Every Step You Take (17 page)

Another aspect of life back then that amazes and even frightens me when I think about it was the total absence of limits or rules on social and sexual behavior in the early 1980s. There was very little public understanding or awareness of AIDS as yet, and life and love and plain old sex were pursued with a happy and reckless abandon. Everybody was sleeping with everybody, it sometimes seemed to me. There were company members who would switch-hit, back and forth, in their sexual preferences (I remember there was a psychic who was popular with many of the dancers who seemed to be particularly adept at convincing gay people that they were straight, and vice versa), thereby compounding the possible permutations and combinations in life. I probably would have considered jumping into the joyous fray with more enthusiasm myself if I had had a little more free time, had been a little surer of my own looks, and had not been such a hopeless romantic. Luckily for me, perhaps, I was what I was: extremely busy, very shy, somewhat insecure about my looks, just a little old-fashioned about love—and very definitely 100 percent gay. Focusing on my dancing and trying to keep track of my wandering boyfriend kept me pretty busy, and as a result I got into less trouble than I might have otherwise.

In an interview my mother once commented about this period of my life, and what she considered the miracle of my survival as a young teenager on my own in New York: “It wasn't until later that we thought about what we had done—leaving such a young boy alone in the city—and we were horrified. We really regretted it. I don't know how he made it through, how he managed not to tumble into some kind of terrible trouble.” It's true that I did not have the traditional structure of family or an educational institution to guide me, but in my professional life I was surrounded by amazing role models. Everyone involved with the company—the brilliant teachers and choreographers and dancers, the stage managers and crew, the talented set and costume designers, the artisans in the NYCB costume shop, and, of course, the members of the wonderful NYCB Orchestra—was driven by and devoted to their art. And I was right there with them: driven and devoted, delighted and honored to be working with like-minded people who had so much to teach me.

In the winter season of 1984 an important new influence on my dance career began when Jerome Robbins, who always sat in the audience, watching every ballet performance, began to notice me and started to use me more. In January he gave me a role debut in his
Goldberg Variations
, partnering Stephanie Saland in the second “orange” pas de deux in the final section, and another role debut dancing with Maria Calegari in his
I'm Old-Fashioned
. Jerry's ballets were always challenging, abstract and lyrical and romantic all at once, and he was incredibly demanding about their technical execution. Every moment had to be perfect, and in rehearsals we sometimes couldn't get through more than a few measures of the score in an hour's time. It was exhausting, and his manner was intimidating—fierce and gruff and downright mean at times. But at the same time Jerry had an intuition for the special qualities certain dancers might have within themselves, and he was generous about giving dancers plenty of room to find those qualities and bring something new to a performance. I was thrilled when a little later that season Jerry cast me as the Boy in Brick in his very beautiful ballet
Dances at a Gathering
, and then cast me and Diana White in the lead roles of
Moves
—his unusual ballet performed in silence, without any music—when he decided to bring it to the company for the first time.

The pace of all this was a little dizzying. That same season I was also partnering Lourdes Lopez in Balanchine's
Western Symphony
, dancing my debut in the first pas de trois in
Agon
, and partnering Nichol Hlinka in the premiere of a new Peter Martins ballet,
A Schubertiad
. Lourdes is of Cuban descent and has a strong and regal presence, and she and I made a dark and exotic duo onstage. (Someone once said Lourdes made me look “more American.”) Offstage, Lourdes and I were good friends and shared a similar sense of humor. I remember one afternoon, after a particularly frustrating rehearsal with Jerry, Lourdes and I found ourselves sitting alone onstage in the New York State Theater, exhausted and upset. We looked at each other, and a split second later we both started screaming at the top of our lungs. We continued screaming for five full minutes, until finally, fully purged, we dissolved into laughter. Lourdes was a brilliant and very dramatic dancer (who can forget the drama of her beautiful black hair and the vibrant red tutu in
Firebird
?) and we seemed especially well suited as partners in
Western Symphony
—although it's kind of funny if you think about it: a Hispanic-Indian guy with a Cuban girl dancing a Russian choreographer's ballet about the American Wild West. But this is the beauty of ballet—it can draw inspiration from the most unexpected sources and can combine the most unlikely elements into a work of beauty.

I was sure I didn't deserve all of these plum roles with such brilliant ballerinas, and I knew that soon enough someone else would figure this out too. But in the meantime I decided to keep quiet, and keep learning as much as possible. I was getting a crash course in the intricate art of partnering in general, and valuable exposure to the different quirks and styles of so many talented ballerinas. It was fascinating. Some dancers had precise feet and beautiful hands, some had amazing strength, some brought a special intimacy of touch—the variations and subtleties seemed endless. The most basic rules of partnering had come to me very naturally, and are the same basics I try to teach my students now—like making sure you lift with your legs and thighs. If you rely only on your back, you'll kill your career. Or how to hold and how not to hold: I tell my students that when you take a ballerina by the wrists it shouldn't look like you are riding a motorcycle. Never paddle a ballerina in a turn—that is, do not slap at her waist to move her along in her turn. Stir her discreetly with your finger in finger turns, not like you have a spoon and she is a pot of soup. When you are standing behind a ballerina you shouldn't be noticed; stay inconspicuous, keep your hands as quiet and hidden as possible. Be her invisible shock absorber as she lands, her invisible engine as she takes off. Everything is about your ballerina, and you are there to enable her magic. And, perhaps most important, never try to “act” your role—if you act it you ruin it. Just dance it.

As I became a more seasoned dancer I also began to understand the complex relationship between performers and their audience, and I learned that a ballet can have a strange life cycle of its own, falling in and out of favor with the audience and with the critics for what are sometimes very mysterious reasons. The critics in particular, I began to feel, could drive you crazy if you paid too much attention to them. When Heather and I premiered Peter's
Concerto for Two Solo Pianos
in 1982 the critics had praised its “tart astringency” and “jazzy and mysterious” qualities, but in 1984 when we danced the same ballet they were impatient with its intricacies, and they called it “a relentless succession of steps.” They couldn't decide if there was anything they liked about
A Schubertiad
either, and they blew hot and cold on Robbins's
Moves
. I came to the conclusion that it would be best if I ignored all this commentary and analysis and just danced the ballets for themselves, as I always had before anyone started commenting on my performances. I continued to throw everything I could into my dancing each night, and when the curtains closed for the last time I ducked out the backstage door and disappeared into the blissful noise and anonymity of New York City. Once again, my life was polarizing itself in a strange way as I alternated between my hours of wanting to be closely watched and admired onstage, and my hours of wanting to be invisible and ignored while offstage.

During this period I became so adept at blocking out all comments about my dancing except those that came from teachers in a classroom or choreographers in rehearsals, that I was taken by surprise when Peter called me into his office in June 1984 and told me that I was being promoted from the corps de ballet to a soloist. Melinda Roy (who remains one of my closest friends to this day), Helene Alexopoulos, David Moore, and I were all being promoted to soloists, and Lourdes Lopez and Stephanie Saland and Joseph Duell were all being promoted to principals. I was so happy, and I couldn't believe my life could be this perfect—that I, at age nineteen, was being given this promotion and the opportunity to pursue the one thing I had always wanted to pursue. After my promotion I began attacking my roles with a new confidence, and when the
Nutcracker
season rolled around that year, I danced as Cavalier to Heather's Sugar Plum Fairy. In her end-of-the-year wrap-up on dance for the
New York Times
, Anna Kisselgoff wrote, “Jock Soto should be singled out for literally everything this very talented dancer did in the New York City Ballet.” Hey, now this was the kind of criticism I was willing to read!

In the months that followed I got to dance exciting role debuts in a number of ballets—including Balanchine's
Bugaku
,
Midsummer Night's Dream
,
Brahms-Schoenberg Quartet
, and
Cortège Hongrois
, and Robbins's
In the Night
and
Opus 19/The Dreamer
—and I allowed myself to bump up a notch in confidence. Instead of a
would-be
, I felt I could now consider myself an
up-and-coming
ballet dancer. But it seems that the moment we drop our guard even an inch is always the moment we fall—and my behavior after being promoted to a soloist with Balanchine's company dropped right into this clichéd trap. I felt more secure and accomplished as a dancer than I ever had before, and yet I also violated the number one rule for any dancer—and particularly for me, as a dancer with a “more solid” build: I let myself get fat. Over the course of only a few months I went from 175 to 190 pounds.

In the past I have asked myself how I could have let this happen at such a critical point in my career—was I depressed or unhappy or confused? I did have a few complaints but, with the exception of Ulrik's ongoing infidelities, most of them were pretty minor. It was annoying that my dressing room, which I shared with four other soloists, was in a part of the theater that was so far from the stage we called it New Jersey. I was frustrated when, for a period just after my promotion to soloist, it seemed the only ballet I was dancing was
Moves
—the Robbins ballet that is danced in total silence. But as I look back now it seems quite obvious that the biggest reason for my sudden weight gain had to be the sudden decrease in daily demands (and resulting boredom and free time) that came with being a soloist in those days. At the time of my promotion the rule was that soloists danced solo roles (when so cast) and did not dance with the corps. (This is no longer the case—soloists these days do dance some corps roles.) The result was that back then as a soloist you often performed much less frequently—sometimes only once or twice a week—than if you were in the corps or if you were a principal. Unless you kept after yourself and made it a point to attend a lot of classes, you could wind up sitting around a lot—which is what I did. Then, of course, I was making a little more money as a soloist, so I could also afford to eat better and go to more restaurants. Finally, because I had more leisurely mornings, I began cooking myself the big breakfasts my mother always used to serve me as a child. I perfected my execution of her famous Biscuits 'n' Gravy, Baked Bacon, and Cheesy Frittata recipes.

Not only did I get fat but I also managed to keep myself in complete denial about my expanding silhouette. But one day I was summoned to Peter's office, and after I sat down he looked at me in a strange way. He took a deep breath and told me that he had decided to promote Christopher d'Amboise from soloist to principal. I felt a tiny little stab of competitive jealously when I heard this news, but only for a second and I didn't say anything. Peter looked at me strangely again, hesitating slightly, and then he blurted it out: “I was going to promote you as well, Jock. But I… I… I just can't. You're too
fat
. You can't dance like that!” He gestured toward my even-more-solid-than-usual self.

I'm sure all the blood must have drained from my face on the spot at that moment. The second Peter uttered that dread three-letter word, I knew that it was true. Suddenly I was aware of the soft layer of pudginess encasing my torso. I was horrified and humiliated and very angry with myself. How had I let such a thing happen? How could I have let myself screw up like this? Here I had worked so hard to get myself launched on my life's dream, dancing with the best ballet dancers in the world in the best ballet company in the world, and then I had just waddled right up to the feed trough and let myself get fat!

Disgusted with myself and determined to reform, I was on a diet before I even walked out of Peter's office. I put myself on a very strict program—eating mostly yogurt and nuts—and started going to restaurants less often and working out more aggressively. Two weeks later I had lost the fifteen pounds of gained weight, but I had not yet regained my confidence and dignity. I was still furious with myself for screwing up in such a stupid manner, but what could I do? I had blown it.

Sometimes I tell myself that one of the reasons I gained weight in this period was not just the restaurant food and big breakfasts, but also that I had been getting more and more interested in cooking, and more ambitious and confident about what I attempted in the kitchen. It's true that even after I put myself on a strict diet I still enjoyed cooking a nice meal for others—in fact, at times this almost felt like a substitute for eating. One Friday night only a few weeks after Peter had hit me with the gruesome truth about my weight, I decided to prepare a feast for Ulrik and Peter and Heather at the apartment where Ulrik and I were living at the time. I decided I would make a very grown-up meal—the famous pork roast recipe, with all the trimmings, that I had learned from Jane Wilson (Julia Gruen's mother). Heather and I had started cooking together a lot—it was a kind of secondary offstage partnership that we had discovered and enjoyed—and she had come over early to help me. As we gossiped and chopped in the kitchen she kept teasing me.