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Vignette, 4-23: Taglioni's
Shoe
Memory & Memorabilia
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Marie Taglioni
as "La Sylphide." Colored lithograph; 52 x 33.2 cm. Engr. by
Cattier after A. Deveria. Pub. by Goupil and Vibert, n.d. Image
courtesy Dance Books Ltd. |
By Tobi Tobias
Copyright 2003 Tobi Tobias
The Sighting
I was standing before
a glass case -- in a museum or library dedicated to theater memorabilia,
I think. Or perhaps an exhibition space in an opera house. Where?
New York? London? Paris? Can't recall. When? No idea. Perhaps decades
ago. All I remember -- but the memory is piercing -- is that this
particular vitrine displayed a selection of dancing shoes, all pre-20th-century,
all shaped, frayed, and soiled through use. And among them, feather-light
on its transparent shelf, lay a single ballet slipper, clearly from
the Romantic era, when the ladies of the ballet first rose to the
tips of their toes, to hover for a fleeting moment, as if buoyed
by the air itself.
Shod in such footwear,
ballerinas of that time created their supreme illusion. They were
ethereal beings whose debt to gravity was minimal. Their contact
with the cloddish earth, and the flawed folk anchored to it, was
evanescent -- yet charged with ecstasy and its twin sister, tragedy.
The slipper, caged in glass like an insect in amber now that its
day and duties were past, was a flimsy affair of satin anchored
to a pliant leather base. The fabric had been emphatically darned
around the sides and front of the toe sheath, such reinforcement
being the sole support of yesteryear's artists of the dance. Its
exhibition offered some tangible evidence, albeit oblique, of feats
that otherwise reach today's dance aficionado only through legend,
charmingly improbable etchings, and poetic evocation. ("She floats
like a spirit in a transparent mist of white muslin with which she
loves to surround herself, and she resembles a contented soul scarcely
bending the petals of celestial flowers with the tips of her rosy
feet." -- Theophile Gautier, on Marie Taglioni, 1837) The slipper
was pale, with a faint blush suggesting it might once have been
pink. I remember it as being attributed to Taglioni.
The Nature of Relics
Why should such relics
move us? Why do they inspire in us feelings of awe and love? Why
should they make us feel a kind of intimacy with the person to whom,
it's alleged, they belonged? The psychology involved is similar
to that attending the veneration of bone fragments claimed to be
earthly remains of a mortal later canonized as a saint. Reverence
for the wonders attributed to the person is transferred to the otherwise
ordinary object once attached to the remarkable one, who is long
since gone.
Needless to say, such
reverence requires a generous portion of belief on the part of the
worshipper, who must be not merely acquainted with the story of
the marvels but also convinced that they really occurred. Without
the background information plus the magical thinking, the bone is
merely a specimen from the anatomy lab; the dancing slipper, just
an old, beat-up shoe. The objects themselves are utterly common;
we, in our need and desire, transmute them into the uncommon.
Why a Shoe?
In times gone by, the
fetish object associated with an adored, idealized woman was usually
a glove or a flower worn in her bosom. Gautier, that indispensable
chronicler of the French Romantic ballet, provided the poem that
seven decades later inspired Fokine to create "Le Spectre de la
rose," the dance that epitomizes the rose-breast association:
"Je suis le spectre
d'une rose
Que tu portais hier au bal....
Mon destin fut digne d'envie...
. Car sur ton sein j'ai mon tombeau.
(I am the ghost of the
rose
That you wore last night at the ball....
My destiny is worthy of envy...
For on your breast I have my tomb.)"
But why should the prosaic
shoe inspire such veneration? The answer is easy. In a dancer, the
foot is more significant than the hand or even the breast (though
the latter is both an object of sensual desire and the cage of the
heart). As the glove is to the hand, the shoe has sheathed the dancing
foot like a second skin. Animated by its wearer, it has traced the
steps of the dance. What's more, being malleable, it has taken on
the shape of the dancing foot. Tangible evidence of a beauty and
magic doomed to disappear, it continues to exist after both dance
and dancer have vanished. Call it, if you like, the death mask of
the foot.
Why Taglioni?
Why is the idea of a
Taglioni shoe especially potent? Popular history credits Marie Taglioni
(1804 - 1884) with being the first ballerina to dance on pointe
-- in creating the title role of "La Sylphide," choreographed by
her father, Philippe Taglioni, in 1832. In truth, she was simply
the emblem of an achievement that came about gradually, through
a combination of aspiration and experiment, and that has continued
to evolve to this very day. Taglioni attracts us, I think, for grander
and less specific reasons. She embodied the primary aesthetic thrust
of dancing (and indeed of much literature, music, and visual art)
in her time. She personified the impulse of the soul that prefers
the ideal to the actual, otherworldly joys to the ones within the
common grasp, imagination to reality, air to earth. Her dancing
is reported and represented graphically as having been ineffably
light and fluid, pure and elusive. With these qualities, she symbolized
at once the unattainable object of desire and, still more abstractly,
the yearning for it. Rising onto her pointes, a trick once associated
with circus performers, Taglioni promised transcendence.
Taglioni's power is
perhaps best understood in comparing her qualities to those of her
great rival -- and foil -- Fanny Elssler (1810-1884). Elssler's
dancing, we're told, was forceful, dramatic, and sensuous. It was
rooted in folk forms; her signature number was the Cachucha, an
ebullient Spanish affair, performed with castanets. "Hers is not
the aerial, virginal grace of Taglioni," Gautier wrote, "it is something
much more human which appeals more sharply to the senses. Mlle.
Taglioni is a Christian dancer.... Fanny Elssler is a completely
pagan dancer. She reminds one of the muse Terpsichore with her tambourine
and her dress slit to reveal her thigh and caught up with clasps
of gold. When she fearlessly bends back, throwing her voluptuous
arms behind her...." And so on.
There are dance devotees
who favor Elssler over Taglioni, just as there are those who, considering
the icons of early 20th-century ballet, prefer Tamara Karsavina
to Anna Pavlova. (Odd business, this -- pledging one's adoration
to a dancer one has never seen onstage. It's done essentially through
hearsay and still images.) I myself am a Karsavina fan -- for her
reputed dramatic gifts (confirmed to a degree by her photographs)
and for the sensibility, at once poetic and practical, demonstrated
at every turn in her memoir, "Theatre Street." But in the main,
when it comes to the posthumous adoration of ballerinas, the suprahuman
types, specialists in the ineffable, carry the day.
Pavlova's Shoe
I once held in my hand
a shoe of Pavlova's. This was in London, at Ivy House, the ballerina's
home for two decades, where, in 1974, John and Roberta Lazzarini
had set up a bijou-scaled museum as a memorial to their idol. Few
visitors were on the scene the day I made my pilgrimage. With me
was my daughter, a School of American Ballet student of sixteen,
whose interest in dead dancers, I should have realized, had not
yet been kindled. Robert Lazzarini himself, friendly and generous,
was present, acting as both docent and guard. He soon elicited our
connection to dance from us and assumed, naturally but incorrectly,
that we were worshippers at Pavlova's shrine. At one point, when
my daughter and I were alone in the main room with him, he took
a worn pointe shoe down from its perch and extended it to us. "Here,
would you like to hold it? Go ahead." Since my daughter made no
move to accept the hallowed object -- indeed, her face had assumed
the impassive mask with which adolescents spurn the world's conventions
-- I did, for the sake of politeness.
There it lay in my hand,
wafer-light but laden with associations. There were a lot of heart-string
tugging emotions I knew I should be feeling, but I wasn't. Just
the opposite. Despite Lazzarini's genuine, engaging passion for
Pavlova and everything associated with her, I felt the whole business
was kind of creepy. The shoe reminded me of the "self-immolation
in the cause of art" aura that surrounds Pavlova, which has an eerie
cousinship with necrophilia. Some of this mythology -- like the
lurid account of her calling for her costume as she lay on her deathbed
-- accreted to Pavlova posthumously. Much of it, though, she fostered
in her lifetime, with the help of astute collaborators. Remember,
her very signature piece, Fokine's "Swan," is about the pathos and
beauty of death. Had the proffered shoe been Karsavina's, I would
have thought my palm blessed. A chacun ses gouts.
Other Shoes
A few other shoes have
come my way. Among them is a pair of Patricia McBride's, autographed,
with the occasion of their wearing noted as well. It was the New
York City Ballet's "Coppelia," telecast January 31, 1978, in the
Live from Lincoln Center series. I worked on that show, providing
intermission material that included an interview with Alexandra
Danilova, an unforgettable Swanilda, veteran balletomanes say, and
Balanchine's collaborator in staging this production. Though I'm
not much of a souvenir collector, I did have a slight acquaintance
with the obliging, sweet-tempered McBride. So I let myself be seized
by the madness of asking for the shoes and the signing. I was goaded,
in part, by knowing that, with the video record of the performance,
posterity would actually be able to see the dancing in which the
shoes had been worn. One of these days, I suppose, I should hand
them over to the Library for the Performing Arts. While I stall,
my dance-mad granddaughter likes to look at them, touch them, and
hear their story -- once again.
Returning after a dinner
break to the backstage area an hour before the performance was to
be shot, the director, the producer, and I were startled to see
McBride standing in the corridor outside her dressing room, ravishing
in full stage makeup, wrapped in the colorful Japanese kimono that
served as her theater robe, grasping a gleaming pointe shoe like
a blackjack and ferociously slamming it against the cinder block
wall. Arrested in the act of mayhem -- commonly used to soften the
rock-hard box of today's pointe shoe and thus muffle the dancer's
footfalls -- McBride merely flashed her dazzling smile at us and
offered an "Oh, hello" in the dulcet tones of one discovered stroking
the family cat. I suspect that for a child eyeing the shoe today,
the story registers not as factual report in the form of eyewitness
account, but fable. It takes its place, I imagine, alongside fairy
tales, folk tales, and vintage family anecdotes. It's at once real
and pretend -- as all stories are (so magically and, alas, so briefly)
in a child's mind. As McBride's shoe is to my granddaughter, so
is Taglioni's to me.
The Cornell Box
The most resonant "relic"
of Marie Taglioni is not her shoe and it is not a relic. Rather,
it's a work of art -- an assemblage -- that appropriates the attributes
of a relic: "Taglioni's Jewel Casket," created by Joseph Cornell
in 1940. Cornell (1903-1972) was an obsessive, a visionary, and
-- is this, perhaps, redundant? -- a devotee of the ballet, more
specifically of ballerinas and the lore that grows up around them.
Yesteryear's ballerinas -- least accessible, least compromised by
reality -- were the favored recipients of his artistic homage. Of
the ballerinas whom he'd actually seen dance, the only one to kindle
his imagination in a sustained way was the New York City Ballet's
sublimely poetic Allegra Kent. Her arrival at the School of American
Ballet as a gifted, half-trained student of fourteen was greeted
-- so it's said -- by a venerable instructor's rushing down the
corridor exclaiming, "Taglioni has come again!" Within the category
of ballerinas existing only as memories (often memories fictionalized
by time), Cornell was most inspired by several of the goddesses
who reigned over the Romantic era: Fanny Cerrito, Carlotta Grisi,
Lucile Grahn, and Taglioni. Cornell's constructions, which are sui
generis, capture -- ironically in box-like containers -- the fugitive
quality of dance, its penchant for illusion, its perfume.
"Taglioni's Jewel Casket,"
the strongest of his ballet-centered evocations, is a small dark
wooden chest with a hinged lid, which stands open (though slightly
angled downward as if in a gesture of self-protection) to reveal
its mysterious, compelling contents. It is lined with brown velvet.
Strung across the inner side of the lid is a necklace of rhinestones.
In the shallow arc formed by the necklace, recessed in the lush
velours, a rectangular plate of blue glass bears this inscription:
"On a moonlight night
in the winter of 1835 the carriage of Marie TAGLIONI was halted
by a Russian highwayman, and that enchanting creature commanded
to dance for this audience of one upon a panther's skin spread over
the snow beneath the stars. From this actuality arose the legend
that, to keep alive the memory of this adventure so precious to
her, TAGLIONI formed the habit of placing a piece of artificial
ice in her jewel casket or dressing table melting among the sparkling
stones, there was evoked a hint of that atmosphere of the starlit
heavens over the ice-covered landscape."
In the bottom of the
box lie a dozen squares of dime-store glass fashioned to look like
ice cubes, some of them spilling from their slots, as if they'd
been jostled by a rude hand.
Gazing at this box --
leaning in close, as you must to decipher the minuscule lettering
of the text -- you feel yourself submerged in the atmosphere Cornell
creates: the dark blue night, with its icy temperatures; the snow
sparkling as it reflects the cold white light of the moon; the diamonds
twinkling like earthly stars, half-hidden as they rest on their
voluptuous blanket in their portable vault. You sense the danger,
the erotic charge (that panther skin is a splendid touch), the brigand's
threat to the ill-concealed treasure (precious jewels, female purity),
and the power of a woman's dancing to move the inevitable from its
course. This is what ballet is about, Cornell suggests, and if,
like many a balletomane, you're susceptible to suggestion, you'll
agree.
The Missing Shoe
As I worked on this
essay, I was simultaneously hunting for a photograph of the Taglioni
shoe I recalled seeing -- the slipper that, having remained with
me for so long as a luminous vision, prodded me to write. I wanted
to verify the details of the shoe's construction; I thought my editor
might use the image to illustrate my story; perhaps I secretly hoped
that, even diminished by photographic reproduction, the shoe would
serve me as the madeleine did Proust.
Such a photograph proved
elusive. Not only that, written evidence that such a shoe still
existed seemed to be absent too. Unsuccessful on my own, I enlisted
the aid of appropriate authorities: librarians, museum curators,
dance historians, fellow dance journalists, my editor. What began
as a scattershot search turned into a more methodical one -- with
a curious conclusion offering its own epiphany.
Apparently, there was
no such object as an extant Taglioni shoe. There were Elssler shoes.
There was a pair said to have been worn by Emma Livry (Taglioni's
protegee, who died tragically at the age of 21, from burns sustained
when her gauze tutu caught fire on one of the gas jets that lit
the Opera's stage). There were other examples of shoes from the
period made by Taglioni's cobbler, Jannssen of Paris. But I turned
up no slipper that could confidently be said to have touched Taglioni's
foot. My memory of having viewed such a relic -- like the memory
of transcendent moments of dancing -- had, over the years, shaped
actuality (lovely in itself) to its own wishful thinking (lovelier
still). "Absence," Gautier wrote, "has the effect that the image
of the absent one gradually becomes poeticized, her features become
blurred in the memory, they conform to a pattern, coming closer
and closer to the ideal that each of us carries in our mind's eye."
Oddly, but not inexplicably,
the fact that Taglioni's shoe might no longer be present in the
tangible world didn't seem to matter. I had been schooled by years
of looking at and being moved by dancing. For me, objective reality,
all very fine in its proper place, has nowhere near the persuasive
power of the imagination, which, given the right sort of raw material,
can fashion a compelling universe.
Coda
Just as I was finishing
this essay, a serendipitous encounter with two colleagues revealed
clues to the actual existence of not merely one but several slippers
attributed to Taglioni. Several months of subsequent chasing and
ferreting -- I became a huntress possessed -- led to shoes in Paris,
London, Copenhagen, and St. Petersburg as well as one in Cambridge,
Massachusetts. (Some have a credible provenance; others remain wrapped
in the pleasant fog of conjecture.) The Musee de l'Opera, a division
of the Bibliotheque Nationale housed at the Paris Opera Ballet's
venerable Garnier site, holds a pair of Taglioni shoes. One of these
slippers was recently placed on display in its gallery. Neither
of them, however, is the one pictured, identified as Taglioni's,
in the Cyril W. Beaumont translation of Andre Levinson's life of
the ballerina. That shoe was Elssler's. The Theatre Museum in London,
a division of the Victoria and Albert Museum, has a black character
shoe and a handful of Gordon Anthony photographs of Alicia Markova
displaying a Sylphide-style slipper that remains in a private collection.
In her memoir "Markova Remembers," the 20th-century ballerina with
the clearest stylistic connection to Taglioni observes that this
shoe fits her perfectly. The Theatre Museum in Copenhagen, charmingly
housed in a 19th-century playhouse, owns one, though it has inexplicably
been withdrawn from the permanent display. A similar shoe has been
sighted in St. Petersburg. Last (though readers are cordially invited
to extend this list), the Harvard Theatre Collection contains a
white character shoe with side lacing, something a spirit might
wear on an occasion calling for boots. None of these, mind you,
is the slipper I believe I once saw.
The selections of Gautier's
prose are taken from "Gautier on Dance," translated and edited by
Ivor Guest (Dance Books, London, 1986).The translation of the lines
from "Le Spectre de la rose" is by
Emily Ezust.
Thank you to the many
people who helped play Hunt the Slipper, among them Mindy Aloff,
Erik Aschengreen, Paul Ben-Itzak, Mary Cargill, Patricia Daly, Annette
Fern, Lynn Garafola, Leslie Getz, Robert Greskovic, Ivor Guest,
Maina Gielgud, Allegra Kent, David Leonard, Alastair Macaulay, Dame
Alicia Markova, Patricia McBride, Monica Moseley, Barbara Newman,
Ida Poulsen, Pierre Vidal, Fredric Woodbridge Wilson, and Sarah
Woodcock.
To read Tobi Tobias's
dance reviews for the Village Voice, please visit the Village Voice web site and enter "Tobi Tobias"
in the search engine window on the Home page. To read her essays
for Tutu Revue, please click here. Both sites archive
all of TT's contributions. "Wishes for You," TT's most recent book
for children, was published April 1 by HarperCollins.
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