the whole thing by ear on a clavinova in our apartment. It was what I knew how to do, and I thought it was the normal way.
Dr. Long sent me off to rehearsal early Sunday with the admonition that this was a plum gig and I had better make the most of it. I remember that my playing was deemed adequate, and that Dame Alicia and particularly Sir Anton were gracious and charming and actually quite funny. The pax de deux coaching was the grand finale to the celebration, and I was instructed to stand by the piano after the performance, to bow when the spotlight came to me, and to make my way offstage.
A grand lady.
My wife Thea was in the audience with Dr. and Mrs. Long. It was a lovely afternoon and turned into quite the love-fest of remembrance and retrospective. This was the era of multiple-projector slide shows with the pictures gracefully fading in and out (PowerPoint was still a dream in the future), and if I hadn’t quite known who Dame Alicia and Sir Anton were before, I most certainly did now. All went swimmingly, and then came the pas de deux master class. Because I wasn’t glued to the music, I could watch the proceedings and still be sensitive and responsive to the needed stops and starts and repeats. I remember that even knowing as little as I did, it was clear that the coaching was noticeably upgrading the level of artistry. We ended by re-doing the dance from start to finish, the three of us, boy dancer and girl dancer and pianist, and there was a roar of applause and I stood as instructed. The spotlight came to the piano, I bowed – well enough, I thought – walked backstage, and handed the useless sheet music to the stage manager. “I’m sure Dame Alicia will want to speak to you personally,” he said. “I doubt it,” I replied, and legged it down the side passageway to the main lobby where I expected to collect my wife and head for home.
Sir Anton Dolin
What I did not know was that this audience from all over the world was as madly in love with Dame Alicia and Sir Anton as I was, and would not let them go. They applauded, they cheered (they did not hoot – we did not do such things in 1977), they yelled their bravos and bravas, and on and on it went. The honorees accepted their flowers and dipped and bowed till the spotlight operator grew bored, and began to search the stage for other victims. The young dancers took another bow (I am told), and then the spotlight went to the piano. And found no one to illuminate. The light circled the piano tentatively, as did Sir Anton. He looked under the piano, mimed his puzzlement, and lifted the seat of the bench to look inside, evoking much merriment from the audience.
Eventually the cheering died down, the elegant gold curtains closed, the auditorium doors opened and the crowd began to spill out.
One of the first people I saw was Thea, who had an amused but still kindly supportive smile on her face, followed down the steps by my boss, who stormed over and said, “DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU JUST DID?” And proceeded to remind me that he had entrusted me with this highly visible job, and I had pretty much blown it. I, of course, had no idea what he was talking about, and looked over at Thea, whose face was warring between maintaining the smile and giving in to laughter. And just as it began to dawn on me what had happened, a small but striking woman, improbably but impressively jeweled and turbaned, strode up and proclaimed to me with full glottal emphasis on the opening pronoun, “OY am the prima ballerina of Hungary, and YOU are going to learn to bow!” I must have protested, which is when she insisted that I bowed like one of those toy ducks that bob up and down over a bowl of water, and that it was her mission to correct the indignities I had foisted on her friends that day.
The only photo I have of Ilona Vera. The camera loved her.
And so she dragged me over to an only mildly congested patch of carpet, and said, “You do not need to make the movements I make, but you must think the words to yourself: I THANK you!” On the word “I” she threw her head back with maximum drama, paused, and flung herself down at the waist on “THANK” and followed through without hurrying on the word “you”. I did not try to imitate the Hungarian gestures, but to my surprise, on about the third try I felt like I could bow with the best of them. “EYE [pause]... THANK you!” – that is how I do it to this very day, deeply and sincerely and throwing my head back at the start, and whenever I see a student who performs beautifully but cheats us on the bow, I think of the gangly red-haired young man and the prima ballerina of Hungary, and sometimes I pass the lesson on.
It all turned out well. The review was in the Times the next day, but mercifully the critic had fled when the applause started and so missed my little drama. Soon Dr. Long was laughing about it. His wife hired Ilona Vera, for that was the Budapest bombshell’s name, to teach in the program, where we became friends and mutual admirers. I was even commissioned to compose two ballets for the company, which were performed with full orchestra to good reviews. I saw Dame Alicia a day or two later when I was again in the company of dancers, and she crossed the room and shook my hand with great ceremony and kindness. The stage manager had been right after all. She lived into her 90s and the 21st century, and when she died, a memorial service of thanksgiving for her life and work was held at Westminster Abbey on March 8, 2005. Anton Dolin received his knighthood in 1981 and died soon after. And for my part, I still bow magnificently, in their honor.
Footnote
Dr. R. Gerry Long is an accomplished educator, textbook author, conductor, and clarinetist with an impressive bio – among other things he conducted orchestras for Disney. In his retirement he has become a ukulele guru.