Читать книгу The Dancer Within - Rose Eichenbaum - Страница 12

Ethan Stiefel

Considered by many to be the finest American-born male dancer in forty years, Ethan Stiefel’s technical brilliance, athleticism, and captivating presence have called into question the predominant view established by George Balanchine that ballet is woman. While Stiefel may not have set out to change the image of ballet, he and talented dancers like him have helped usher in a new era for classical dance—one where ballet is man and woman.

I taped the first of several conversations with Ethan a few months after he underwent double knee surgery, sidelining him for the entire American Ballet Theatre 2006 season. He told me that he’d been looking forward to dancing again, especially after working so hard to get back in shape from two earlier, less invasive surgeries. I asked him how he’d injured himself.

“I was in rehearsals for the upcoming season when I felt something break in my left knee. I had it checked out and was told that I had a fractured bone spur about an inch long floating around inside my patella tendon. It caused severe tendonitis. I was given cortisone injections to relieve the pain. Then two weeks later the same thing happened to the other knee.”

“What went through your head when you realized that these injuries might keep you from performing?”

“I didn’t panic. I kept rehearsing. The season was opening in five days and I tried to grit it out and dance with the pain. I continued performing for the next five months including the engagements for Kings of the Dance, which was a project Angel Corella and I conceived for four male dancers.”

“How were you able to get through it?”

“I tried to be as prepared as I could by warming up extensively before dancing but in all honesty, it came down to, ‘Okay, I have to just go out there and try to block out the pain.’ I was on anti-inflammatory medication every day just to make sure that I could get through it.”

“Did the injury distract you while performing?”

“When you’re on the stage your adrenaline and mental toughness kicks in and whether it’s physical pain or something going on in your personal life, somehow magically it dissipates and you’re focused on the moment and what’s before you. That’s one of the reasons why I love to perform. Dancing offers you a different plane to function in—where life is almost stress-free. Unfortunately toward the end of Kings, doing a run of seven or eight performances in a row, the pain was fully present and when the medical reports indicated that my injuries required surgical treatment, I had to accept this reality.”

“Once you’ve recovered, do you think you’ll be able to dance at the same level as before?”

“I don’t know. I hope so. I don’t know how long it will take to get back into condition after not dancing for four to five months. I think all these things change you. I think I’ll be different. I’m thirty-three and have been a professional dancer since the age of sixteen. That’s seventeen years of wear and tear. As you get older you have to make adjustments—not that I’m at any kind of breaking point yet. I look at athletes in their forties and realize that one’s training and mental approach has to be different. They maintain a particular regimen, diet, and work ethic, even in their off-season. It may come to that for me.”

“Did you realize at the beginning how demanding and consuming a professional career in dance could be?”

“When I was a boy growing up in Wisconsin, I didn’t know any professional dancers, so I didn’t realize that the profession is so hard, that there would be obstacles to overcome.”

“What were some of the obstacles you had to overcome?”

“If you’re a boy going into dance, you open yourself up to ridicule. People can be negative and ignorant. You find yourself asking, ‘Why are people making fun of me for something that I enjoy?’ When you get older you realize that your obstacles change. You become aware that you have a limited amount of time to achieve your goals and fulfill your ambitions. In dance, the clock is always ticking. I am well aware of the fragility of the dancer’s life and that my career could be over tomorrow.”

“Can you recall a moment of clarity when you knew that you wanted to go all the way in dance?”

“Yes, when I was around fourteen I came to study with Stanley Williams at the School of American Ballet, where I was exposed to some of the great male dancers of our time and could see what you had to do to be successful. I told myself, ‘You’ve really got to focus and work if you want to achieve greatness.” I knew that I had the tools to be good, hopefully very good, but needed to apply myself differently than before. That’s where Stanley Williams really made a difference. He created an atmosphere and method for teaching that required that students be stimulated intellectually and take his corrections through their own individual process. He understood that a dancer is not just a physical and technical machine, but someone who has to confront life and develop their own individuality.”

“What keeps you going, Ethan?”

“The possibility for greatness. It’s not about vanity; it’s about testing the limits of humanity—being a vessel to reach great heights and inspire others to do so as well. I think I have a great deal of untapped potential left in dance. But if I don’t give myself the opportunity to see what’s possible, I’ll never know.”

“What kind of legacy do you want to leave?”

“I’d like to be remembered as a good person—a good human being. I’d like for my parents to say they are proud to call me their son. This is more important to me than anything else. Those of us who live in the dance world view what we do as valuable to our society and culture. But as one who has danced on the great stages of the world—performed with the Kirov Ballet, the Royal Ballet, and New York City Ballet, and American Ballet Theatre—I find myself asking, what does it all really mean? When you consider that there is hunger, disease, terror, and war in the world, you realize that what we do is of secondary importance.”

“Do you think your ambition to be a decent and honorable human being comes across in your dancing?”

“Time will tell what audiences actually understand about me. I think what makes a dancer an artist is the ability to project one’s individuality. I don’t think you can have a weak personality and have something come across from the stage. Unlike a writer who can be more literal about his views, I’m working in nonverbal communication and interpreting the expression of others—the choreographer and the composer. But I do think it’s possible for people to learn something about me from the aesthetic choices I make. And I’d like to believe that my core essence—that thing that distinguishes me from someone else—will always be understood on some level. If not, then I should probably stop dancing.”

“As a dancer your job is to interpret your character or, in an abstract ballet, a story or viewpoint. What’s it like for you when you feel your own identity surface?”

“I can’t really describe what that feels like, but I do know that it’s what keeps me going, even through all these injuries. I can try to explain it with words like joy, fulfillment, euphoria, but these words are insufficient and inaccurate.”

“When you get into that emotionally charged place, do you try to linger there a while?”

“To try to linger there would suggest that you have some control over it. I don’t. I’m only in control of the steps that I’m doing and the training and the musicality that I possess. I only have the tools to go for the ride. I’d be foolish to think I control what happens out there. I’d be foolish to want to.”

“Are you in search of artistic perfection?”

“I think to strive for perfection is a misdirected ambition.”

“Why?”

“Because perfection doesn’t seem relative to what we do. Art is about creating something that will inspire, engage, confront, and enrich. How can you say we’re striving for perfection when, being a subjective medium, this is not art’s original intention? Yes, you aim to be clean and precise while always giving your all, but dance is a refine and redefine art form.”

“What’s a typical day in the life of a professional ballet dancer?”

“My routine has changed over the years, but in general I try to sleep as much as I can and wake up at the last minute. Sometimes I only get three hours of sleep a night. During the performance season, I try to get into the studio about thirty to forty minutes before the others. I believe in preparation for class. It sets up you physically and mentally, and when it’s quiet you can shut out distractions. The studio is where you put in the blood and the sweat. That’s where you figure it all out, where things are molded and shaped. Typically class takes an hour and a half and is followed by a rehearsal that usually runs five to seven hours, depending upon what I’m dancing.”

“Do you feel a responsibility to enlighten society about the beauty and wonder of dance?”

“All I really know how to do is function as a principal dancer and teach what I’ve learned. That’s why I mentor others, created a dance camp in Martha’s Vineyard. I hope one day also to direct my own company or school. We spoke earlier about the fragility of the dancer’s body, but the truth is that the art form itself is fragile. And while I’m not a crusader, I am interested in keeping dance alive the only way I know how—by maintaining respect for the history of ballet, while continually trying to promote innovation and progress.”

It had been more than a year since I last saw Ethan, when I noticed that American Ballet Theatre was coming to the Orange County Performing Arts Center for their 2007 season. He would be dancing the role of Prince Désiré opposite Gillian Murphy in the West Coast premiere of The Sleeping Beauty. Curious to know whether Ethan had maintained his powerful stage presence, I purchased a ticket. When Ethan made his entrance in the second act, the audience burst into applause. Adapted from Marius Petipa’s 1890 original choreography, Ethan’s role called for highly athletic moves—jetés, cabrioles, and entrechats—as well as subtle displays of character and physical strength for lifts, which he performed with astonishing ease and skill. Watching him perform, I knew that the only thing he had lost during his convalescence was time. His artistry and technical skill remained as vital as ever. During the bows, Gillian acknowledged Ethan by handing him a rose from her bouquet. Ethan accepted it and then tossed it lovingly to the audience. Then he kissed her on the lips in a clearly unrehearsed expression of pure joy.

New York, 2006Costa Mesa, California, 2007