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Approved For Release 2000/08/11 : CIA-RDP96-00792R000700530001-2
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Soviet ballerina Maya Plisetskaya.
BY RICH LIPSKI THE WASHINGTON POST
Maya Plisetskaya &
The Truth of Dance
The Bolshoi Ballerina on Her Life and Her Art
By Pamela Sommers
Special to The Washington Post
Prima ballerina assoluta-the
phrase suggests an imperious danc-
ing goddess who truly lives only
when she inhabits a rarefied realm of
swans, sylphs and theatrical may-
hem.
Yet here sits Maya Plisetskaya,
the Bolshoi Ballet superstar whom
many regard as the greatest balleri-
na of the 20th century, chatting ani-
matedly in her native Russian, look-
ing perfectly at home perched on an
armchair. At 62, her auburn hair
trails down her back, framing a face
that suggests both world-weary ele-
gance and prim girlishness. She
wears an emerald-green taffeta
blouse with a matching skirt deco-
rated with snaking black lines, gar-
ments that reveal a long, slender
body kept in peak condition by daily
class and regular performances.
For unlike most ballerinas of her
generation, Plisetskaya still dances.
"I'm perfectly aware that, techni-
cally speaking, I cannot do a great
deal," she admits candidly through
her interpreter and longtime friend,
Helen Atlas. "But a person of my age
and experience can show a great
deal of artistry. It's the emotional
impact that is much stronger than
the technical one. And there must be
something to it, because I've had
such success on this tour, such won-
derful reviews, and the audience has
appreciated me so much."
The tour to which she refers be-
gan last month in Boston, when Pli-
setskaya, joined by a troupe of Bol-
See PLISETSKAYA, D10, Col. 1
Plisetskaya in
the Bolshoi
Ballet
production of
'Swan Lake."
Approved For Release 2000/08/11 >CIA-RDP96-00792R000700560001-2
7469901
169099

: :
D10 WEDNESDAY, APRIL 27, 1988
THE WASHINGTON POST
Ballerina
PLISETSKAYA, From D1
Oshoi associates, performed several of
Der signature works-Alberto Alon-
Lo's "Carmen Suite," Roland Petit's
"La Rose Malade," her own "Anna
Barenina" and "The Lady With a
"Small Dog," and her inimitable rendi-
tion of "The Dying Swan."
It was all a part of the "Making Mu-
Together" festival, a Soviet-Ameri-
En cultural extravaganza, orchestrat-
by Boston opera director Sarah
aldwell and Plisetskaya's husband,
Glebrated Soviet composer Rodion
Sochedrin. The Bolshoi dancers have
just completed a 12-city U.S. tour, and
tonight, Plisetskaya will be at Lisner
Taditorium for the U.S. premiere of
"Maya Plisetskaya: Things Known and
[@known," a film portrait of the danc-
er being presented as part of Filmfest
I. She and the director, Boris Gal-
XEJE
anter, will take questions after the
*= wix screening.
Film has served as both friend and
#to the ballerina. Though ballet afi-
cionados may swoon over videos of
Plisetskaya in her prime-her myste-
riously lyrical/brilliantly venomous
Odette/Odile in "Swan Lake," her mis-
chievous Kitri in "Don Quixote," her
bewitching Zarema in "The Fountain
of Bakhchisarai," her defiant Car-
men-she has problems with her cin-
ematic self.
"I don't like my old films," she says.
"I see a lot that isn't correct. It's very
hard to please me. I'm very self-
critical. Certainly, film is a very good-
thing, because it is of great assistance
in your development, the best teach-
er. But it is my nature never to do the
same thing over and over again. I've
always improvised, and listened to the
music above all. And I've never gotten
stuck in one particular style or era."
She has also lived her life as a rebel,
an independent-minded firebrand to
whom art matters more than all else:
country, family, personal freedom.
And she has suffered for her convic-
tions.
Born in Moscow to a family of Jew-
ish artists-her mother was a silent-
screen actress (you can see traces of
it in the daughter's riveting acting
style), her uncle a celebrated Bolshoi
dancer-choreographer who still teach-
es company class-she began dancing
instinctively, and early on exhibited
signs of the fighter she was to be-
come.
"When I was very young, I did it
quite naturally, not because I wanted
to become a ballerina. I was always
drawn to the theater . . . I saw my
first play at the age of 4, and when I
came home I reenacted everyone's
role. Also, we had a pianist living with
us in those days of communal apart-
ments. He played very well, and I was
introduced to very good music.
"From the beginning, if I was told
to do something, I'd do just the oppo-"
site. My arms and wrists were always
black and blue because the girls who
took care of me would grab me so I
wouldn't run away. I did, in fact, run
away from kindergarten, to the com-
plete other end of Moscow. Terrible
panic set in at the school. Some guy
was walking by me, and I came up
very close to him so that people
wouldn't notice that there was this lit-
tle girl by herself. It took me an hour
and a half to get home.
"I never liked school-the atmos-
. phere, the odor. I loved being thrown
out of class, because they would con-
tinue to study and I would be free. I
always had an 'anti' feeling for the
group, for the collective, whether it
was camps, or standing in line ...
We'd be going somewhere on the bus,
singing a song, and I never joined in. A
lot of things I had to do were against
my nature."
One would think that the discipline
and formalism of ballet would have
frustrated her. Instead, she took to it
with a fervor and natural ability that
left her teachers at the Bolshoi School
in awe. Her space-gobbling leaps,
rock-solid balance and prodigious mu-
sicality sent her straight from the
classroom to the stage. Before the age
of 20, she was dancing leading roles,
and soon her name was on the lips of
all ballet-going Muscovites.
Yet the trouble had already begun.
Her mother had been sentenced to a
labor camp, her father disappeared,
and the family subsequently learned of
his death in the Gulag. As a result, Pli-
setskaya herself was regarded by the
KGB as politically unreliable. She was
never granted the personal privileges
enjoyed by other artists of her stature.
Until 1959, she was forbidden to per-
form in the West. And from the mo-
ment Yuri Grigorovich became artistic
director of the Bolshoi in 1964-a po-
sition he holds to this day-the balle-
rina's talents were underused and her
opinions rejected.
"I was never protected," she ex-
plains. "In most situations, nobody
came to my aid. On the contrary, peo-
ple defended others against me. I was
not very desirable. There were times
which were awful, tragic, when I was
right on the verge of leaving the Bol-
shoi Theatre."
Then why didn't she defect, like so
many of her fellow artists?
She sighs heavily, and takes her
time answering.
"To leave the Bolshoi was an impos-
sibility. My best performances were
danced there. It's the best stage in the
world. I just couldn't do it. When I
would look at those eight columns in
front of the theater, something inside
me would turn inside out and upside
down."
Because Plisetskaya caused such a
sensation during the company's visits
to the West, she was eventually ac-
corded certain opportunities. Chore-
ographers outside the Soviet
Union-Alonso, Petit, Maurice Bé-
jart-created roles for her, which she
danced on the Bolshoi stage and inter-
nationally. And she was allowed to
choreograph for herself. Ironically,
these tailor-made works came at a
time when her technique had begun to
diminish. And certainly none of them
can be considered a lasting work of
art.
Only recently she was appointed ar-
tistic director of the Spanish National
Ballet. In the early '80s, she worked
as a choreographer with the ballet
company of the Rome Opera.
"None of it has sufficed," she says
sadly. "I would have loved to have
worked with many more choreogra-
phers. It's very important for any
dancer to have pieces made specifical-
ly for them." She laughs bitteny
certainly haven't done too much.
ain
Though she clearly mourns ce
artistic decisions she has made
he
has never regretted one very personal
choice: to forgo the experience of
motherhood. The personal and pifies-
sional relationship she shares with ner
husband has been enough.
"It's very simple," she declares.
"Your figure changes. Never have I
seen a ballerina who has become any
better after she has given birth. der-
haps if you're 18, when nothing@as"
begun in your career . . . When yoPre
out on stage, any imperfection isEn-
mediately obvious.
2
"Also, a child demands a great deal
of attention, and that takes away from
your art. You have to belong to@ort
100 percent."
Is that how she would like to beYe-
membered, as one who has devoted
herself to her muse above all else?O
The question pleases her; her eves
almost appear to mist over.
"It would be very nice not to be for-
gotten," she begins. "I believe that
have been able to give something@0
others, they will remember it.
very happy to have had such a success
here in America-people have come! :
to me in tears. To me, that's much
more important than for an artist to
cry herself. That's how I would like to
be remembered."
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896-00792R000700530001-2