Every Step You Take (24 page)

We all mourned the passing of these two amazing men, whose talents had been so essential to the spirit and execution of Balanchine's vision. At the same time, I felt that I had a front-row seat at the birth of another impressive choreographic talent that had the potential to carry the vision forward—my boyfriend, Chris. In 1999, Chris choreographed
Scènes de Ballet
for the company, which featured more than sixty students from the SAB, and then in 2000 he choreographed another ballet,
Mercurial Manoeuvres
, on Miranda Weese and me. Miranda was a creature of great gifts, strikingly beautiful with long black hair and an intense presence. She had studied Heather's footwork very carefully over the years, training a close eye on every move, and her homework had paid off. She had very precise, intelligent, quiet feet that could not take a bad step. At first when we were dancing together Miranda was trying to do everything, leaping and jumping and trying to muscle her way through the steps. I had to say, “Stop working so hard. You'll hurt me. Let me do the work.” Once she understood what I meant, and realized that I could in fact put her wherever she needed to be, we danced beautifully together. There was a quietness—almost a quality of stealth—and a musicality about Miranda's dancing that met and enhanced the same qualities in my own.

Mercurial Manoeuvres
was more complex and intriguing than Chris's previous works, and the intricate counts and interweaving of modern and classic steps definitely foreshadowed things to come. There was a moment in the middle of our pas de deux when Miranda and I just looked into each other's eyes for about eight slow counts. Damian later told me he thought it was one of the most beautiful moments in ballet history. No movement, just music playing and bodies breathing, souls staring into each other. A moment in time. I found it thrilling to be participating in the creation of something that felt like the beginning of a new and fresh form of expression in ballet.

Later that year, Chris retired as a dancer to concentrate more exclusively on choreography, and he accepted a position that Peter offered him—the first of its kind at the NYCB—as artist in residence. In August he and I took one of our rare vacations together—and one that I feel marked a turning point in our relationship as collaborators—when we went to visit his family in England. At the time I was trying to encourage Chris to move away from the pure classical idiom, to find the courage to step forward and explore his yearning for something newer and fresher. I wanted him to attempt sleeker creations, to strip away costumes and sets and evoke emotions through the manipulation of movement and physical steps as Balanchine had in breathtaking ballets like
Episodes
and
The
Four Temperaments
and the wonderful
Agon
. While we were staying in London we went to the Royal Academy of Arts to see a traveling exhibit of sensationalist art called Apocalypse, and the two of us ended up getting separated and wandered through on our own, each of us fascinated by different aspects of the exhibitions. (I remember one was a strange representation of the pope pinned to the ground by a meteorite.) When we got back to our hotel room we were both excited by what we had seen, and we decided to listen to a CD we had picked up at Tower Records on the way home. It was piano music by a composer Chris had recently fallen in love with—György Ligeti—and we laughed when we realized that one of the pieces on the CD had been used over and over in a really annoying way in the sound track of the recently released film
Eyes Wide Shut
. I didn't especially care for Ligeti's music at first, but the more I listened, the more I liked it. Finally I turned to Chris and said, “All you have to do is, when we get back to New York take me and Wendy Whelan into a room with this music and see what happens. Who could be more pliable and creative than Wendy?” When we got back to New York this was precisely what we did—and that was the beginning of Chris's brilliant ballet
Polyphonia
. It was also the beginning of a new and exciting collaboration: Wheeldon, Whelan, and me.

W
HEN
C
HRIS FIRST
started making
Polyphonia
for Wendy and me and three other couples, I didn't realize how far Chris, Wendy, and I could go as a team, how far we could take ourselves in new directions. I had done a lot of difficult ballets that required stamina, but this one took things to a new level. I was excited by the maturity and complexity of the choreography. As I mentioned, I had felt for some time that Chris needed to get away from frilly ballets and to try new things—and this was definitely new. Working in the studio for hours, he and Wendy and I collaborated on the various pas de deux. Wendy and I had been performing with each other for some time, but these collaborations with Chris gave us a new relationship, a new focus, and a new level of profundity in our partnering. We began to develop a deeper trust in each other, and a deeper understanding of our individual strengths and beliefs, which in turn allowed us to let go of our individual selves and become more like two people in one body. I found it so exciting the way we three could go into a room and create something that really meant something to us, and then bring it to the stage and share it with an audience. The experience gave me a fresh take on what could be done both physically and artistically—it really felt as if we were stepping through a door into whole new territories of dance and choreography—and it also gave me the inspiration and courage to carry on. When you're a male dancer and past the age of thirty you can begin to feel kind of lost. You start asking yourself, What do I do now? Do I continue this or do I quit and do something else? Most dancers quit around forty, or earlier if their bodies can't take it anymore. But as Wendy, Chris, and I began to move forward in new and innovative ways, I felt a rush of energy and passion for my art surging through me, a kind of second wind—which was really pretty remarkable, considering that five years earlier I had been seriously contemplating retirement. I think our collaboration also gave Wendy and Chris the courage and creativity to explore and shape new and exciting identities. Timing is everything in dance, and the three of us had come together at exactly the right time.

When
Polyphonia
premiered, in January 2001, it was very well received, and critics especially praised its “interweaving of ballet and modern dance.” Chris really seemed to be hitting his stride when, that May, he was named NYCB's first resident choreographer. That same month Darci and I danced the premiere of
Morgen
—a very beautiful, mature, and emotional ballet made by Peter as a kind of love letter to Darci—and I remember that throughout the choreography sessions and rehearsals for
Morgen
I was excited to sense that Peter and Darci and I were also connecting in new and deeper ways as collaborators. I could never have predicted that all these new and exciting frontiers were coming my way as a dancer, and I felt that I had learned an important lesson, not just about dancing but about life: stay curious and open, and always explore opportunities when they present themselves; you never know what you will discover or where inspiration will come from and how it will shape your life. Sometimes a series of small steps will bring you to the biggest leaps.

I sometimes think of that trip to London and the afternoon that Chris and I spent at the Royal Academy of Arts—wandering about separately and then coming back together to discuss our enthusiasms—as a kind of marker, a moment when the seeds were sewn for a whole new flowering in the collaboration between Chris and me as choreographer and dancer working together. Remembering that trip now also brings back memories of another trip Chris and I took, the summer before our London visit, when we traveled together to visit my family on the reservation in Arizona. The Arizona trip was a very different kind of adventure from our London sojourn but, in retrospect, enlightening in its own way.

To spare Chris the experience of bunking with my parents in their motor home on this trip, I booked the two of us a room in the Thunderbird Lodge—a motel on the reservation, right at the edge of the beautiful Canyon de Chelly. We decided to drive around and explore the area—something that had never occurred to me to do before. Every time we were about to head off on one of our adventures, Mom would approach us and insist that we be back before sundown. Otherwise, she assured us, something bad was going to happen. As the week rolled toward Friday, Mom became more and more adamant about this, and when Friday came she finally explained her concerns to Chris. Every Friday, when they get paid, the Indians drive to Gallup to buy liquor—there is no liquor for sale on the reservation. Then they get drunk and drive home. Because there is only one road to and from the reservation, a lot of people wind up getting killed in alcohol-induced car crashes if they are driving, or by being run over by drunk drivers if they are pedestrians. (This can happen any day of the week, but especially on Fridays.) This is extremely common, Mom explained—in fact, two of Mom's sisters' husbands had been driving together and had been killed in exactly this way, in an alcohol-related car accident on the way back to the reservation. Chris listened to Mom, his eyes getting wider and wider—he was very patient and polite. But the whole situation was a little surreal. I had brought this erudite white English boy to the reservation, where everyone was staring at him.

Sometime much later Chris confessed that his visit to the reservation had been “both fascinating and terrifying, almost like being on another planet.” The landscape must have looked lunar to this boy who had grown up in the rolling countryside of Somerset, England, and even I feel a subtle attitude of guardedness and mistrust directed at me as an “outsider” whenever I am visiting the reservation. The extreme differences between Chris's and my backgrounds strike me as almost comical now. And yet, in the realm of choreography and dance at least, the two of us seemed to make an excellent team.

W
HEN
H
EATHER AND
I were first dancing together she was the more seasoned dancer—but I was the more experienced cook. Over time we learned from each other and soon enough we had a well-balanced partnership both on the stage and in the kitchen. Our dancing was always all about passion and precision, but for the most part our cooking was a much more slapdash affair—a way to unwind and connect with friends in a casual setting.

Over the years I have learned that a successful dinner party is as much about the personalities one mixes as it is about the edible ingredients one combines. An example that comes to mind is a not so long ago night when my dear friend Johnny Reinhold—the famous jeweler whom I first met during my Andy Warhol days—was coming for dinner. I decided to invite several of the ballet boys to the dinner. I thought this would make Johnny happy. (It did.) I also invited a mystery guest—of course the boys were very curious about whom this might be, but I refused to say.

Luis and I were in the kitchen getting the dinner ready—skirt steak over arugula; rosemary-and-garlic potatoes; tomato, red onion, and blue cheese salad; and apple-cheddar crumble—when suddenly the living room fell silent. I walked out to see that Debbie Harry had arrived. The boys were flabbergasted.

It was great to see Debbie and Johnny again, and to share our memories of life when Andy was alive. After dinner, as a spontaneous finale, all the ballet boys decided to take off their shirts. Everyone went away happy—well fed and well entertained. What more can a host hope for?

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SERVES 6

THE MARINADE:

½ cup olive oil

¼ cup red wine vinegar

5 cloves garlic, finely chopped

2 tablespoons chopped fresh rosemary

2 tablespoons chopped fresh thyme

1 teaspoon salt

½ teaspoon pepper

THE SKIRT STEAK WITH ARUGULA:

3 pounds skirt steak

A couple bushels (metaphorically) arugula, washed and dried

Olive oil

Red wine vinegar

Salt and pepper

For the marinade, mix the olive oil, red wine vinegar, garlic, rosemary, thyme, salt, and pepper in a small bowl. Pour the mixture over the steak in a large bowl. Cover and let marinate for 1 to 2 hours, or overnight in the refrigerator. (If you refrigerate the meat, bring it to room temperature before cooking.)

Get your large skillet or grill very hot and sear the steak for about 3 minutes per side. Remove from the heat and let it sit while you prepare your arugula by tossing it with olive oil, red wine vinegar, and salt and pepper to taste. It's really not difficult, just keep tasting and adjusting as you go. Slice your steak into strips, cutting diagonally across the grain, and arrange the strips on a nice plate or platter. I like to place the arugula on top of the steak, right down the center.

NOTE:
This recipe is incredibly easy, and you can adjust the seasoning as you like. I have played around with adding Sazón (which you can buy in the international-food section of your market), soy sauce, jalapeños, cumin, Worcestershire sauce, mustard, and other surprise ingredients. I also have been known to wrap the steak and arugula in a tortilla for a quick, delicious snack.

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