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Electronic Theses, Treatises and Dissertations
The Graduate School
2005
Dance as a Project of the Early Modern
Avant-Garde
Elizabeth M. Drake-Boyt
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THE FLORIDA STATE UNIVERSITY
COLLEGE OF ARTS AND SCIENCES
Dance as a Project of the Early Modern Avant-garde
By
Elizabeth M. Drake-Boyt
A Dissertation submitted to the
Program in the Humanities
In partial fulfillment of the
Requirements for the degree of
Doctor of Philosophy
Degree Awarded:
Spring Semester, 2005
Copyright © 2005
Elizabeth M. Drake-Boyt
All Rights Reserved
The members of the Committee approve the dissertation of Elizabeth M. Drake-Boyt defended
on the 28th of February, 2005.
Anita Gonzalez
Professor Co-directing Dissertation
Tricia Young
Professor Co-directing Disseration
Ray Fleming
Committee Member
Approved:
David Johnson
Chair, Program in the Humanities
Donald Foss
Dean, College of Arts and Sciences
The Office of Graduate Studies has verified and approved the above named committee members.
This Labor is dedicated to my Beloved
Charly
in deep reverence for his contributions of wit, humor and above all humanity
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I would like to commend the support and encouragement for this enterprise that was extended to
me by the Committee Members of my dissertation; co-directors Dr. Anita Gonzalez and Dr.
Tricia Young, and Humanities Representative Dr. Raymond Fleming. Dr. Sally Sommer
additionally offered valuable commentary and guidance. Professors Jack Clark and Patty Philips
of the Dance Department at Florida State University assisted with the movement analysis
discussion, and Professor Clark was directly responsible for access to and commentaries on, his
video reconstructions of Incense and Gnossenne used in this study. Mr. Norton Owen made
available to me invaluable access to the archives at Jacob’s Pillow. The first-hand recollections
of Denishawn dancer and writer, Jane Sherman, enriched this discussion of the artistic
developments of Ruth St. Denis and Ted Shawn. On more than one occasion, the interlibrary
loan staff members of the Daviss County Public Library of Owensboro, Kentucky, went out of
their way to see to it that books and articles needed for this work were speedily sent to me.
Finally, I would most like to acknowledge the contributions of friends and family who kept me
on track through difficult times, and celebrated with me in accomplishment. To one and all, my
grateful thanks are offered.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
ABSTRACT………………………………………………………………………………iv
INTRODUCTION ………………………………………………………………………..1
CHAPTER ONE
Elements of the Avant-garde: European Beginnings…….............25
CHAPTER TWO
Ruth St. Denis and Incense……………………………………….69
CHAPTER THREE Ted Shawn and Gnossienne……………………………………..116
CHAPTER FOUR
Vaslav Nijinsky and L’Après-Midi d’un Faune…..…………….168
CHAPTER FIVE
Arts and Popular Entertainments: American Developments…..214
CONCLUSION…………………………………………………………………………260
APPENDIX……………………………………………………………………………..274
GLOSSARY OF TERMS………………………………………………………………286
REFERENCES……….………………………………………………………………...302
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH….………………………………………………………..312
ABSTRACT
This investigation presents an analysis of three expressive dance works created between
1900 and 1920 as projects of the Early Modern avant-garde. The dances chosen were Incense
(1906) by Ruth St. Denis, Gnossienne (1919) by Ted Shawn, and L’Après-Midi d’un Faune by
Vaslav Nijinsky. While Shawn and St. Denis were American dance artists at the forefront of
modern dance development, Nijinsky presented both a European cultural and ballet tradition
response to the avant-garde.
These dances were chosen from the standpoint of their similarities. All three are short,
emotionally intense, and referent to internal conditions significant to the artist-creator. Each
dance centrally features the artist-creator as the intermediary between the work and the audiences
and addresses avant-garde concerns in Early Modernism. And these dances were formed as selfcontained modular units capable of packaging and marketing in context with both popular
entertainments and serious concert art works.
Five issues engaged in the avant-garde response to Modernism are delineated for the
purposes of this study. These issues are exoticism, spiritualism, distortions of time and space,
naturalism, and responses to technological advances. Each of the three dances is discussed in
relation to these issues, bringing them into theoretical discussion with other mediums. This
scope of analysis facilitates discussion of dance as a culturally expressive behavior, and the close
relationships between European and American developments in decorative design (Art Nouveau
and Art Deco). The treatment of the definition of Modernism permits comparison of the
similarities and differences among a wide range of avant-garde expressions and clarifies the
dynamics of exchange between popular and serious performing art venues.
INTRODUCTION
“Why, even the dances seen in our father’s time were unlike those of today and it will always be
so because men are such lovers of novelty.” Arbeau: Orchesography, 1589.
This study undertakes a close, analytical examination of three early Twentieth Century
Euro-American dances as cultural indicators of the avant-garde in Early Modernism1. Ruth St.
Denis’ (1880-1968) The Incense (1906), Ted Shawn’s (1891-1972) Gnossienne (1919), and
Vaslav Nijinsky’s (1885-1950) Afternoon of a Faun (1912) are examples of expressive art dance
in this broad cultural project. These dances address Western social indicators such as gender (the
dances were created by two men and one woman), stylistic form (ballet and modern dance) and
nationality (two artists are American, and one is European2). Beyond differences of gender,
training, cultural background, and creative processes, it is the intent of this investigation to
examine how meaning is conveyed through the dances.
To facilitate an understanding of how these dances contribute to the on-going process of
the avant-garde, they are presented as texts carrying symbolic meaning relative to other
contemporary (1900-1920) performing and visual arts. Painting and sculpture (Chapter One),
and film and stage venues of opera, theatre, and vaudeville (Chapter Five) frame considerations
on the creation and reception of these dances. Incense, Gnossienne, and Faune draw upon
traditional artistic conventions as a source of validation for their separation from the dictates of
those conventions. As avant-garde works they also represent culturally-signifying events in the
process of restructuring relationships between power and meaning. This examination attempts an
understanding of how these three innovative dance works resonate with the avant-garde impetus
of Early Modernism to reveal coded social meanings which might otherwise remain hidden.
This type of broad, interdisciplinary approach is not without risk; not only must the
terminology be used with precision and consistency, but the manner of interpreting the dances in
the search for meaning must be clear. Dance writing that attempts to bring the art in conceptual
or ideological comparison with other modern arts confronts elusive reference:
Establishing precise parallels between modern dance and modern painting,
modern music, and modern literature proves difficult because Modern dancers
have tended to use “modern” as a synonym for “new” or “creative” and they have
prized experimentation. Yet they have never subscribed for long to any ideology
(Anderson: 4).
But the effort proves useful because avant-garde aspects of Early Modernism appeared with
some consistency in a broad range of venues. As will be argued in this study, similar avantgarde characteristics appeared in both art and entertainment (Glossary) venues across the
Atlantic. Collectively, these arts influenced—and were influenced by—each other and the larger
cultural milieu in which they were created. While some aspects of Early Modernism (Glossary)
clung to a conservative response to the challenges of the Twentieth Century, the avant-garde
criticized3 traditional structures in an attempt to find new responses to new conditions. These
dances provide a rich source of discourse in the effort to understand these conflicting
perspectives.
The term avant-garde refers to “the foremost position, or vanguard” of an attack
(Glossary). In this case, the attack is against entrenched middle-class expectations on the order
and place of works of art. In the act of disrupting the cultural construction of that order, avantgarde art draws its public—often grudgingly and with initially hostile or dismissive reactions—
into new relationships with experiential performance. The results of these experiments were
reflected in a continual flow of ideas between artistic mediums, and between entertainments and
classical arts. Although multitudes of “isms” describe many different art movements actively
participating in avant-garde projects, such designations are presented in this study to frame
rather than define Early Modernism. The focus falls upon five integrated concerns in which all
avant-garde works of Early Modernism engage, including the dances Gnossienne, Incense and
Faune.
The first and perhaps most obvious of these elements is the way in which avant-garde
works at this time utilized traditional tropes of exotic themes (Glossary). Ruth St. Denis created
The Incense based on a Hindu East-Indian ritual of worship, establishing herself as an Orientalist
(Glossary) in dance. Ted Shawn’s4 Gnossienne and Vaslav Nijinsky’s Afternoon of a Faun both
drew inspiration from ancient Minoan/Greek5 depictive styles. In each case, the exotic
framework presented the artist/character in the dance to the audience as a well-informed guide
into unfamiliar (exotic) expressive realms. The “never-where/never-when” ambiguity of exotic
fantasy removed both audience and artist from everyday concerns and mundane expectations.
Instead, they entered a rarified state of theatrical representation in which new constructions of
self, time, and space could be explored.
The second factor of avant-garde works appears in the distortion of time and space that
exotic themes facilitated. This aspect takes several forms; for example, rather than offering
audiences an elaborate spectacle (as was the case of traditional performing arts6) these dances
condensed exoticism into deeply-personal and intimate evocations lasting a few minutes. The
ephemeral qualities of experiential expression are suggested in St. Denis’ smoking, scented
incense and filmy costume; in the impression of a static, ancient fresco come to momentary life
in Gnossienne; and in Nijinsky’s dance reference to Debussy’s Impressionistic music and
Mallarmé’s Symbolist poem. The act of performing this temporal and spatial impermanence
becomes simultaneously intimate and all-encompassing of a universal human condition.
It is in this juncture between personal expression and an idea of “universal truth and
beauty” that these dances also express a search for spiritual transformation; the third avant-garde
element. All three dances present the artists’ ideas about meaning and movement in dance, and
how they perceived that their dances communicated universal qualities that applied not only to
them, but to everyone who saw them. Fundamental human truths derived from a personal and
artistic spiritual orientation were conveyed through the agency of ritual; for example, St. Denis’
Hindu worshipper invoked her deity through the action of burning incense. An enacted ritual to
force subjugation of the self to the deity of the Snake Goddess informs the special kind of humor
with which Shawn infused Gnossienne. And the unfathomable mystery of the feminine self is
reverentially ritualized in the iconic movements of Nijinsky’s Faune. All three artists projected
a persona that referred to these roles because this kind of transformative experience required the
close alignment of the audience to a merging of the spiritual message with the artist-messenger.
The dances were also part of individual and cultural processes of discovering natural,
direct expressions underlying human experience. These expressions, codified by the French
music teacher and theoretician François Delsarte (1811-1871), were studied by performing artists
in venues throughout Europe and the United States. They referred to, without slavishly
following, traditional stage and social conventions bound up in modern life. For example, the
early American dance pioneer Isadora Duncan (1877-1927) demonstrated the artificiality of
ballet convention to Russian artists by dancing barefoot in flowing “Greek” robes, evoking a
romantic nostalgia for the “natural purity” of an ancient (therefore non-existent) Greek
civilization. This element of naturalism (Glossary) in the avant-garde is perhaps the most
complicated because it doesn’t mean exactly what it says. Gestures perceived as “natural and
therefore real” by audiences had more to do with cultural distinctions between country/urban,
European/non-European, and modern/ancient than iconic, ritualistic poses struck by performing
artists. It is in this area that dance comes to the forefront of discussion, for natural gesture was
“real and true” because it came directly from the physical body in obedience to an elevated
spiritual association, a relationship intrinsic to the self revealed only under the artifice of
performing art.
Finally, the dances exhibit ways in which each artist, and by association their audiences,
came to terms with the challenges of technology and commercial consumerism. St. Denis
learned the effectiveness of complete technical stage control pioneered by Loie Fuller (18621928) to create the illusion of a unique experience for each audience. St. Denis had the
reputation of never quite performing the same dance twice, and responded to insistence that she
“set” her dance with rebellious anger, stating that she was “not a machine” (St. Denis, et. al.).
Both Gnossienne and Faune are, by comparison, less changeable over the course of many
performances than Incense. While Shawn’s Gnostic priest struggles with the imperatives of
predetermined ritual to the demanding Snake Goddess in conflict with spontaneous self-will,
Nijinsky’s Faun flattens two-dimensionally into a concentrated search for sexual identity with
movements evoking his previous role as a mechanical puppet (Petroushka). In all three works,
the dancer’s expressive desire is supported by the form of movement in time and space instead of
the other way around.
Stripped of all extraneous gesture down to the bare essentials of expression, these dances
became microcosms of a larger whole of which the creator was the binding factor. They can be
examined as units of presentational experience among other similar units easily rearranged and
adapted to the demands of global tours without disturbing the integrity of the dance itself. This
flexibility of modular construction (Glossary) enhanced the central position of each dancer
within the dance as the identifying factor for the audience. It also made marketing and
distributing the dances easier in the same way vaudeville acts and early film shorts reached their
audiences. As experiments of Early Modernism, these dances illustrate ways in which their
creators negotiated changing social perspectives in these five concerns of the avant-garde. The
combined analysis of the three dances in which the dancer/ choreographers are presented
centrally offers an opportunity to compare their similarities and differences.
A study of the broad range of expressive experimentation characteristic of this aspect of
Modernism reveals fundamental shifts in culturally-constructed relationships among the artist,
the artistic process and product, and audience expectations. In the process of defying middleclass expectations (a distinctive element of the avant-garde), the dances empowered their
creators with the means to manipulate fundamental relationships between themselves, their art,
and their audiences. Individual artistic objectives of the avant-garde gained an authenticity of
expression by challenging previously-established tenants of representation. Dance—and these
three dances in particular—also responded to avant-garde indicators by altering the stance of the
artist relative to the work and developing the movement vocabulary needed to support a coherent
communication of that alteration.
It is the premise of this study that a balanced reading of these five interlocking factors of
the avant-garde is best served with a broad informative base. In order to attempt a balanced
perspective of the complex, interdependent features of dance and culture (Glossary), this
investigation makes use of an interdisciplinary approach. The kind of analytical task designed in
this investigation offers an opportunity to think of dance as an integral facet of a larger cultural
infrastructure during this particularly fertile period of artistic experimentation.
If dance is placed in context with the culture in which it is produced; if it is to be
considered as one of several culturally-expressive behaviors, then the intersections of dance with
other arts and its cultural positioning become clear. The way in which dance acts as one kind of
voice in a concert of expressive behaviors opens new avenues by which to examine the nature of
that culture which produces them. In their multilayered negotiations of time, space, identity, and
authority of presentation, these dances offer a unique opportunity to expand understanding of the
Western tradition.
Dance scholarship in the past has concentrated on the chronological developments of
dance in a historically linear fashion. But dance studies in the last decade have brought
considerations of the art into a larger, multiply-investigative framework that promises to open
new insights on the exchange of culture and art. As part of an on-going academic discussion,
this study constitutes one response to a call for new7 investigations in dance research that apply
methods of critical analysis among diverse artistic mediums sharing common expressive,
aesthetic, or procedural bases. The tactic is particularly effective in analyzing modern works
because it is in Modernism—regardless of medium or style—that art defies any singular,
comprehensive interpretation of meaning. Instead, a cluster of related yet distinct interpretations
emanating from one work addresses a set of psychological, emotional, symbolic or perceptual
issues. This study explores the dynamics of exchange between dance art and culture as part of a
larger cross-disciplinary discussion.
The advantage of this approach is that it then becomes possible to discern common
elements of meaning and signification. Dance scholar Jane Desmond8 suggests that this kind of
dance study contributes significantly to the general area of “cultural studies”:
Driving these analyses is a commitment to uncover the ideological workings of
representation, that is, how symbolic systems are imbued with issues of power
. . .how social subjects (the individuals who make up collectives) are constituted
by, and in turn, manipulate these representations and their meanings (43).
Scholarly projects examining Modernism in the humanistic tradition (Glossary) often
make comparisons between several closely-related works of a single artist, or a cluster of
similarly-themed, chronologically close works by several artists from diverse perspectives. On
occasion, a single work from the past is analyzed through several different perspectives. These
perspectives might include a feminist interpretation, a Marxist reading, and a critical cultural
analysis, such as was applied in the study of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein9 in the literature study
series, Case Studies in Contemporary Criticism (1992). A similar kind of investigation takes
place when contextual meaning in film is comparatively explored with those in literature or
visual arts relative to issues of race, class, gender, disabilities, or sexuality. Multiple
perspectives presented in these studies may not agree but they often converge—or suggest points
of convergence—to provide a comprehensive view of the work (or works) in question not
otherwise possible.
This method of analysis is effective as long as no single perspective is presented as the
sole “correct” or “comprehensive” one in itself. More accurately, they collectively and
interactively serve to present a concert of related meanings out of which a common expressive
basis and superficial differences appear. Furthermore, if this procedure is applied to several
works, an even greater expansion of understanding is possible, for then points of convergence
and divergence indicate not only the process and production of the piece in question, but also
resonant cultural balances of meaning and power under which that art has been created.
Dance research has applied this approach relatively recently in a variety of
configurations. An excellent example is Jane Desmond’s article, “Dancing Out the Difference:
Cultural Imperialism and Ruth St. Denis’ Radha of 1906”. In other discussions of a similar
nature, Nijinsky’s Faune is placed vis-à-vis the Art Deco movement (Wood, Jeschke).
Comparisons among works in diverse mediums by one artist provide other kinds of
considerations. They illuminate not only the artist’s position in a larger cultural milieu, but bring
into focus the conceptual connections between different kinds of art works by any given artist.
This kind of analysis is evident in Margaret Harris’ book, Löie Fuller: Magician of Light, which
brings into cultural context not only Fuller’s dance activities in relation to Art Nouveau, but
demonstrates the connections between her dances and her film-making ventures as experiments
in movement and light. Thus, St. Denis’ expression of divine beauty in Incense is given a human
depth because her other dances in the Hindu series—of which Incense was the first—also
explored sensuality (Radha), the degradation of cheap street entertainment (Cobras), and
material renunciation (Yogi). Shawn’s perception of the human form as a mechanism of
expression in Gnossienne continued expression in his hobby of wood carving (Mumaw). And
Nijinsky, despite observations to the contrary10, discovered inspiring influences in paintings,
music, and dances that could lead him forward into control of his own expressive goals (Buckles,
Nijinska).
While these analytical procedures are useful in understanding interlinked cultural
meanings implicit in individual or closely-related works, this study takes a broader approach. It
examines three dances by three different artists during a twenty-year time span within a broad
cultural and artistic milieu. The process initially views the Early Modern avant-garde as a
representational practice that carries symbolic meaning for artists and audiences across several
dance forms. Thus, in choosing one European (Nijinsky) and two Americans (Shawn and St.
Denis) innovative dance parallels broader cultural movements in both societies. According to
this frame of reference, dance includes not only the European-based ballet (as represented in
Nijinsky’s Faune) in the process of reinterpreting classical traditions but also the new dance
form (Incense and Gnossienne) that eventually evolved into what is currently known as “modern
dance”. The term used in this study to efficiently express the unity of aesthetic perception
between the United States and Europe is “Euro-American” (Glossary). Thematic origins, cultural
and artistic influences, procedures of creative effort, and audience dynamics become visible not
only in terms of dance, but also in terms of dance as part of a larger cultural and artistic shift
characteristic of Modernism on both sides of the Atlantic.
Then, this investigation engages a multi-faceted examination of movements and
performance contexts for a close reading of three concert dance works created between 1900 and
1920 by three Euro-American dance artists. This brief period represents a particularly vigorous
creative episode in Western performance activities including concert dance development.
European ballet traditions experienced significant revisions of expressive and thematic content.
Compelled by the powerful example of Isadora Duncan’s freely expressive dances, Russian
choreographer Mikail Fokine (1880-1942), who created many of Nijinsky’s most successful
roles in Serge Diaghilev’s (1872-1929) Ballets Russes (1909-1929), set about a systematic
revision of the ballet lexicon. His modern ballets were designed to incorporate Duncan’s
naturalism without upsetting traditional time/space and audience/performance relationships.
Building on that impetus, Nijinsky pushed the limits of performance convention with Faune by
abolishing illusions of stage depth and disrupting the kinesthetic flow through time upon which
ballet depended. At the same time, he constantly referred to fundamental ballet movements and
positions with wry humor11 in a way that called attention to the constructed meanings in art
dance (new and old) for the audience.
At the same time, other arts and entertainments in Europe and the United States were in
the process of undergoing comparable revisions. Relationships between form and aesthetic
sensibilities, or between spiritualism and utility underwent profound conceptual shifts as
evidenced in Art Nouveau (1890-1910) and the later Art Deco (1914-1940) styles12. While
European aesthetics struggled with its legacy of Romanticism and Symbolism (Glossary) in
defiance of the bourgeoisie-directed Academie in La Belle Epoque (1890-1900), American
expression was in the process of defining itself as separate and distinct. Confronted with the
excesses and abuses of “The Gilded Age”13, a period of Progressive Era (Glossary) social reform
opened the option of American arts (including dance) to participate (Tomko: 1-35). St. Denis
and Shawn responded to this evolving American ethos by establishing the Denishawn school and
performing company (1914-1931) that was highly flexible to the demands of vaudeville tours,
film dances, and educating the general public in the spiritual and moral advantagegs of dance
education. Taken in combination, innovations in ballet and modern dance during this period
engaged in a particularly vigorous dialogue with developments of Early Modernism in the
experiments of the avant-garde. Today we continue to deal with the consequences of those
developments in all levels of social structure and art14.
The works chosen as case studies were selected according to the following criteria. Each
dance was originally created and danced by a European or American dancer/choreographer, and
constituted a significant point of artistic development for each creator fairly early in his or her
performance and choreographic careers. As such, these dances also mark a continued
progression of development for modern concert dance styles and the expectations of audiences
attending them. In addition, the three dances are striking examples of negotiations between past
traditions and the pressing needs of the avant-garde to frame new relationships between the artist
and work, and between the artist and audience.
The narrow time frame is particularly important in this study. Performing venues
underwent remarkable transformations from 1900 to 192015, making this period of Early
Modernism a nexus of experimentation with form and content. Boundaries of gender
identification, altered perceptions of distortion/displacement of time and space, permanent/
ephemeral, individual/society, fantasy/real, presentation/representation, and tensions between the
familiar and the exotic were tested. In response to these intense experimentations, the dances
explore a rich cultural dialogue with other contemporary works. These works include popular
entertainments (such as film and vaudeville) and traditionally-“high” arts (painting, sculpture,
theatre, and opera). Consistent with the directions of early modern art in this time frame, these
dances represent a vision that is at once profoundly personal and relevant to the culture at large.
The choreographers employed different bases of creative choices, a factor that makes
comparisons among them an effective tactic of analysis in this study. While St. Denis drew upon
inspiration and intuition, both Nijinsky and Shawn16 analyzed the choreographic structures of
their pieces, approaches that deeply influenced the artistic choices in each case. St. Denis’ and
Shawn’s dances are solos; in Nijinsky's Faun, the interaction between the Faun and nymphs17 is
physically minimal. All three retain the choreographer/dancer as centrally staged18, a feature that
makes it possible to undertake a reasonable, if limited, analysis of the movement from film and
video reconstructions.
These dances are presented as personal expressions of their creators, especially since
each dance was originally created to be performed by its choreographer19 rather than by another
dancer. This attribute suggests an intimate co-creative relationship between the dance and the
person who created it. Each dance expressed a harmonic correlation among the identities of the
artist as creator not only of works of art, but also of self as a work of art. This trait of mutual
construction between artist and work of art begun in Romanticism that is both private and public
finds intriguing revision in modern works that follow. The artist presents a self as person,
persona, and icon engaged in an on-going reflexive critical examination, inviting the audience to
participate in the creation of meaning through the direct agency of the artist. The clearly-focused
centrality of presentation in these dances further implies a close, circular dialogue between the
artist and the audience as a mutually- transformative experiential event. This quality implies that
the dances were designed to covey messages of both personal and public significance.
Video and film records of the dances were consulted, and it is understood that each
reconstruction is interpretive in its own right. Holdings at Florida State University include all
three dances in reliable reconstructions, though none are of the original artist in performance.
These archival records combined with photos and eye-witness accounts of the earliest
performances make it possible to examine the artists’ processes of creation and estimate ways in
which these dances have changed over time. In addition to videos, it becomes pertinent to also
study photographic records of the artists in each dance, because all three works depend upon
posed, still positions in sequence20 with movements to impart meaning.
Each dance has its own distinct movement style and form, displaying specific features of
Modernism. Its creator made movement choices designed to support intensely personal
expressive goals related to—yet independent of—the agendas of larger agencies21. On one level,
all three are based on exotic themes coded through attitudes of distinction between European and
non-European societies found in many arts and entertainments of the time. The dances also
exhibit a unification of life and art in which the artist becomes in some degree inseparable from
the work produced. This merging of private self with public display in an exotic context is a
defining characteristic of avant-garde art and continues as a feature of mass media culture today.
However, the manipulation of time and space in these dances evidences the constructed
nature of performance in a way that engages the audience in the act of creating meaning, instead
of simply telling the audience authoritatively what the work is supposed to mean. Concurrent
with the posed centrality of the dancer in them, the dances comment on the relationships between
humans and rapidly developing technology. This gesture of the dances includes both defiance of
expectation and (particularly in the case of Gnossienne) a wry humor in the futility of that
defiance. Finally, the search for fundamental, natural expressive movement free of—or in active
defiance of—social connotations brings these dances into dialogue with abstract expressionism
and cubism, while at the same time providing a basis of spiritual transcendence.
While the artists themselves may or may not have been aware of how interrelated
gestures cumulatively acquire meanings at once social and individual, they still manipulated sets
of gestures at the most basic level of creative selection. They supported these core meanings
with every other feature of the performance, suggesting a constructed cohesiveness of view
indicating parallels in the larger social construct. The process of this investigation leads to a
discussion of how first the artist, and then the audience perceived those meanings as part of the
emergence of modern aesthetics and the social fabric that supported them.
Specific works of dance art constitute the core point of examination in this study, and the
layout of its chapters reflects the central position of the dance first to its creator, then to its
audiences. Chapter One describes the avant-garde aspect of Early Modernism in visual arts to
set the European (primarily French) cultural and artistic framework in which the dances were
created. While it is not possible to give a detailed account of all the “isms” of art in this time
frame, a focus is made on the developments and expressions of Art Nouveau and Art Deco.
These two movements not only present perspectives of Early Modernism, but demonstrate a
direct correlation to the ephemeral, exotic, spiritual, and philosophical directives indicated in
these dances as examples of the avant-garde.
Chapter Five resumes the discussion from the standpoint of an American response
through vaudeville and film. Marketing and packaging strategies designed to reach far-flung
audiences were greatly enhanced by structuring experiential commodities (i. e. film, dance,
music, etc.) according to the principles of modular organization. This approach greatly favored
works that were short, programmatic, and self-contained in a way that referenced larger, less
mobile agencies. Each of the five key elements of avant-garde Modernism is presented in these
chapters to establish the foundations upon which the expressive elements of the dances may be
understood. Whether they appear in the “high arts” of European theatre and visual arts or in
“low art” American entertainments, similar tactics of avant-garde defiance are evident. Like the
dances analyzed in this study, these genres explored exotic themes, experimented with
expressive constructs of time and space in performance, suggested spiritualism as a unity of
gestural meaning between audience and performer, and found natural movement to convey direct
meaning. Collectively, they also commented on the position of the human body and mind
confronted with rapid technological advancements and the Machine Age.
Despite obvious differences in dance training, all three artists referred (in varying
degrees) to the principles of expressive movement analyses developed by Delsarte and
subsequent, related studies on the relationships between movement and rhythm in music by
Swiss composer Emile Jaques-Dalcroze (1865-1950). Delsarte’s detailed observations on the
connection between movement and emotion further suggested ways in which speech (oration)
and movement combine to impart meaning. Based in part upon Delsarte’s work, Dalcroze
developed his system of eurhythmics, by which musical responsiveness could be effectively
taught, first to musicians and composers, then later for dance training in both ballet and modern
dance schools22.
These compatible systems of movement meaning and musical responsiveness influenced
performing arts training and creations in a broad range of Euro-American venues, from popular
entertainment to classical concert stage and film presentations of the late 1800’s to the early
1900’s. But they had a particular influence upon the dances in question here that is important to
the subsequent chapters. St. Denis and Shawn both studied with several American teachers of
Delsarte and based the gestural meanings of their respective dances23 upon Delsarte’s meticulous
analysis of movement and meaning. They later incorporated Dalcroze training in their dance
school curriculum. Based on available documented evidence, Nijinsky speculatively
encountered American Delsartism through contact with Isadora Duncan, who visited Russia
while he was a student of the Imperial Theatre. Dalcroze eurhythmics had already been
introduced into the school at the time Count Volkonsky was appointed Director. Given the
evidence that these systems of correlating meaning between movement and music impacted the
creation of the dances, the work of Delsarte and Dalcroze is touched upon in Chapter One by
way of laying a foundation upon which to build an analysis of the dances in subsequent chapters.
With that in mind, the following three chapters in this investigation frame analyses of
each dance. Chapter Two presents St. Denis’ Incense. Chapter Three develops a perspective on
Shawn’s creation of Gnossienne. And Chapter Four explores Nijinsky’s relationship to the
character of his Faune. The dance training and approach to expressive movement for all three
artists is, at first glance quite different. As the son of dance performers, Nijinsky entered the
Imperial Theatrical School in 1898, where his extensive dance training24 concentrated on
traditional Russian classical ballet. St. Denis and Shawn, however, had had both formal and
informal dance training intermittent with performing that included, but was not limited to, ballet.
And while Nijinsky and St. Denis had strong family support to enter into a dancing profession,
the former seminary student Shawn did not. He took dance class in order to overcome physical
weakness due to illness. In the process of learning, Shawn merged his ideas of the “self-made
man” with American Christianity. He discovered within the expressive potential of dance a
utopic idealism for American society and education that included a redefinition of American
masculinity.
A description of key movements chosen for discussion of the dance in question follows
each segment of training and dance experiences. Video reconstructions of Incense and
Gnossienne by Professor Jack Clark of Florida State University Dance Department, and the
video reconstruction of Faune by Elizabeth Schooling and William Chappell for the 1980 PBS
production, Nureyev and the Joffrey Ballet in Tribute to Nijinsky, were consulted. An
examination of how the movements interrelate to create meaning is undertaken, based on a
detailed word description of each dance in Appendix I. This area of investigation constitutes the
core of the study. All three dances present various negotiations between movement, meaning,
and non-movement factors such as music costume, and stage sets. These negotiations are set in
the larger context of the five aspects of the avant-garde.
It is in consideration of how music was matched with movement in these dances that
expressive goals are further clarified. St. Denis first conceptualized the idea of Incense, then
went in search of music appropriate to that idea. She then arranged the order of the dance to
correspond to the musical dynamics of the piece so that movement and music would be in
emotional alignment. Her expressive goal was to draw together the collection of performing
factors—of which music was one—into a harmonic unity which St. Denis believed
communicated a universal truth and beauty.
By contrast, Shawn first choreographed the movements of Gnossienne for a Denishawn
dance class. The original purpose of the sequence of movements was designed to teach dance
students how to render their bodies in complete and total control for the expressive purposes of
their art. Later perceiving the potential for wry humor and a comment on gender relations in the
movements of this classroom sequence, Shawn found the suggestion of an appropriate narrative
and Cretan theme in the title of the piano work by the French composer Erik Satie (1866-1925)
that he had chosen. In the process of tracing the meaning of the word “gnossienne”, he found the
image of the “Cup-bearer” fresco from the ancient ruins of the Palace of Knossos and
incorporated the stylized stance and suggested movement potential of this image into the dance.
Both Shawn and St. Denis incorporated the dynamics of their respective music choices
closely to their expressive gestures. But Nijinsky’s abrupt, angular, and flat choreography only
subtly refers to the languid, dream-like dynamics of the music by the French Impressionist
composer Claude Debussy (1862-1918). And Debussy’s composition was in turn inspired by the
poem of the same title by Symbolist poet, Stéphane Mallarmé (1842-1898). Movement and
music in Nijinsky’s Faune cohabit the same temporal frame with key connections to one another,
instead of matching in a close parallel between visual and audible elements. Nijinsky had the
idea for the ballet, a conception of its characteristic movements, and had chosen its music well
before beginning to choreograph. Taking only his sister Bronislava Nijinska (1891-1972) into
his confidence, he meticulously worked out the complex relationship between music and
movement he wanted before rehearsals (Nijinska: 316).
Added to movement and music relationships in Chapters Two, Three and Four is a brief
description of production elements such as costumes, makeup, props, lighting, and stage setting
in terms of how they provide specific points of reference in each dance. Such elements are
crucial, because it is only through them that specific movement meanings can be understood in
context with a coherent performing experience. This consideration is important because
movement and non-movement factors in combination are fundamental to each dance as an
experiential communication. The writhing swirls of St. Denis’ arm movements in Incense are
accentuated by her flowing, filmy robes that both define and conceal her body. Nijinsky’s
mottled, skin-tight costume with his head topped by horns emphasizes the character of this halfman, half-beast engaged in sexual awakening. The dropped veil of one of the Nymphs in Faune
is invested with a density of ambiguous connotations summed up in the “absent feminine” and
incomplete experience for the Faun. And the heavy coils of fabric wrapped around Shawn’s
arms, thighs, waist, and head confine his movements into the direct, iconographic lines of his
priest’s ritual as well as suggesting a sexual reference to the (implied presence of) his snake
goddess (Sherman: letter 6 September 2003).
Finally, Chapters Two, Three, and Four include discussions about the positions of the
dances relative to other works by the same artist and works of other artists influenced by them.
While Shawn created Gnossienne in the midst of his early Denishawn phase as an instruction
tool for his dance classes, both St. Denis and Nijinsky began their choreographic efforts with
Incense and Faune, respectively. The expressive potential begun in Incense was quickly
developed in the same year through St. Denis’ series on Hindu themes, culminating in the
sensuous Radha. Her central position, use of fabric and props, and exotic themes in all these
dances impacted the development of the younger Shawn and their Denishawn student, Martha
Graham (1893-1991). Shawn often returned to themes of ancient gods in his prolific
choreographic output, but in this direction he seemed merely to shadow St. Denis’ prior fame.
However, the abstract iconography and display of masculine physical articulation characteristic
of Gnossienne makes appearances in some of his later works for his all-male troupe. In addition
to fostering the talents of Martha Graham, Shawn’s quirky humor in Gnossienne helped
Denishawn student Charles Weidman (1901-1975)25 define his own unique performance style.
Although he choreographed a total of only four ballets, Nijinsky utilized some of the
expressive potential of abstract movement in ritual and sexual searching suggested in Faune in
his following works even though by that time he had begun to succumb to the insanity that
would cut short his creative career. The impetus of his artistic goals as understood by his sister
Bronislava Nijinska was sensitively carried forward in her performing, choreographic, and
teaching career. Nijinska’s ecole de movement (1919-1921) was designed not only to train
dancers capable of performing in the new ballets, but also to prepare stage and film performers in
a new movement lexicon appropriate to the expressions of the new century. A number of EuroAmerican ballet dancers and choreographers subsequently inherited Nijinsky’s innovations26
through the efforts of his sister.
The process of exchange and dialogue between various art media and popular
entertainments was particularly fluid and vital during this period, and as such needs to be
examined. Chapter Five returns to the larger perspective of Chapter One, placing the dances in
context with other performing arts of the time. While Chapter One emphasizes visual arts in
Europe, this chapter follows popular entertainment from a primarily-American perspective of
stage and screen representations. This is because American vaudeville (1890-1920)27 and its
extension into film was an American project of packaging and marketing. Obviously, only a
very cursory overview of works in opera, theatre, vaudeville, and film can be presented here.
However, key examples from each venue are chosen as points of reference from which to discuss
how these dances negotiate the five identified elements of Modern avant-garde arts. An idea of
how the dances were marketed to, and perceived by, audiences is also presented in this chapter
out of information gained from available written records.
In a study of this scope, it is important to establish limitations and restrictions on the
range of investigation. The first point is that that the three dances are not examined in equal
relativity. St. Denis’ dances have come under particular scrutiny in regard to feminist critical
study, cultural imperialism, and the ramifications of gender in performance. Therefore, it
becomes more effective for this investigation to use the scholarship available on St. Denis as a
lens focused on related issues in the works of Nijinsky and Shawn. While some excellent
articles discuss the male body and concepts of masculinity in performance28, the majority of
critical analyses in this field appear in film studies.
Rather than undertake a detailed description of the influences of non-Euro-American
dances, spirituality, or cultural rituals on Western concert dance, the task of this study focuses its
view of these dances as part of a larger Euro-American cultural infrastructure. The processes of
exploring the organic and symbiotic exchanges between artist, work, and culture these dances
represent are emphasized with exotic contexts29 as a common thread in which non-European
cultures are performed as a Western construct. The works are also not presented as
representative of the dances or cultural practices from which they are derived. Instead, as
examples of Early Modernism, the dances invoke a spiritual/expressive condition inspired by
non-Euro-American cultures. It is also outside the scope of this investigation to include nonEuro-American artists who worked through connotations of ethnic exoticism in order to gain
comparable artistic authority on Western stages.
This study also does not propose to discuss the effect these dances might have had upon
audiences of the cultures which inspired their themes. These three dance works represent in
varying degrees a Euro-American social construct of non-Euro-American culture. As such, they
comment on an impression of exoticism invoked through remote geographies and/or time
frames30. While St. Denis reported31 an enthusiastic response to her Oriental dances in India and
Japan, this study examines the impact of presentation only on Euro-American audiences.
This study also does not imply that these dances represent the majority of dance works
produced within the time frame indicated. On the contrary, each was received with some
surprise (or shock, as was the case with Faune). However, it is in examining the similarities and
differences among them that some estimation of how Incense, Gnossienne, and Faune both
affected and represented facets of the culture in which they were produced can be discussed. In
this sense, European and American art dance aesthetics are considered in concert with these
dances, given the understanding that they are not at all the same.
A vast body of scholarship already exists in many areas of critical analysis in literature.
While this model informs the current study, the range of examination required to include samples
of literature from the same time period is beyond the scope of this investigation. However, some
issues explored in the critical analysis of literature have bearing on the performances of these
dances. For example, feminist issues in performance are presented here from the standpoint of
St. Denis’ contrasting example to parallel negotiations of gender and identity for the male
performing body required of Nijinsky and Shawn. Female and male bodies in performance
provoke different yet related considerations in reading the dances as cultural texts. However, the
basic relationship between power and meaning in Western culture breaks down, as John Berger
succinctly notes in his book, Ways of Seeing as a gendered position of perspective that
permeates society and thereby fundamentally affects the basic premise of performance:
. . . men act and women appear. Men look at women. Women watch themselves
being looked at. This determines not only most relations between men and
women but also the relation of women to themselves. The surveyor of woman in
herself is male; the surveyed female. Thus she turns herself into an object—and
most particularly an object of vision; a sight (47).
While women in performance constitute a topic of critical analysis from the standpoint of
women’s studies and feminist theory, the lack of extensive study in the area of masculine
performance on stage is noted, and merits a study of greater depth than is possible here. Outside
a very narrow and brief discussion of a few pertinent play texts and opera librettos designed for
stage or screen performance, written works that do not impact directly on the dances, are not
included.
Finally it is important to state that only one reconstruction recorded on video for each
dance provides the basis for analysis32. The criteria for this choice includes availability,
reliability of reconstruction, clarity of video recording, and accuracy of performing intent33 in
view of how the original dance artist conceived the dance. Some spatial relationships in video
recordings are difficult to ascertain; however, the stage centrality of the performer in all these
dances makes the task34 somewhat easier.
St. Denis, Shawn, and Nijinsky had different obstacles to surmount in the process of
becoming expressive dancer/creators. The choreographic project of their dances represented a
serious artistic/economic risk reflecting the sense in which they constructed themselves as artists
at the same time as they constructed their dances. Gender certainly plays a part in this
consideration. While St. Denis as an alluring young woman had no difficulty attracting an
audience, the traditional role of women in dance (from popular entertainments to the ballet)
inherited from Nineteenth Century Euro-American conventions was that women performed
dances created by men to be seen by men. By the time St. Denis began to choreograph, a few
women—notably Duncan and Fuller—had broken this convention. Nevertheless, St. Denis’
work and public persona acknowledged in some fashion this previously established relationship
between a (largely masculine) audience and (predominantly female) dancers.
Because they were men, Shawn and Nijinsky did not have this particular performing
advantage. Nijinsky at least had the reputation and fame of the Ballets Russes through which to
promote his experimentations. The Euro-Russian dancing male had an accepted position
associated with the ballet, especially since the first performances of Diaghilev’s Ballets Russes in
Europe restored the deteriorating position of the professional male dancer.
But in America there was only a barely grudging acceptance of the male presence in
European ballet imports, and that acceptance certainly did not extend to American male dancers.
Shawn drew choreographic authority mainly from his association with St. Denis and Denishawn.
This granted him a mutually developmental relationship because he served as teacher and cofounder of Denishawn, and performed and choreographed in partnership with St. Denis. Prior to
this base of associations and on his own, Shawn was faced with an ongoing struggle against
deeply-rooted American prejudices against men who take up the profession of dance; a struggle
which may explain in part why his artistic and educative roles were so closely related.
Shawn’s and Nijinsky’s works feature precise, analytic approaches to movement
dynamics and corresponding meaning. Their dances were meticulously choreographed to be
performed the same way every time and it is in part due to this precision that both dances carry
elements of humor. In contrast, St. Denis’ approach was more intuitive and spontaneous; the
details of the movements of her dance varied from one performance to the next according to
whim. The spiritual expression in Incense is tempered with an attitude of gentle feminine
compassion rather than the humor found in both Faune and Gnossienne. Again, the gender of
the creator/dancer in each case indicates one possible reason for these differences. St. Denis
took the creative prerogative directly from herself; she embodied the feminine divine without
intermediary or intervention. While it was St. Denis’ point to create a seamless entity with the
character of her own dance, Shawn and Nijinsky both refer either to an unseen, inscrutable
feminine divine (Gnossienne’s Snake Goddess) or to a frustratingly elusive, escaping feminine
that leaves behind as its only physical relic a diaphanous veil (as Faune’s Nymph).
Each artist incorporated the prevailing nature expressed in the respective dances into a
performing persona, an attribute of that period of Early Modernism in which the performing self
was as much the icon of audience recognition as the character exhibited in the work of art.
Despite Nijinsky’s public popularity in his previous roles, he desired an escape from his
sentimental ballet association with “perfumed flowers”(Buckles: 259). Instead, he declared that
the character of the half-man half-beast Faun, which initially shocked and outraged the moral
sensibilities of its first Paris audiences, was himself (Jonas: 216).
St. Denis, by contrast, remained constant to the goals expressed in Incense throughout her
creating and performing career. Incense established a tone of introspective removal from the
mundane, ordinary world and fed that rarified illusion of spiritual transformation she steadfastly
maintained for herself long after audiences had moved on to other novelties. Gnossienne opened
an opportunity for the former divinity student Shawn to explore an integration of manly and
spiritual dance expressions to which he returned from time to time. Its quirky humor
acknowledges and comments on a public masculine display in the service of religion,
figuratively and literally providing Shawn with educational material.
The three dances are staged with related yet different orientations of audience and dancer
that inform the establishment of gendered space. St. Denis’ Incense places the audience in the
privileged position of the deity being worshipped, and yet the dancer is also the entity on display
in an acknowledgement of the traditional female dancer performing for the male gaze. Shawn’s
dance places the (absent feminine) Snake Goddess off stage right, directly opposite his priest’s
stage left position of willful pride so that the audience for Gnossienne is positioned between the
“horns of his dilemma”.
Faune’s utilization of gendered space is more complicated. His nymphs (both present as
props and “absent” as characters) enter and exit exclusively on and off stage right, but the Faun
never enters or leaves the stage. These nymphs, while not actual deities, are the focus of the
Faune’s interest and transformation analogous to the deities implied in Incense and Gnossienne.
Entrances and exits in the flat plane of the dance segregate feminine from masculine zones of
habitation, just as the upper and lower stage zones designate a private and public space for the
Faun. The spectator of Nijinsky’s dance is positioned as an outside, unrecognized observer of a
fleeting panorama of movement, rather than a privileged (royal) guest welcomed into the lush
treasures of the ballet.
St. Denis and Shawn performed their respective dances throughout their long performing
careers, but Nijinsky performed as the Faun only from its premiere in 1912 until the collapse of
his ill-fated Saison Nijinsky in 1914. Faune and Incense represented the first formal
choreographic works for public performance of their creators, but Gnossienne35 was created after
Shawn had choreographed and performed many of his own solos. And while Gnossienne and
Faune certainly had some landmark influences on subsequent works by Shawn and Nijinsky,
respectively, Incense can be more accurately considered as the first in a series of five, closelyrelated solos for St. Denis, all designed after variations East Indian motifs and often performed in
thematic sequence in the same evening. Incense clearly influenced Shawn’s career in dance, of
which Gnossienne was a part. Through Faune Nijinsky recognized the expressive potential of
Duncan’s “Greek” dancing. Without imitating her spontaneous contempt of the “artificial
discipline” in ballet training, Nijinsky instigated significant revisions of the exotic base in ballet
tradition that his predecessor36 Fokine did not quite dare to pursue (S. J. Cohen). Interestingly,
Faune may have at least indirectly influenced the later Gnossienne, for Shawn was certainly
aware of Nijinsky’s work whether or not he actually saw Faune before creating his own archaicevocative dance.
All three artists had some prior performing experience in the works of others, and had
achieved fame as dancers from which the authority to choreograph was derived. St. Denis and
Nijinsky focused their careers on performing, a fact reflected in their subsequent choreography.
But Shawn’s Gnossienne presents a different relationship between the acts of performance and
choreography because it grew out of a classroom exercise Shawn had created to teach dance.
Thus, Gnossienne was part of a continuing process of self-education that included instructing.
The evolution of choreography for Shawn grew in conjunction with, as opposed to arising as a
result of, his development as a dancer.
Each artist formulated a different, yet related method of retaining the dance in question.
Shawn and St. Denis wrote profusely on their performing relationships with their dance works,
but Nijinsky did not. While St. Denis recorded only general movement information on Incense,
both Shawn and Nijinsky wrote out detailed movement directions for their pieces. In 1922
Nijinska, who had helped her brother create Faune performed Nijinsky’s role. Incense was long
performed by St. Denis herself in a variety of stage conditions well into her eighties. Shawn,
however, taught Gnossienne to his student Barton Mumaw (1912-2000) then Mumaw taught it to
Professor Jack Clark (Florida State University) in a line of succession closely associated with
Shawn’s goals for dance as an educational tool. At the same time, both Gnossienne and Incense
were offered in Denishawn pamphlets as dances that could be purchased, or franchised out for a
fee to students who would come to St. Denis or Shawn to properly learn them, take advice on
costuming, and perform them with the same intent as their creators (Cohen: 7).
Overall, this project is not designed to encompass a single, definitive perspective on
dance scholarship, or to replace other avenues of study. Instead, it demonstrates how an analysis
of dance as one of many cultural indicators contributes to the body of dance scholarship in
dialogue with provocative studies ongoing in other cultural studies. Rather than duplicate
previous scholarship concentrating on single dance works or artists, this study undertakes an
examination of three different dances in tandem. Components of performance are examined for
similarities and differences among these dances. And those components are also compared with
other art texts of Early Modernism expressing five specific key tropes of the avant-garde;
exoticism, spiritualism, distortions of time and space, nature versus social construct, and a
response to the challenges of technology. Considered in tandem, these dances, containing both
conservative and innovative properties, take an active part in the avant-garde force during the
time period in question. Issues raised at the close of the Nineteenth into the Twentieth Century
just prior to the First World War continue to inform our current aesthetic and cultural expressive
behaviors into the Twenty-First Century. In this context, the avant-garde aspect of Early
Modernism is part of an on-going process of cultural development examined more closely in
Chapter One.
END NOTES TO INTRODUCTION
1
A Glossary of terms and the way in which they are used in this interdisciplinary study is provided after the
Appendix and before the Bibilography.
2
Although Nijinsky was born of Polish parents and trained in the Russian Imperial Theatre, a strong European
(Parisian) artistic influence was ascendant during the time he was choreographing. Much of his creative impetus
appeared during his residence in France.
3
It is the approach of this study to examine the avant-garde at some distance from its usually inflammatory rhetoric.
Although avant-garde artists present their works as a “totally new and revolutionary” approach to art, this study
takes the view that in practice the avant-garde founds itself on a frame of reference to, rather than a complete break
with, the traditional conventions of which it is contemptuous. It is in this sense the word “criticize” is used.
4
In this study a correlation of masculine gender issues in performance between Nijinsky and Shawn is attempted
with St. Denis as a feminist point of reference. The choice of Gnossienne, a study of abstract movement framed on
an ancient Minoan/Greek theme is directly comparable to Nijinksy's Faun. And The Incense is also discussed as
having stylistic relationships with Delsarte (American version) “statue posing”, exercises drawing direct reference
from classical Greek and Roman statuary.
A more complete discussion of artistic influences and interpretations relating to these archives will be undertaken
throughout this dissertation.
6
This feature also applies to several of St. Denis’ later works, such as Egypta.
7
Examinations of traditional approaches to dance history and scholarship were undertaken beginning in the late
1980's and early 1990's in response to critical studies in other disciplines such as literature, music, theatre, and film.
8
The thrust of Desmond’s article in the Summer 2000 issue of Dance Research Journal, “Terra Incognita: Mapping
New Territory in Dance and ‘Cultural Studies’” (43-62) calls for a cross-disciplinary approach to ethnographic
dance studies. An expansion of dance studies from this perspective is part of a larger movement to bring dance
scholarship in dialogue with other, related disciplines; the direction is urged also in the writings of other dance
scholars, notably Gay Morris, Susan Foster, Ann Daly and Sally Banes, among others.
9
This publication included not only the usual preface and introduction to the novel and the text of the novel, but was
followed by a series of inclusive analytical essays. This edition of Frankenstein was edited by Johanna M. Smith
and published by Bedford Books of St. Martin’s Press (1992).
10
Comments of people who met Nijinsky in social settings found him, as stated by Levin, to be strangely mute and
inattentive. They supposed that, based on this impression, Nijinsky was not very bright; however, descriptions of
his activities by his sister and others who knew him well indicate that he was in fact simply “selective” in
discriminating between what either did, or did not interest him. Social graces were, to Nijinsky, a waste of time; art,
life, and spirituality were, according to his diary, of the utmost importance.
11
The sense of humor implied in both Gnossienne and Faune is detailed in depth in their respective chapters. An
ironic self-referentiality on the “artificiality” of display in performance contrasts in both dances with a serious,
reverential, and even religious mein.
12
It is no coincidence that these movements, first taking hold in Europe and then in the United States, often took
figures and images from ballet and modern dance to express dichotomies and harmonies among art, nature,
humanity, and technology.
13
The term “Gilded Age” was first coined by Mark Twain to express American society’s showy surfaces covering
corrupt practices in the late 1800s. The period was characterized by a carefree playfulness on the part of the wealthy
few despite widespread destitution of the masses leading to progressive era reform movements of the first decade of
the Twentieth Century. Lavish display of American wealth appalled Europeans; French Prime Minister Georges
Clemenceau remarked upon his visit to the United States that Americans had managed to progress from barbarians
to decadence without achieving civilization in the process. As will be discussed in this chapter, La Belle Epoque, or
“Beautiful Age” (1890-1900) in Europe was characterized by a similar attitude of playfulness and social license with
its own dark corners under the gaity.
14
An example is Coco Fusco’s wonderful museum joke, “Two Undiscovered Amerindians Visit Buenos Aries,
1994”.
15
This delimitation is in no way meant to imply that significant alterations had not previously occurred. In fact,
changes were underway in the early eighteen hundreds that profoundly affected art and culture in this time frame. In
addition, it is important to also recognize that these developments did not cease after 1920, but continue to
intimately inform developments of the Twenty-First Century.
16
St. Denis’ approach to her early choreography, particularly for her own solos, is recorded in Shelton’s biography,
Divine Dancer. Shawn describes briefly that he first choreographed the movements of Gnossienne for a Denishawn
class exercise in his book, One Thousand and One Night Stands, and the piece appears as an example in his book,
Fundamentals of Dance. Nijinsky’s choreographic approach is detailed in Bronislava Nijinska’s Early Memoirs.
17
With the exception of a brief and strangely remote exchange between the Faun and the Nymph who drops her veil,
the ballet might be described as a solo for the Faun with a kind of “horizontally sliding background” of the nymphs.
In any case, the impetus of expression is almost exclusively focused on the Faun.
The dance begins and ends with the soloist who is always the central focus of the piece; other dancers or nondance presence (as is the case with St. Denis’ Radha) on the stage either serve only to frame the soloist or present a
kind of stage prop background. The point of view in mood and narrative is entirely that of the soloist.
19
The fact that these dances were recorded and eventually passed on to other dancers makes it possible for them to
be examined through video reconstructions. The nature of these different transitions is discussed in more detail in
those chapters centering on the dances.
20
Shortly after the first performances of Faune, Nijinsky paid to have a photography folio of the piece done by De
Meyer. These photographs have become invaluable to reconstructions of the dance (Guest) and when compared to
photographs taken later of Nijinsky dancing the same role, make evident the encroachment of a very different frame
of mind; the onset of insanity that haunted his last public performances.
21
St. Denis created Incense as an independent artist, having left the aegis of Belasco to pursue a spiritual rather than
a commercial dance direction. While Shawn was deeply involved in teaching for Denishawn, Gnossienne was
transformed from a difficult classroom exercise into a personal solo for him. And Nijinsky developed Faune in
secret; he and his sister showed it to Diaghilev and began rehearsals with the company only after the choreography
had been set.
22
Records of curriculums show that both Delsarte and Dalcroze exercises were incorporated into Denishawn
programs of instruction as well as later programs individually presented by St. Denis and Shawn. Dalcroze
eurhythmics had been introduced into the Imperial Theatre schools by Count Volkonsky when he was Director from
1899 to 1901 (www.russianballet.ru: 6 February 2003). Although Volkonsky later published a work on Delsarte in
1913, the author was unable to definitely determine whether or not Nijinsky, as a student of those schools or later as
a member of the Ballets Russes had had any instruction in Delsarte. It is likely that he at least was introduced to
their basics precepts, however intuitively, through contact with Isadora Duncan (Reuter: email 16 December 2002).
23
According to their biographies and autobiographies discussing choreographic process, St. Denis and Shawn went
about this process of correlating movement and meaning from Delsarte training quite differently; while St. Denis
seemed to “feel” her way to precisely the right movements, Shawn took a typically conscious and analytical
approach. The combination of these two artistic perspectives provided their school with a particularly fertile basis
of dance art experimentation, as evidenced through their illustrious students.
24
Nijinsky’s parents were Polish, but his training in dance and early performing experience was at the Imperial
Russian School. His sister records that he was not accepted as Russian while there in part due to his speaking accent
and his “exotic” looks; high cheekbones and slanted eyes earned him the nickname of “little Jap” among the other
students. After 1909 Nijinsky stayed in Europe and spoke and wrote in French. In this sense, Nijinsky had a
cosmopolitan European life as an adult with Russian roots to his early ballet training. This arrangement emphasizes
his ambiguous status as an expatriate artist whose “home” is at once anywhere and nowhere.
25
Weidman’s partner, Doris Humphrey (1895-1958) is not included here because specific issues of masculinity in
Gnossienne apply to the choreographic developments of Shawn’s male student, Weidman.
26
Not least among them Léonide Massine (1895-1979), who served as Diaghilev’s third choreographer after Fokine
left and Nijinsky could no longer continue his artistic work.
27
These dates for vaudeville are approximate, since historians are unclear when vaudeville actually began. The last
vaudeville house closed its doors in 1932.
It is interesting that investigations of the male in performance overwhelmingly appear centered in film studies. Of
these, Cohen and Hark’s book, Screening the Male is comprehensive with a number of articles on the topic, and
Gary Wills’ article, “John Wayne’s Body” appeared in The New Yorker.
29
An excellent source of discussion on the relationship between Western culture and exoticisim is found in Edward
Said's books, Orientalism and Culture and Imperialism (see bibliography).
30
A kind of opening for reinvention of artistic authority and persona for the dance artist is created by setting the
dance in a “far away” location (India, for example) and/or a distant time frame (i. e. Archaic Greece rather than
modern or Hellenic, the latter having been extensively referred to in ballet). The tactic has the effect of investing the
dance artist with the ability to guide the audience through new, unfamiliar territory.
31
In journal entries, as discussed by Shelton and in her autobiography, St. Denis even suggested that her Nautch
dance performed in India stimulated a renewed interest in, and resurrection of indigenous folk and temple dance
styles. But there was in fact already a sturdy movement directed toward preservation of Hindu dance (which had
indeed suffered due to British colonial and Christian missionary pressures) at work through the efforts of Rukhmini
Devi, among others.
32
This is not to say that other reconstructions will not be consulted; any movements not clearly shown in the main
examples must be referred to through other sources for accuracy.
33
Again, speculative, but to be deduced on the basis of all available information.
It has been suggested that the investigator also mimic some of the simple movements of the dances to gain a
kinesthetic understanding of them: assistance in this direction has been kindly offered by movement analysis
specialists Philips and Clark in the FSU dance department.
35
Shawn’s first choreography is listed by Dreier as “incidental dances” for his 1911 play, The Female of the Species.
Between that and Gnossienne in 1919 Shawn had choreographed no less than fifty-five pieces, not counting those he
created in collaboration with St. Denis or Norma Gould.
36
Fokine had been Nijinsky’s teacher in the Imperial Russian Schools and when Diaghilev began touring Europe
with his Ballets Russes, Fokine was his primary choreographer of the “new” type of ballet. While Fokine’s declared
goals of revision in ballet rejuvenated the art, they did not go as far as Nijinsky’s did. Fokine choreographed a
number of influential ballets with Nijinsky, including Schéhérazade (1910), and Petrouska, Le Spectre de la Rose,
and Narcisse (1911). When Nijinsky’s Faune garnered so much attention in 1912, Fokine left and Nijinsky took the
position of choreographer for a short time before his mental condition made it impossible for him to continue work.
CHAPTER ONE
Dance as a Project of Early Modern Avant-Garde
This chapter presents the groundwork upon which these dances participate in
vigorous exchange with visual, decorative, and performing arts1 of the time. Some idea
of this exchange makes it possible to delve with greater depth into the factors of
performance over the course of the next three chapters; Incense in Chapter Two,
Gnossienne in Chapter Three, and Faune in Chapter Four. While the three dances under
consideration were created between 1900 and 1920, the artistic developments that
influenced them reach back into issues raised by Nineteenth Century Romanticism,
explored through Symbolism, and continued in the avant-garde movements of the early
years in the Twentieth Century.
Whereas Chapter Five deals with American responses to—and reinterpretations
of—the European artistic vanguard, this chapter sets the stage with a discussion of how
the period of La Belle Epoque (approximately from 1885 to 1900) in Europe generally
(and Paris specifically) made it possible for those changes to define the nature of the
avant-garde in Modernism. Collaborations and exchanges among artists of all mediums
in the earliest stages of the European avant-garde suggest how the dances analyzed in
subsequent chapters can be placed in conceptual context with that impetus. As will be
discussed in greater depth in their respective chapters, the dances took shape according to
a network of influences and collaborations2 supporting each artist’s new vision of self in
art.
As presented in the Introduction, components of the avant-garde (spiritualism,
exoticism, naturalism, technology, and distortion of time and space) suggest a basis of
exchange between dance and the larger cultural and artistic milieu. In this chapter, dance
innovations by Duncan and Fuller are examined relative to visual and decorative arts
ongoing in Europe. With performance careers that began before the turn of the century,
these artists found it worthwhile to first claim their artistic territory in Paris3, where the
novelty of American artistic dancers brought them to the attention of European artists.
Later, Fuller and Duncan toured the United States and gained a somewhat better
25
acceptance resulting from their success in Europe. This acceptance was also encouraged
through the introduction of European avant-garde visual art works into American
galleries, suggesting a conceptual correlation between dance and visual arts. Only a few
years later, Ruth St. Denis also followed this pattern. As American women dance artists,
Duncan, Fuller and St. Denis provided a cultural/artistic bridge between Europe and the
United States with reconsiderations of gender and power in signification.
These early experimental dance artists bridged conceptual concerns such as; self
and community, the mutual responsibilities of art and society, and reinterpretations of
relationships among artists, art works, and audience/viewers. In Europe they were
viewed as “exotic” novelties; events which well suited Parisian art/intellectual circles and
prepared them to accept other new arts of, for example, Nijinsky’s and Shawn’s
expressive male dances. Nijinsky’s role as a phenomenal male dancer with Diaghilev’s
Ballets Russes also took advantage of his national and personal “exoticism” in a way that
influenced reception of Faune. And it could be argued that Shawn, as an American
expressive male dancer, inhabited a category so “rare” as to be an exotic event of his
own. In any case, Faune effectively premiered in Paris, while St. Denis and Shawn
found in this same place a more general respect for, and acceptance of, their dances than
in the United States.
Two styles displaying components of the avant-garde and bringing them into
daily context were Art Nouveau (or “new art” lasting between 1890 and 1910) and Art
Deco (broadly influential from 1914 to 1940). These styles provided an aesthetic
continuity between the United States and Europe just prior to the onset of war. Artists in
all fields stimulated and encouraged one another in an unprecedented exchange of
creative effort. And their creations were offered to the public at large amid technological
and scientific advancements in the Paris Exposition Universelle of 1889 and 1900 (which
featured Fuller4 as the iconographic image of Art Nouveau), and the 1925 Exhibition of
Decorative Arts in Paris that gave its name to Art Deco.
While both styles encompassed a broad range of fine and decorative arts, Art
Nouveau and Art Deco expressed different agendas in the Modernist construct. Art
Nouveau, which appeared first, stressed an “organic”, asymmetrical flow of line and
melded motifs of feminine grace, nature, and exoticism. This style presented surfaces of
26
playfulness and carefree fantasy; whimsical humor in which an iron wrought table lamp
is cast in the shape of Fuller caught mid-dance:
Although the product of an urban culture, Art Nouveau proclaimed the
importance of nature by favoring sinuous, flowing lines and shapes
inspired by vines, flowers, tendrils, windblown grass, and swirling waves.
Its artistic products were often fanciful and extravagant (Anderson: 10).
Art Deco, with its streamlined, efficient, and functional surfaces presented a more
utilitarian image of nature and the human expressive body5 brought together in artful,
symmetrical balance.
Rather than appearing to arrest movement (as did Art Nouveau), Art Deco
captured an iconographic moment of pose6. This style, which appeared after Art
Nouveau, constituted a more conscious response to the technological progress of the
Machine Age, reflected often in the depiction of animals and people. While some Art
Deco objects were one-of-a-kind, others (with the same attention to the aesthetics of
utility) could be mass-produced and distributed anywhere at minimal cost. Shawn and St.
Denis attempted a comparable pattern in franchising their dances (Cohen). As will be
presented in their respective chapters, St. Denis’ Incense presents an aesthetic referring to
both styles, while Faune and Gnossienne express an affinity with Art Deco. Together,
both styles suggested a combination of social and artistic activities as a series of selfcritical, reflective modern issues. In the context of this study, Art Nouveau and Art Deco
highlight ways in which experimental dance thwarted traditional expectations of
performance art by appealing to the consumer’s appetite for anything “new”.
It is precisely this appetite that the avant-garde seeks to appease while at the same
time regenerate. Despite avant-garde rhetoric that each new development owes nothing
to its predecessors, in practice the opposite is more accurate; transitions from one
movement to the next were not abrupt changes of direction, but developments of a logical
continuity. Even in its origins, the avant-garde rose from its European beginnings in La
Belle Epoque to reinvent itself in an American setting at the close of the “Gilded Age”7.
On both sides of the Atlantic, Romaticism’s heroic striving against insurmountable odds
resurfaced in avant-garde’s criticism of the conditions of mercantilism, middle-class
morality, and industrialization against which it was heroically defiant:
27
. . .its [avant-garde] ability to come before the public not only as an arbiter
of taste but as an example of moral heroism—is peculiarly dependent on
the fiction of its extreme vulnerability. . .Central to its doctrine of
embattled and threatened virtue is the notion of. . .the avant-garde’s
“adversary” relation to the larger (bourgeois) culture in which it functions
(Kramer: 4-5).
The same relationship holds true in broader perspectives; if the aesthetics of
avant-garde art are considered as a philosophical topic alongside ethics, politics, religion,
economics, etc., then art had some kind of mutually-interpretive relationship with these
concerns. One expression of this relationship appeared in artistic manifestos attached to
calls for social and/or political change. Even so simple a slogan as “art for art’s sake”
indicated a culturally and philosophically identifiable position consistent with an
aesthetic one by which art was categorized in a series of “-isms” too numerous to go into
here8. The ramifications of this application are far-reaching:
And from about 1863 on, with Manet and with the collapse of the
authority of the Académie des Beaux-Arts, the history of art was the
history of movements, each of which carried. . .its own philosophy of what
art was and what art should do (Danto: 14).
In an extended investigation9 of artistic and cultural developments of the 1800’s
it was found that just as Europe and the United States arrived at stages in different
decades, the visual arts, theatre, literature, music and dance responded to these stages also
at different times. For example, the first vampire story by Dr. John Polidori that appeared
in print in 181910 was followed by Marshner’s opera, Der Vampyr11 in 1828. And the
Russian Imperial choreographer Petipa’s Don Quixote ballet appeared in Russia in 1869,
fully 94 years after the original story by Cervantes had been translated into English. The
early German Romantic poem/play, Goethe’s Faust published in 1790 included droves of
fantasy feminine figures, but it wasn’t until 1821 that pointe slippers made possible the
the triumph of Marie Taglioni in the 1832 Romantic Ballet fantasy, La Sylphide.
In a similar fashion, Early Modernism in visual arts often appeared in the
vanguard, sometimes concurrently with music. However, opera and concert dance
(which, in the 1800’s meant the ballet closely connected to opera) as conservative vessels
of tradition tended to pass through the same stage somewhat later. It is therefore
28
appropriate to discuss Abstract Expressionism in painting appearing in the 1880’s in the
same context with comparable issues in St. Denis’ 1906 Incense. Recognition of that
relationship suggests that expressive arts—regardless of medium—created between 1900
and 1920 exerted an understandable influence on subsequent developments of the 1920s,
30s and 40s. This kind of fluidity of time relative to issues is well in keeping with the
nature of Modernism itself. Questions raised at the turn of the century continue to inform
the production of expressive modern works even today. As Christos Joachimides states
in his commentary for The Age of Modernism:
The Age of Modernism is not over and done with: it is still in progress
and still surprising us with new impulses, unexpected suggestions and
daring surmises (9).
The position of the avant-garde (literally meaning, “front guard”, or at the
foremost station in a group moving in a given direction) in Modernism was first mapped
out among participants—primarily artists—of La Belle Epoque centered in Paris12 during
the last decade of the Nineteenth Century. In his book, The Banquet Years: The Origins
of the Avant-Garde in France 1885 to World War I, Roger Shattuck emphasizes the
concentration of time and place with “an artistic tradition of defiance” peculiar to the
French. He is quick to point out however, that this defiance was more accurately an
attitude of rebellion on the part of a younger, sophisticated crowd13 directed against
sober, conservative elements of middle-class society in general. The tone of this
rebellion ranged from playful and witty to violent and destructive. For example, Alfred
Jarry’s “aesthetic nilhism” in Ubu Roi (1896) was, as Kramer puts it, “. . .not only an
assault upon the audience but an assault on art itself” (8). Later inheritors of this nilhism,
Futurists, for example; “acted out dreams of revenge. . . and [advocated] street riots”
(Kramer 10-1). The attitude of subversive anarchy led to the creation of nonsense prose
and poetry, atonal “opera” (Such as Schoenberg’s 1913 Pierrot Luniere) and teacups
lined with fur14; in short, any act that could possibly outrage or drive crazy anyone
dependent on linear time or assumed correlations of form and utility.
In order to remain active, the avant-garde needed the constant irritant of the
ignorant middle-classes in order to define itself as superior. In this, avant-garde art was
elitist in the mode of Romantic irony; those few on the “inside” maintained themselves
29
against the many on the “outside”. Art and its lexicon of conceptual references took on
an esoteric sacredness; a realm of besieged minority in which meaning unified a small but
passionate group in perpetual danger of being overwhelmed by the clueless majority.
Paris was certainly a logical center for this kind of activity to begin. Parisians
from all walks of life enjoyed a veritable cornucopia of entertainment and presentational
displays in which dichotomies of science and spiritualism; technology and arts; familiar
and exotic representations; existed side by side. The largest presentations of this type
were the Paris Expositions Universelle in which European culture in general (and French
society in particular), was stationed as the paradigm of civilized progress to which the
rest of the world flocked in homage and admiration15. These Expositions were also a
kind of public expansion of small, privately-owned “wonder cabinets”16 once owned by
the aristocracy, now enlarged for the general public. And they awed visitors with their
tremendous size and scope of exhibits:
[At the 1889] exposition. . .scientific exhibits filled several buildings. . .a
Cairo street scene was constructed with authentic imported Egyptians to
live in it and perform the danse du ventre. The Javanese dancers became
the rage of Paris, influenced music-hall routines for twenty years, and
confirmed Debussy in his tendency toward Oriental harmonies (Shattuck:
18).
The Expositions projected an assumption of global progress with European civilization at
its apex. They juxtaposed in a single, gigantic venue the exotic wealth and beauties of
distant lands with promises of a better, technologically-enhanced future. In this gesture, a
kind of unification of disparate elements and peoples was implied, and the effect
expressed an attitude of optimistic display in the broadest sense of the term.
But this was only one aspect of the variety of performing venues available. The
light operas of Offenbach played next to three permanent circuses and a new Hippodrome
near the Montmartre community of Paris. In addition, café patrons were treated to the
first 1895 ventures into film, as the Lumière brothers, Auguste and Louis, set up their
cinematograph (a combination of camera and projector which they had patented) and
projected moving images against the white walls of the cafés.
30
There were plenty of informal “performances”, too; from the posing of
elaborately-decorated horizontales (courtesans) to passionate duels which threatened—
though rarely resulted—in murder. Everyone who was “anyone” of the demi-monde (to
off-set the designated haute-monde of an aristocracy beleaguered by newly-monied
industrialists) set was on display and performing for everyone else. The sense in which
the modern Parisian performed and posed is commented on by Shattuck, who states that:
“Paris was a stage where the excitement of performance gave every deed the double
significance of private gesture and public action”(6). And the ease of flow between
circus and opera; play and street drama; prostitute and painting was enhanced by the
movement of vital discourse out of affluent salons and into the subversive egalitarianism
of the public cafés and cabarets.
The most famous café/cabaret in Paris was Le Chat Noir, a small, intimate venue
that was, as Shattuck colorfully puts it, “. . .a salon stood on its head” (22). The weirdlyOriental piano music of Erik Satie (who composed the music Shawn chose for his
Gnossienne) could be heard at Chat Noir, while misfits, malcontents, dreamers, artists,
and thinkers of all class backgrounds met to thumb their noses at the middle-class17.
But the scene wasn’t just talk. There was singing and dancing, too; grown in part
from the earlier notion of Romanticism that the simple folk tales, dances, and songs of
the countryside were more “natural and genuine” expressions of national character than
the elite ballet and opera. The urban interpretation of this “natural” expressiveness
exploded into cultural anarchy where the Bohemian nightlife of the Elysée Montmartre
gathered and public decency was roundly ridiculed. In his book, The Dance Through the
Ages, Walter Sorell describes the dance action:
. . .The Elysée-Montmartre was the center of cheap dance-hall
entertainment. . .[with] noise, gaity, the feverish music and lively dancing.
In those days, the quadrille réaliste, a variation of the chahut or cancan,
enjoyed the greatest popularity. . . faster than the cancan, with dramatic
accents. . .it was climaxed by the rivalry of the women to see who could
kick the highest and display the most leg (152-3).
When the Elysée Montmartre lost its edge because the quadrille became too
intricate for amateurs to perform, the scene moved to the famous Moulin Rouge. There
gentleman tourists from England or the Continent with plenty of money in their pockets
31
could buy seats or stand close to wild, high-kicking dancers like La Goulue (The Greedy)
or La Formage (The Cheese Kid) partnered by the fabulously agile, “boneless” Valentin
de Désossé (Sorrell: 154). These female dancers were not demure, pseudo-modest
exhibitionists coyly flirting with a masculine gaze. Rather, they confronted the viewer
with a direct assertion of their sexuality, thereby making a comment upon the longstanding18 power relationship between those who look (men) and those who are looked at
(women). This spontaneous, uninhibited display of feminine power had in it none of the
submissiveness implied by their contemporary sisters19 in the ballet.
The women were on display, all right, but they defined the conditions of that
display in their own terms. In this context, these cabaret dancers had more in common
with the savage figures of Picasso’s Les Demoiselles d’Avignon (1907), or Manet’s
frankly unembarrassed nude, Olympia (1863/5). But not all dances at the Moulin Rouge
were wild and sexually-suggestive. Patrons were also astonished by the strangely
spiritual, improvised purity of Jane Avril’s trance-like dances, for there, “. . . was a
conveniently short distance from esoteric religions to cabaret gaiety” (Shattuck: 120).
La Goulue and Jane Avril, though quite different in tone, exhibited an
unrestrained, untamed human expression; the allure of a kind of romantic naturalism that
found in children, women, and exotic non-Europeans an innocence and intuitive wit the
European man had forsaken. These were beings beyond social norms and control; the
frenzy of La Goulue’s shrieks and kicks suggested affinity with an uncaged20 exotic
animal free of inhibitions. And Avril’s trance-like compulsion to movement suggested
that in renouncing analytical, rational and cognitive thought valued in the external
everyday and material world she had accessed a deeper, internal spiritual sense of truth of
self. The dances of both women—although carefully-constructed displays—appeared to
be spontaneous to the moment of performance. They were accepted as natural because
they didn’t convey the artificial mannerisms of women obedient to social order. Their
bodies spoke as true, bypassing the treachery of verbal or written word.
People who lived beyond the confines of society were privileged in the avantgarde construct because they did not conform to its narrow confines. Brigands, gypsies,
and a “. . .preoccupation with the exotic East and the domains of the imagination, dreams,
drugs, and non-rational mental states” (Platt and Matthews: 477) were also held in high
32
esteem during the previous period of Romanticism. The “Byronic Hero” celebrated in
literature and painting was one who defied tradition on the higher order of his own “true”
inner vision, a path endorsed for those privileged few by the avant-garde:
They [modern artists] constituted what we have come to call the avantgarde, a tradition of heterodoxy and opposition which defied civilized
values in the name of individual consciousness. . .the avant-garde was not
radically new, for it grew out of the romantic movement (Shattuck: 24).
Certainly the exotic in dance was never very far beneath the surface, whether
directly or indirectly invoked in the ballet or cabaret. And feminine display of the exotic
in dance was captured by the Impressionist painters. Edgar Degas (1834-1917) often
portrayed ballet dancers performing movement in unself-conscious repose by way of
studying attitudes of the human body. And at the other end of the spectrum, Henri
Toulouse Lautrec (1864-1901) immortalized cabaret dancers and audiences in brightlycolored, flat-perspective lithography posters that clearly reflect the stylistic influences of
Japanese prints.
In short, the cabarets and cafés of Paris at this time came to be known as places
where categories of social order broke down. Given such a fluid social and artistic
milieu, Paris set a tone of cultural sophistication for other European and American urban
cultures to emulate and shocked moralists to decry. The informal forum of change found
in the cafés challenged salon notions of stability in a way that particularly attracted
artists. “More than the salon, the café came to provide a free marketplace of ideas and
helped France produce its steady succession of artistic schools” (Shattuck: 10-11).
Artists of all disciplines traded, competed, and above all collaborated to a remarkable
degree. At the same time, there was in this eclectic ambiance room to explore not only
social idealism but also liberating paths of personal self re-creation as essential to the
process of making art.
The trend of “self-as-art and art-as-self” was not exactly a new phenomenon in
this epoch. The persona of the individual artist as a respected visionary of social and
cultural progress beginning with the Romantic and Symbolist Movements expanded
during this period beyond literature, music, and visual arts into architecture, decorative
arts, and fashion. These earlier movements, encompassing civic, historical, nationalistic
and artistic concerns, ran approximately from the late Eighteenth- to early Nineteenth-
33
Century. But the effects of their quest for spiritual and aesthetic meaning in the face of
rapid industrialization continue well into our own time; Romanticism, as Danto observes,
presents humanity with many more questions than it answers.
The idea of the Symbolists (of whom the poet Mallarmé21 was a founding
member) was that somewhere between the rational formality of words and irrational
feelings evoked by dream-like imagery in painting, meaning could be accessed.
Symbolists were concerned with the fleeting, mutable nature of beauty; the ineffable
transience of flowers, scent, innocence, and memory. And they also had the idea that the
best way to present these elusive attributes was to allow meaning itself a corresponding
flexibility, so that a work of art might evoke for the artist who created it one impression
and for each person who views it other, quite different impressions; all of which could be
equally valid.
Nijinsky aimed to fulfill Mallarmé’s vision that “the ballerina is not a girl
dancing. . .She is not a girl but rather a metaphor. She does not dance but
rather, writing with her body, she suggests things.” Proust again attended
The Afternoon of a Faun and noted that Nijinsky’s choreography achieved
a clarity that did not banish all mystery—a good description of modernist
performance art. “My own inclinations are ‘primitive’”, Nijinsky replied
to a reporter’s queries about his choreography (Cantor and Cantor: 76).
The capacity for constructing the self in this framework made it possible for
expressive experimentation and reinvention to reach into the most unlikely places,
particularly in expressive human gesture. Nowhere was the ideal state of mutability
between self-invention and spiritual truth more possible than in dance, an art much
admired by the Symbolists because it required the immediate engagement of the artists’
body and mind, and its experiential basis was so transient. But in order for dance to be
“true” to these artistic goals, it had to be immediate; to have the innocent, natural-self
spontaneity expressed by La Goulue or Jane Avril without the intercessions of the
academic, hierarchal training or choreography of the ballet22. The dancer of the avantgarde appeared bravely alone on the stage, unadorned by all the trappings of wealth and
prepared to impart directly through her mind and body without the intermediation of
outside influences her spiritual vision to an audience. In this construct, identities of
34
personage, artist, and art converge into a visionary unity to incorporate the experiential
interpretations of the audience as co-creator of meanings.
The women who created modern dance were asserting for themselves
. . .the right to follow personal inspiration without catering to the tastes of
some private or institutional patron. This prerogative was inherent in the
cultural phenomenon known as Romanticism (Jonas: 191).
Given this expressive opening in Paris of 1900, it is no accident that the Grand
Exposition that year provided a point of convergence for three American experimental
dancers to answer the visionary call; Löie Fuller, Isadora Duncan, and Ruth St. Denis.
While Fuller and Duncan had already launched their own tours of Europe in order to
establish an artistic legitimacy that would confirm them in the United States23, the
younger St. Denis was still on tour with the Belasco Company and had not yet begun her
individual dance work. Even though she did not synthesize her ideas into her first dance
until six years later, the seeds of what St. Denis could become began to take root when
she saw not only Fuller’s presentation but also the Japanese dancer, Sada Yacco24.
All three dance artists found in the cultural milieu of this place and time an
opportunity to transform themselves from humble, obscure beginnings into goddess
prophets25 of the new Twentieth Century dance. All three worked individually, as
soloists or soloists supported by a framing cast that highlighted their central position
throughout every dance, and though details of non-dance factors were carefully worked
out beforehand, all three dancer/creators relied heavily upon intuition, inspiration, and
feeling. Above all, St. Denis, Duncan, and Fuller shared a Romantic self-confidence and
sense of sacred mission; “. . .an almost mystical faith in the ability of an inspired artist to
perceive universal truths and to communicate those truths to others” (Jonas: 192).
Because their medium was dance, a vehicle that revealed a kind of “sharing of the
internal self” open with audiences it is in keeping with Symbolism, and represents the
transition from symbolism into Art Nouveau.
Fuller best embodied this shift. She arrived in Paris first to become La Belle
Américaine during her term with the Paris Follies Bergère (the Paris Opera rejected her).
This forum, although not known for serious dance, placed her in a unique category all her
own. Set apart as a single performer26, Fuller seized the opportunity to reconstruct
35
herself as an artist concurrently with her art. She was not a particularly attractive woman,
nor did she display movements requiring formal dance training. When she moved, she
walked, ran or skipped. For some “dances” she stood in the center of the stage.
Employing the aid of colored lights (made possible by electricity) and yards of
manipulated silk, Fuller transformed herself on stage into a fantastic series of inhuman
images in nature; a butterfly, a flower, or a flame:
Fuller performed her Fire Dance standing on a pane of glass that was
lighted from below, giving the impression that flames were rising upward
. . .enraptured audiences dubbed her, “The Painter with Light,” “The Fairy
of Light”, and “The Magic Princess of Pearly Tints.” (Anderson: 10).
The combination of a single, centrally-focused feminine form able to evoke a phantasm
of beauty proved irresistible, and by the time of the Exposition Universelle, Fuller had
become the ideal of the Art Nouveau style, with her own pavilion in the Paris Exposition:
Art Nouveau was a symbolic rendering of the forces of dynamism, an
organic style that emphasized evocative line and decorative surface. The
latest mode, Art Nouveau dominated the Paris fair. . .The living
embodiment of Art Nouveau, Loïe Fuller, performed her Serpentine Dance
at the exposition in a tiny theatre equipped with its own electric
dynamo. . . (Sheldon: 42).
Fuller and Duncan saw and admired each other’s performances, but were so
different in artistic approach that collaboration between them might have compromised
them both. Fuller extended to Duncan the option of joining her but Duncan declined,
perhaps in part due to the possibility she could be distracted from her own sternly
demanding and highly individualistic dance development27. Both Duncan and Fuller
traded upon the perception of being one-of-a-kind; of providing a unique experience to
their audiences that no other performer could offer. While Fuller relied on lighting and
drapery in a stage area which she could control, Duncan sought out the salons and
patronage of the wealthy or danced outdoors in grueling, two-hour concerts. And though
Fuller’s draperies hid her in an exaggeration of “skirt dancing”28, Duncan’s draped
“Greek” costumes presented a purity and simplicity of line that did not obscure her body
or obstruct her freedom of movement. Their drape often invoked Greek statuary, inspired
in part by artistic statue-posing which was popular at the time. But neither dance artist
behaved on stage or off as “normal” women, an attribute St. Denis seriously took to heart.
36
St. Denis does not appear to have seen Isadora Duncan; if she did, there is no
record of it even though the two women shared a common interest in the analysis of
expressive movement pioneered by Delsarte. But St. Denis’ European tour and seeing
exotic dances—notably those from the Far East at the Exposition—may have suggested
to the New Jersey farm girl-turned-professional dancer the means by which she could
transform herself into something extraordinary. As evidenced by her choreographic
progression, that transformation moved her first into the personification of feminine
spiritual devotion (Incense) and then by extension into the goddess to be worshipped
(Radha: 1906, following Incense). St. Denis was aware of her personal needs in this
spiritual/artistic mission when she noted in her autobiography, An Unfinished Life:
I find a real escape from the limited sense of life I ordinarily have. . .I feel
that I am a link between the invisible world of vision and the visible world
of art form . . .(St. Denis: 277).
St. Denis’ success in achieving this metamorphosis of self, persona, and art into a
unified vision on stage and off certainly influenced the stirrings of similar artistic dance
objectives in Ted Shawn. When Shawn and St. Denis married and partnered in the
Denishawn venture of school and performing company in 1914, the acclaimed example
of St. Denis’self-recreation and public recognition guided both Denishawn and Shawn.
The obstacles Shawn faced to make dance his life’s work were tremendous, and it is
difficult today to imagine them. There was hardly such a thing as an expressive
American dancer in the decade following turn of the century; much less one that was
male. Shawn literally had no models to follow except those of Duncan, Fuller, or St.
Denis. Fortunately, he was able to adapt their methods of negotiation for public
acceptance to his own unique American case. The avant-garde conditions that had
worked for these women artists made it possible for Shawn to also succeed in his own
solo dances.
Polish born and Russian-trained, the immensely talented dancer Vaslav Nijinsky
underwent a related, yet somewhat different condition of artistic transformation partly
influenced by Duncan’s 1905 visit to Russia and the impact she made on Fokine.
Nijinsky first came to Paris from the Russian Imperial schools as part of Diaghilev’s
Ballets Russes in 1909, when he made a sensation in both classical heroic and exotic
37
roles created for him by Fokine. But merely achieving fame in the choreographies of
others; as a tragically-strung puppet (Petroushka in 1911), a sensual golden slave
(Schéhérazade in 1910) or the spirit of a perfumed flower (Spectre de la Rose in 1911)
was not enough. Building upon his top-draw performing persona in the dazzling Russian
ballet that took Paris by storm, Nijinsky spring-boarded himself into an avant-garde
sensibility with his first choreography in which he also performed, L’Après-midi d’un
Faune. This ballet of the 1912 Paris season, more than any other single work, has been
cited as the emergence of ballet into the age of Modernism. And Nijinsky’s half-human,
half-beast creature became not only his most deeply self-identifying role, but the image
of modern man tragically caught between a longing for a simpler time and place and a
compulsive thrust into the Machine Age (Gesmer).
As soon as they are brought into examination together, the three dance works of
Gnossienne, Incense, and Faune display a number of characteristics in common with
avant-garde forces in Modernism. Certainly the effort of self-creation concurrent with
art-making has its resonances with the strong sense of spiritualism that permeates all
three dances. As avant-garde artists, Shawn, St. Denis, and Nijinsky sought to impart a
vision of personal spiritualism and transcendence throughout all factors of their
performances. They offered themselves in their dances as if unified into a whole
expressive and organic entity by a single, fundamental (if hidden) truth. The singularity
through which this “universal truth” was to be expressed and made visible was the
individual performing artist, a prominent factor of all three dances. This component
brought into focus the visionary goals of Romanticism, in which the artist becomes a
guide into the realms of feeling harmoniously melded with rational thought. While the
arts which came under the categories of “mystic or visionary” Abstract Cubism or
Symbolism reached for this unity, it was in dance, which cannot exist independently
without the body and soul of the dancer, that this impetus of the avant-garde found
immediate experiential expression29. This acknowledgement is most prominent in those
works of art which invoked the tensions of movement and stasis in dance30.
The iconic pose is a staple characteristic in the performance of exoticism. An
artistic and cultural convention of long-standing, exoticism is a European construct
closely associated with cultural and political Imperialism. The network of interrelated
38
factors between Cultural Imperialism and exoticism in Euro-American traditional arts are
too complex to discuss here31. On stage and in visual arts, exoticism depicts nonEuropean features by European artists for European audiences that supported European
nationalism, nostalgia, and the pleasure of an escape from the banalities of modern life.
As with all stereotypical projects, exoticism is more telling upon European agendas of
representation than it is of that culture being exoticized. In this perspective of
Modernism, avant-garde expressions paralleled long-established tropes in traditional
performing arts32, just as revolutionary and conservative visual arts commented on one
another within the same time frame. However, in this context a complete reversal of
message is conveyed.
For example, exotic feminine allure appears in two paintings of one year with
radically different impact. Both paintings depict women in the nude surrounded by
exotic servants, fabrics, and other riches in which the masculine gaze can assume any
motivation or characterization as would be pleasant to contemplate, for as exotic items,
they are additionally available to the European male:
Women [in Orientalist paintings] were repeatedly pictured as dancers and
harem odalisques—icons of sensuality and sexual availability that
conjured for a Western (male) audience an Orient of unlimited pleasure
. . . (Small: 25-6).
Seeming to accommodate this pre-established relationship between viewer and painting,
the French painter, Edouard Manet (1832-1883) presented the viewer with a
photographically-rendered nude, Olympia (1863). However, the arrogant effrontery of
this woman evoked the disturbing self-assurance of a Greek goddess, as she is attended
by an African servant and directly returns the stare of the viewer with a cool, calculating
expression. Her gaze suggested an equality of judgment and evaluation, instead of
assuming an attitude of submission for approval. This woman who returned the gaze for
her own purposes could be, by some stretch of the imagination, the very goddess to
whom Shawn’s Gnostic priest addresses his ritual; unique, divine, and mysteriously
endowed with her own ambiguous agenda beyond the petty concerns of mortal men:
39
Parisian bourgeoisie expected to see nudes in the official Salon, but they
were shocked by the appearance of a notorious prostitute [Olympia],
completely nude. . . a work that made a break with traditional art practices
and opened the way for a modern art centered on the painter’s own
theories (Matthews and Platt: 518)
Manet’s painting is in startling contrast to that rendered by Jean-AugusteDominique Ingres (1780-1867). Ingres presents to the viewer a lush panorama of
equally-realistically rendered female nudes sensuously cavorting in The Turkish Bath
(1863). In this latter painting, the women are generalized in shape and form; one of them
is just as good as any other; in fact, they are all as individually interchangeable and
expendable as Broadway chorines: “The nudes [in The Turkish Bath]. . .are portrayed in
typical Classical manner, suggesting studio models rather than sensual human beings”
(Matthews and Platt: 512).
The same attitude of availability expressed in paintings on exotic themes
permeated the performing arts of opera and the ballet. A good example of exoticism in
classical dance is the popular 1892 ballet spectacular, The Nutcracker (Petipa/Ivanov,
with music composed by Tchaikovsky). Based upon a short story of the same name by
the Romantic/gothic writer E. T. A. Hoffmann (1776-1822) this lavish Christmas treat
presented a series of short divertissements associating various confections with exotic
dances from Arabia, Russia, Spain and China. The music and costumes sweetly invoked
each foreign treasure while remaining firmly grounded in the Western tradition. In
addition, the formality of traditional ballet by which each divertissment was danced en
pointe and the “regal enthronement” of Clara and her prince (and by flattering
implication, the audience) toward whom the dances were directed maintained a clear
European separation from—and superiority over—these inventions of exotic fantasy.
Similar components of exoticism informed Incense, Faune and Gnossienne, but
with radically different agendas related to the issues of gender and performance in
Western arts. With its white and gray veils, smoke, and slowly sinuous movements,
Incense presented the image of a contemporary North Indian Hindu woman in private
worship of a deity. This image invoked a distant, exotic locale and state of spiritual
transformation unfamiliar to Western sensibilities. The image of an alluring female form
in a diaphanous exotic costume (the drape of a sari, after all, is one that suggests
40
imminent undrape) was not unfamiliar to the audience; there was an abundance of ballet,
opera, and music hall Salomés, Cleopatras, Chinese princesses, etc. at the time:
. . .she is compellingly beautiful, trained in courtly arts, and clothed from
head to toe in enticingly vivid and undeniably exotic jewels and garments.
She shines in red, sparkles in gold and crystal, and smells enticingly of
rare perfume (Austern: 38-9).
What was different about St. Denis’ Incense worshipper was that although visible
and beyond question very attractive, she was also remote, locked into her own internal
devotion in a way that made her unavailable. She did not give her audiences a feminine
display of exotic illusions requiring masculine validation, but rather shared a feminine
vision of the divine no less appealing in its circular, self-discovery because it comments
on the exotic feminine mystery. Self-introspection, then, parallels and emphasizes artistic
statements on the balance of power between “being looked at” and “being the one who
looks” at work in combinations of the feminine and the exotic.
Shawn’s and Nijinsky’s later choreography developed thematic experimentations
with contemporary, psychological narratives (such as Nijinsky’s Jeux in 1913), or jazz,
Native American, and Spanish flavors (as Shawn did in works like his 1922 American
Sketches, and Invocation to the Thunderbird in 1917). But St. Denis remained closely
connected to her persona as an exotic goddess throughout her career. Though she often
chose themes of antiquity (Egytpa in 1910), she favored pale, statuesque images of the
feminine divine swathed in white veils. Her goddesses inhabited an “eternal” or timeless
frame and were drawn primarily from the Far East, as exemplified by her 1926 solo,
White Jade.
While Incense invoked a modern, Hindu ritual of worship, Gnossienne and
33
Faune added dimensions of time past by bringing to fanciful life ancient Greek and
Minoan images. Both Shawn and Nijinsky drew direct inspiration from archival objects
that exhibited closely-related styles of depiction34, a factor which may have produced a
similarity of movement choices in their respective dances. The exoticism of these dances
combined a nostalgic longing for a time long past with a purity of authenticity untainted
by modern corruptions.
41
Neither Nijinsky nor Shawn had the benefit of an automatically-assumed
correlation between their gender and exoticism that St. Denis was so well able to utilize.
However, they nevertheless made use of the exotic and its connotations to urge
acceptance of their respective goals; Nijinsky for the acceptance of a revision of ballet
and Shawn for acceptance of a male figure dancing expressively. In any case, men in
dance were arguably an exotic event because rare. Russia was exotic to Parisian
audiences, a fact which made Diaghilev’s company “new”, and Shawn, as an American
male dancing expressively, was in a category all his own.
Nijinsky’s landmark piece suggested a ritualism of flattened gesture depicted in
Archaic (as opposed to Hellenic or Classical) Greek ceramic figure art35. It derived its
exotic impression largely from the intense formality of the movement vocabulary
Nijinsky meticulously had fashioned for it (Nijinska, Buckles, et. al.). This vocabulary
retained a relationship with the formalities of the ballet lexicon while at the same time
defying them. Utilizing the ambiguities of form suggested in an exotic theme, Nijinsky
indicated in his dance a consideration of how image is constructed, and therefore capable
of being reconstructed to serve the expressive needs of the artist.
In Faune, Nijinsky reversed the order of viewing by which the European collects
and examines alien artifacts in museums, where a reverential attitude isolated such
objects from their original purposes. That is, instead of taking the moving bodies of
humans and indicating that movement by painting them in still poses on a flat ceramic
surface, Nijinsky reversed the depictive process by taking the images on a flat ceramic
surface and reinvesting movement into them through the living bodies of dancers. There
is in this gesture the sense of bringing a long-dead culture back to life; as if suddenly
Ancient Greek could be spoken and heard as in ancient times. By reflecting the almost
magical powers required to do that, Nijinsky suggested that his artistic and personal range
was beyond humanity, a concept repeated in his diary.
But Nijinsky’s use of the exotic goes deeper than mere reconstruction. The
choreographer is, in a sense, a modern man in a dialogue of meaning and visual
relationships with the Archaic Greek in a way that highlights the constructed nature of art
and the artist engaged in making art. By extension of that idea, Nijinsky also comments
on the constructed nature of the art of the ballet and of himself as a well-known
42
personage of ballet; exposing to the shocked audiences of Faune that ballet’s royal
tenants and forms can be bent, reversed, flattened, or even suspended between
movements while still retaining recognition of its origins. As will be argued in greater
detail in Chapter Four, with Faune, Nijinsky thwarted the image of himself as a tool for
others and asserted the needs of his artistic expression trained in service of a classical
style.
Faune additionally drew on exotic ambiguities in the character of human/beast,
gender expectations, and sexuality associated with Nijinsky’s previous dance roles36. But
unlike the characters of these former roles, Nijinsky’s Faun was a far more primal and
powerfully earth-based being; at once unconsciously dangerous and carelessly innocent;
alien to the niceties of society and capable of almost any unpredictable action through
sudden, tensile movement. Such an exotic, strange being has—and demands respect
for—his own internally-guided rules and orders. The formalities and rules confining or
controlling civilized persons as a matter of course do not apply in his case.
In a comparable fashion, Shawn’s choice of exotic theme for Gnossienne was also
based on an artifact in the form of a fresco from the Palace of Knossos of a Cup-bearer.
However, the sequences and stylization of movements that evolved into the dance had
been originally designed by Shawn as a Denishawn dance class exercise to maximize the
subjectivity of the student’s dancing body to choreographic demands. Instead of
choosing an exotic theme and choreographing the movements around it, Shawn allowed
the physical structure of a choreographic sequence suggest to him a theme that would suit
it. The archaic past of ancient Crete suggested to Shawn a way to express with wry
humor all-too-human and current conflicts of tradition, gender, and free will through his
character of an arrogant, yet obedient priest.
The distance of time and place suggested in the exoticism of Gnossienne served
Shawn as a means to legitimize himself as an American male engaged in serious
expressive dance comparably to Nijinsky’s legitimization of his revision of ballet. The
audience did not see in Shawn’s priest a modern male trying to imitate his impressions of
an ancient ritual, but rather a priest to whom the strange, unfamiliar movements appeared
natural, or, as one might say, ritualistically logical. This impression of reality in Shawn’s
43
priest was enhanced by an ironic subtext, in which it was subtly suggested that he was
also engaged in a struggle to submit his will to the Snake Goddess (Shawn, Mumaw).
In this sense, Shawn’s “Gnostic” priest is alien to Western audiences in worship
of a goddess, yet also familiar as a modern man confused and perhaps even a little
intimidated by the majestic psychological mysteries of the feminine. To serve and
perform before the judgmental view of this feminine divinity is a curious reversal of the
secular arrangement whereby the woman performs for a masculine judgmental view.
And that reversal is emphasized in the change of gender; as awesome as the Father may
be, even more so is the Mother; there is no fooling Her with empty symbols. It is one
thing to perform the rituals of worship accurately as a matter of course, Shawn’s priest
discovers, and quite another to fulfill their textual meaning through heart, soul, and body.
Shawn’s personal goals were not so completely centered on the dancing self as
was the case for St. Denis or Nijinsky; he first trained in the ministry then turned to dance
that supported his spiritual directions. In this sense, Shawn could be described as a
“minister and educator who dances”. Throughout his choreographic and performing life,
he did not leave behind his sacred mission to educate American audiences about the
expressive potential of the dancing male body37.
Shawn danced Gnossienne as a priest of the formal cult of the Knossos Snake
Goddess in wry commentary on the non-dancing Christian priest which a more traditional
American line of work would have asked of him. Taken in context with his lectures on
the history of dance which presented the American non-dancing male as the exception
rather than the rule compared to ideals of masculinity in non-Western contemporary and
ancient cultures, Shawn reinforces in this dance his lectures, in which he states that it is
the American, not the alien culture that is peculiar. The Boston Harold Sunday, May 17,
1936, ran an essay by Shawn titled, “Dancing Originally Occupation Limited to Men
Alone”, in which he states that:
A study of the dancing of primitive peoples and of the civilizations of the
past proves. . .that it was largely, and sometimes exclusively, a man’s
occupation. . .It is only in this western (European-American) civilization,
. . . that dancing has ever been considered in any way more feminine than
masculine.
44
The education of a dancer is another contextual layer in this consideration, too.
For just as the vain priest of Gnossienne must submit fully to his goddess, so must the
student dancer’s body submit to the rigors of training in order to achieve an instrument of
precise expressiveness. It is interesting that both Nijinsky and Shawn comment on the
dancing body as a tool, and their method of choreography reflects this analytical stance.
St. Denis, by contrast, had a far less cerebral approach, creating her dances out of feeling,
impression, or an intuitive sense of aesthetics that made it difficult for her to
communicate her dance-making procedures to students38. A more detailed discussion of
choreographic methods is undertaken in each case in subsequent chapters.
In addition to adapting conventions of exoticism entrenched in conventional arts,
devotees of the avant-garde also vigorously experimented with representational
constructs of time and space in ways that paralleled notions of realism entrenched in
painting conventions inherited from past traditions. As with exoticism, the notion of
realism in an absolute sense implied by traditional art styles is an illusion, a fact made
more evident with the advent of still and cinema camera developments:
The transparency of bodies, thanks to Röntgen’s X-Rays, was perceived as
proof of the dematerialization of things, continuously subjected to
universal dynamism. Graphic representations of shock waves, that Mach
was studying, were used to create a symbolic image of speed, following
the course of an object in space (Lista: 14).
Images invested with meaning—whether meticulously rendered in paint or chemically
formed in a dark room—consequently underwent radical revisions in the hands of avantgarde artists. This is especially true in the ways images present a sense of time and
place: “[An image is] . . .an appearance, or a set of appearances, which has been
detached from the place and time in which it made its first appearance” (Berger, Ways of
Seeing: 9-10).
This quality of displaced time and space in representation directly informs the
three dances in question, for dance itself is made up of expressive arrangements of the
human body in space and time. However, the art dance of ballet at this time supported
the impression of being little more than a moving painting inside the frame of the
theatre’s proscenium, in close relation to paintings framed and hung on the walls of
museums. There was, in the act of presenting ballets and traditional paintings, a kind of
45
reverence (even for those who came to the ballet primarily to view feminine charms)
separating the viewer from an immediacy of time and place suggested in the work.
Principles of perspective, composition, center of focus, and narrative patterns developed
in the Renaissance applied to the ballet as well to pictorial arts of painting and sculpture.
One entered the theatre to attend the ballet with the same regard for its cultural basis as
one would enter the museum to view neo-classical paintings. And in both examples,
there is the implication that what is on view is, temporarily in the imagination of the
viewer, “owned”:
To have a thing painted and put on a canvas is not unlike buying it and
putting it in your house. If you buy a painting you also buy the look of the
thing it represents (Berger: 83).
Given this basic shift of perception in Modernism, it is perhaps not surprising
that the first cohesive art movement39 of the avant-garde—Futurism (1909-1914) and its
concurrent partner Early Cubism (1907-1912)—had as their prime focus a concern with
altering constructs of presentational space and time. These movements of the first few
years of the Twentieth Century were intent upon disruption of continuities suggested by
the emerging “techographies” of cinema and photography40. Collisions between
perceptions of form and function expressed in Futurism directly influenced Art Deco and
the outer fringes of aesthetic anarchy in the later Dada (1915-1920s) and Surrealist
(1922-1941) movements41. At the same time, concepts of realism and psychological
interpretation in Cubism quickly took root in the Parisian remnants of La Belle Epoque
and moved into Art Nouveau.
Interestingly, Futurism started with a small band of Italian artists living in Paris
(all men except for one woman, a dancer42 who joined them somewhat later) determined
that the perception of realism in art set down ages past was not real in any absolute sense,
but man-made; that it didn’t capture the immediacy of experiential time and space; that
ultimately, classical art was and should be, dead. Their attack, which was part political
and part aesthetic manifesto, settled firmly upon the presentational illusions of time and
space in classical arts. Futurism especially had issues with time and its weight in
reverence for tradition. The artistic movement arose among modern artists burdened with
the illustrious works of the Roman Empire and the Renaissance pictorial traditions
46
entrenched in Italian culture. The only valid response to this oppression of the past was,
for these artists, to debunk with humor the myth of its hushed, museum-conferred
sacredness, which they found so oppressive that current, relevant expressions were stifled
by it:
Futurism rid the Italian artist of his complex of being nothing but the heir
of a tradition in ruins. The distance he thus established between modern
times and the museum has allowed the contemporary artist to reappropriate the prestigious works of the Italian past with impertinence and
lightness. . .joining present and past. . .It [futurism]was and remains the
archetype of every avant-garde work (Lista: 205).
Instead of attempting to present paintings that implied a comprehensive authority
on how objects should “realistically” be represented, Futurists offered images that
gestured in the midst of moving, rather than captured objects in stasis. The effect
produced a quite different iconography, whereby the object represented is recognized
only through familiarity with similar objects in “real life” time and space. Instead of
insisting upon a representational accuracy to rival photography, for example, artists in
this frame could concentrate on objects suggested or invoked as a means of expressing
transient states of mind, appearances, or internal spiritual convictions in keeping with
Symbolists, Impressionists and Abstract Impressionists (Kramer, et. al.). In other words,
artists were able now to shake free of the last requirements of representational
“accuracy”, and see how far they could go in expressive directions.
Many Futurist paintings, such as Giacomo Balla’s 1913 painting, Abstract Speed
(the Car has Passed) showed mechanical objects and living beings in the process of
movement; blurred, and partially-repeated in a series of “stop-action” images across the
canvas that evoked new developments in photography and cinema film. These
technologies offered artists a new kind of “eye” with which to see and interpret the world.
Futurists seized upon the evocative possibilities of these image-creating techniques
because they captured movement in a way classical arts never could. Here was a new
sense of “reality”; a revision of arrested movement suggested in the flowing lines in Art
Nouveau objects. But in departing from the whimsy of fantasy in Art Nouveau, these
artists went past the play of surface images and tried to convey the essence of movement
in the process of moving in every day occurrence. Instead of attempting to depict a
47
subject realistically, they imprinted an impression of it. In any case, technology had
begun to record “real” images; for example, photography made it possible to conclusively
determine that for a split-second all four of a horse’s hooves are off the ground in a
gallop43, or that the mechanism of the human body has a range of spontaneous expression
far beyond the posed renderings of the Acadamie. Consequently, Futurists were
essentially concerned with:
. . .energy [as] the initiator of form. . .Futurist theories revealed to modern
art. . .the dynamism, the kinetic rhythm and the transcribing of energy. . .
the emphasis on the ephemeral nature of art and its involvement with
society (Lista: 202).
In this context, Futurism presents a direct corollary to the nature of dance itself, as
it presents the human body in motion. As has been previously discussed, both Duncan
and Fuller took control of the stage conditions whereby they were viewed. They
removed their experiential performances from “normal” time and space and placed both
themselves44 and their audiences in an ambiguous temporal and physical state that only
suggested, gestured toward, or indicated real-life experiences. Although these
experimental dance artists referred to classicism in some ways, the transport into a kind
of non-descript “timelessness” in their performances broke down pre-established
relationships between viewer and performer. St. Denis was particularly quick to
appreciate the value of this kind of environmental control as a means to remove her
audiences from assumed, hidden codes of meaning associated with the figure of a woman
performing on stage. Even when she appeared on vaudeville, her ever-devoted brother45
devised lighting conditions for her to inhabit as that rare being that was her on-stage
character and off-stage persona.
A characteristic example of how space and time can be reconstructed in the
Futurist perspective in three-dimensional form comparable to dance is the 1913 sculpture
Umerto Boccioni (1882-1916), Unique Forms of Continuity in Space. In this piece, the
artist fragments the planes of physical form to suggest, rather than represent, a person in
the process of striding forward. There is no distinction in the bronze sculpture between
planes corresponding to clothing and those corresponding to the human body. In
addition, the face is as indistinct—that is, of equal value—as every other visual aspect of
48
the whole. The impression is one of seeing movement supported by the human form,
instead of the other way around. And just as Boccioni’s sculpture is a stationary
representation of movement in process, Ruth St. Denis’ Incense, with its white, statuaryinvoking drapery and centrality of pose (to be discussed in greater detail in Chapter Two)
suggests a statue come to life; one that can be viewed from multiple perspectives of
angles and expressive content not unlike a Cubist painting. The correlation is both
conceptual and in execution; even the most cursory look at dance and art of the time
suggests an aesthetic relationship between the two:
. . . .during this century. . .Ruth St. Denis [has] invented really new dance
movement, in the same way that Picasso invented new aesthetics and
standards [Cubism] in painting (de Mille: 156).
Literal and interpretive collisions in Boccioni’s sculpture also recall a similar play
of elements in Faune and Gnossienne. Of the two dances, Gnossienne is the more
straightforward in distortions of time and space, for it takes one specific fresco of a cupbearer from the Palace of Knossos as its point of departure. As will be discussed in
greater detail in Chapter Three, Shawn thematically developed the flat fresco image into
the character of a human priest. The quirky, ritualistic movements paired with the music
(the first Gnossienne piano composition by Erik Satie) suggests a fair sense of humor
(i. e. the impression, especially early on in the dance that this is just an empty ritual
disassociated with true spiritual meaning) designed to remove the audience from the
usually somber connotations of being confronted with ancient, revered religious
practices. The event takes place on a stage46, not in a museum or temple. But in the
main, Gnossienne achieves this kind of effect of displacement in time and space through
its exotic, educational evocation of an ancient Minoan culture.
As will be explored in greater detail in Chapter Four, Faune’s manipulation of
time and space is a little more complex. The dance suggests a comparable reversal of
expressive meaning supported by an analytical physical structure as is expressed in
Unique Forms of Continuity in Space. In this effort, Nijinsky mirrors composer
Debussy’s ideas on the nature of music. And the dance also is, in its most comic and
literal sense, an example of movement infused into stationary Archaic Greek figures
carved or painted onto circular ceramic surfaces in bands, or zones of representational,
49
gendered space. At the same time, the movements of the Faune dancers in locomotive
and stationary conditions are as flat and two-dimensional as possible with no rounded,
curved, circular, or spiral gestures whatsoever.
This strange dance condition begs the question of why Nijinsky, who was
intrigued with circular motifs as evidenced in his drawings would create a dance that uses
no movements of a curved line. The answer may lie in the speculation that there is an
implied circularity in Faune that goes beyond what can be actually seen of in on-stage
designs. It is perhaps to be read as a figurative “band” through space and time. Memory
serves to connect the beginning with its end, just as the ceramic vessels that inspired
Faune must be turned around in order to view the bands of figures; the figure band is
itself a ring. At no time can all the figures be seen simultaneously. They must be
experienced successively, images joined into a whole integrity of form animated by
feelings and understood only through the elusive agency of memory, just as the dance
must be experienced.
A fourth component in avant-garde art movements displayed in these dances is a
combined search for nature and a naturalness of expression to convey meaning. It is in
this context that art undertook its most direct defiance of the rules of realism set down by
the Academie and the bourgeoisie mentality by which it was supported. The attitude of
defiance against the artificiality of classical art in favor of a more Romantic alignment
with the Sublime appeared well into the Nineteenth Century in the painting styles of
Impressionism (1860-1880), Expressionism (1860-1900), and various combinations
thereof.
As the turn of the new century got underway, a move toward Primitivism (an art
movement spanning the eighteen- to nineteen-hundreds, of which the painter Paul
Gauguin was an example in both his subjects and in the flat, colorful renderings of his
paintings47) reduced the essence of depiction and expression to its simplest, most
essential—therefore natural—components. The impetus toward naturalism in this sense
brings it in close alignment with spiritualism in art, for only by stripping away all
sociological contexts of artificiality can the artist arrive at a core, essential spiritual self
that is also a “natural” self from which true art is generated (Kandinsky).
50
The issue of naturalism in the performance of art is problematic: as detailed in the
Glossary for this study, the word is interpreted to mean “not artificial” and “close to
nature”. In an effort to establish an organic artistic expression reflecting nature, and in a
reaction against the encroachments of industrialism in urban life that fed a growing
appetite for mass-produced objects, Art Nouveau artists embraced a perception of the
feminine that was symbolically, abstractly, and concretely melded with nature. But it is
an idealized “nature” refined for the parlor; the suggestions of flowers, vines, and watersprites that fit into a civil agreement between urbanization and a nostalgia for nature with
good manners; like any art, this style made an emotional, rather than rational appeal to its
viewers: “. . .everything in Art Nouveau was directed toward changing not only the décor
and the environment, but above all, the emotions” (Kramer: 68). At the same time, this
style was applied to every kind of decorative accessory; from hair combs, jewelry, and
table lamps to wrought iron banisters and china cabinets. This pervasively popular style,
which emphasized a flowing, sinuous line, organic asymmetry, and floral motifs also
endowed every object—whether mass-produced or uniquely created by hand—with a
pronounced sense of feminine mystery fused with nature.
Duncan and Fuller evoked natural forces in keeping with the general framework
of Art Nouveau, and both dancers were popular subjects, though in different ways. While
Fuller’s focus in performance was to present an abstract image based on a force of nature
such as fire, it was Duncan’s mission to rediscover the natural basis of human movement.
Their staged dances were so carefully designed as to appear utterly spontaneous, artless,
and natural48; this is in fact, “the natural” constructed and selectively-arranged for
consumption (Chapter Five).
Neither Duncan nor Fuller had much formal dance training, reinforcing the
impression that their dances were unlearned. But although neither studied formal dance
technique to any great degree49, their staged effects were laboriously worked out and
painstakingly designed. Fuller was described in “The Architectural Record”, March,
1903, in the following terms:
Suddenly a stream of light issued apparently from the woman herself,
while around her the folds of gauze rose and fell in phosphorescent waves,
which seemed to have assumed, one knew not how, a subtle materiality,
51
taking the form of a golden drinking cup, a magnificent lily, or a huge
glistening moth, wandering in obscurity (de Morinni: 209).
In this description it is significant that Fuller is described not as simply representing
nature images through dance, but actually embodying a lily or a moth. The images she
evoked suggest a balance between the search for natural expression and the exoticism of
the feminine form. Furthermore, it is from the dancer herself that the magical effect
seems to emanate. And yet, Fuller’s embodiment had as little to do with real lilies or
moths as the exotic characters of Turkish Opera had to do with real Turks. In his essay,
“’I’m an Indian Too’: Creating Native American Identities in Nineteenth- and Early
Twentieth-Century Music”, the statement Michael Pisani makes about authenticity and its
implication of naturalness reflects on the dynamics of illusory exoticism suggested by
Fuller’s fantasies in the Art Nouveau frame:
Edward Everett Rice’s Hiawatha (1880) and others like it no more
suggested believable Indians than Gilbert and Sullivan's roughly
contemporary British types clad in kimonos suggested believable Japanese
(222).
Duncan was also a subject for Art Nouveau objects. But other than expressing a
latter-day, grandiose Romanticism (she danced to no less than Tchaikovsky, Beethoven,
and Brahms), and inspiring fresh artistic endeavors in other artists of her time, Duncan
did not directly represent a decorative aesthetic the way Fuller did. Instead, Duncan set
out with broad sweeps and declarations to gnostically discover ancient Greek dancing as
a way of finding within her own body a natural human essence and origin of movement
untainted by social restrictions. Since the details of ancient Greek dancing were (and still
are) a matter of speculation, this openly vague forum of expression gave Duncan freedom
to infuse her broadly-embracing universal image of humanity with her own highlyindividual interpretation of what that meant. In his article titled “Isadora Duncan” in
Chronicles of American Dance (191-201), William Bolitho says of her:
Isadora’s idea, then. . .was that the artist should “return to nature” and
especially to himself. No more rules, no more tradition; for which things
she. . .usually [has] ready the word “artificial” (194).
52
But Duncan’s real purpose was not (any more than it was Fuller’s) to realistically
reproduce nature with all its flaws and pains. Rather, Duncan sought to re-envision the
ideal of nature through romantic vision the way sculptors and painters in the finest
classical tradition treated their nudes. Or, in the spirit of the Art Nouveau style, Duncan
combined an idealization of nature with an idealization of the human (usually female)
form. According to Bolitho, then, “This is the function of art: to make a supernatural
world; not to imitate the natural [one]. . .To eke out her nature, she [Duncan] borrowed
and adopted the attitudes of Greek vases” (196). In so doing, however, Duncan evoked
another approach to naturalism in expressive movement pioneered by a French student of
vocal and physical expressiveness early in the Nineteenth Century, François Delsarte.
While Duncan evidently did not have the opportunity to formally study Delarte’s
system50, she did have access to its imprint on performance art of the time.
It is difficult to overemphasize the influence Delsarte’s analytical investigations
into the correlation between natural human movement51 and expressive meaning had on
performance arts and attitudes toward the body of the time. His ideas on the efficiency
and truthfulness of natural movements in the human body (both male and female) freed
of artificial social constraints had a deep cultural impact on fashion, exercise, health, and
aesthetic, particularly as his observations guided the American version of his teachings.
While Delsarte’s impact upon each of the three dances in this study is discussed in more
detail in their respective chapters, and on stage and film works in Chapter Five, a brief
summary of his work is offered here.
Delsarte began his career as a singer. He was mentored at an early age and sent to
the Conservatoire for musical instruction, but through faulty training lost his voice. He
devoted his life thereafter to a study of (European) human expressiveness in voice and
movement by acute, patient, and life-long observation of people in all walks of life, and
in all possible conditions. His observations were meticulously recorded in notebooks.
For example, he watched nannies in the park with babies under their care. Delsarte made
note of even the smallest differences in the position of the thumb when the nannies
picked up their charges, and made estimations of how close or distant the feelings of the
nannies were toward them based on those thumb positions (Shawn, Every Little
Movement: 43). While Delsarte believed the social positions of adults distorted their
53
expressiveness of voice and movement in public, he favored to observe them when they
thought they were alone. Otherwise, Delsarte liked to observe people who did not readily
come under sociological restrictions:
. . .in the most conventional lives when Nature breaks through the artificial
barriers of custom and habit and speaks for herself. . .Little children he
loved best to watch. . .Foreigners were interesting studies, for when unable
to express themselves in words, they instinctively employ the language
common to all nations52, namely, gesture (Bishop: 14).
In this systematic and accumulative manner, Delsarte assembled information and
formed generalizations based upon that information about how natural expression
manifests in movement. He categorized anatomical zones of the human body and shaped
a reflective spiritual structure to correspond to those zones so that meaning was generated
out of a trinity53synthesis of body, mind, and spirit. In forming student exercises that
would move the different parts of the body separately and in kinetic concert, American
Delsarte teachers drew upon the power of suggestion, state of mind, or thought so that the
correct, or “true” quality of movement could be achieved:
Imagine yourself an artist, your face the clay to be molded into an
exalted expression; but as with the artist, a mere mechanical molding will
not succeed—the form must come from a high ideal within
(Stebbins: 55).
Delsarte’s methodical system binding the physical manifestation of movement
that could be empirically demonstrated with non-physical communicative meanings of
feeling, intent, spiritual orientation, and personality were enthusiastically taken up in
America and Europe. For some, Delsarte’s topographic model bridged the gap between
science and art that demystified the human being and offered, along with the ideas of
Sigmund Freud (1856-1939) and Charles Darwin (1809-1882) a way to map and explain
the intricacies of behavior. For performing artists, it provided a system of pose and
movement which, if properly studied and applied, conveyed exact expressive meaning
free of artificial distractions. But, although Delsarte claimed his system was universal to
the human condition, it was specific to Euro-American body language, a fact that
becomes most clear in melodramatic stagings that once were accepted as “realistic” but to
audiences of today appear comic.
54
In its popular American version, Delsartism offered a means by which the
individual could help herself to a healthy mind and body. Advertisements of the benefits
of Delsarte training rang with panacea promises on a par with Indian Snake Oil; for social
poise, grace, harmony, domestic joy, long life, virtue, and that most prized feminine
attribute of the time, “delicacy”. Schools of Delsarte training, exercise books, and
teachers professing the authority to teach it sprang up in urban centers all over the United
States as if overnight, and mothers and daughters together attended classes and practiced
at home to achieve self-improvement and social poise.
Particularly popular among women with leisure time were the Delsarte exercises
of tableaux vivant, or statue posing54. In this practice, groups of women wore white
Greek-drape robes à la Duncan and posed together in representations of famous GrecoRoman statuary. Sometimes they wore white wigs and also covered exposed skin with
paint or powder to look more like marble55. But what is particularly interesting about this
social performance activity is the fact that women took male as well as female roles in
statue-posing, and represented such dark subjects as “The Death of the Gaul and His
Wife”. Given the highly-restricted life of women in the upper classes of the time, the
opportunity to “cut loose” and try on identities outside the narrow confines of society was
probably a great psychological release (Kendall: 17-30).
Anyone out for self-improvement could benefit from Delsarte training, including
aspiring performers. Among them was the young Ruthie Dennis long before she became
Ruth St. Denis. Ruthie first had rudimentary instruction in Delsarte movement principles
from her mother. These exercises became so ingrained into her earliest performance
presentations—whether vaudeville, concert stage, or even film—that it appeared to be
instinctive and set her apart from other amateurs (Shelton: 22). This training was
reinforced as a potent expressive tool when Ruthie was taken to see a performance by the
prominent American Delsarte teacher and performance artist, Genevieve Stebbins (18571915). Stebbins favored to perform in small-audience salons of the upper-classes before
women who could afford her teaching fees. She exuded a dignified grace and serious
demeanor in her presentations. Stebbins was a far cry from the flirtatious coquettery of
regular vaudeville female performers:
55
. . .who made an ineradicable impression on the girl. The dancer wore soft
white robes and seemed to Ruth Dennis to gleam like a pearl against the
green draperies she used. . .Mrs. Stebbins danced as Niobe and Terpichore
and the incarnations of “the Hours of the Day.” She convinced Ruth
Dennis that the dance could express the beauty and dignity of the human
being (Maynard: 75).
Stebbins particularly emphasized the flow of movement between positions, a feature of
her performance that profoundly influenced the way transitions in Incense occur
seamlessly between moments of action and moments of inaction, or poses. In her
biography of St. Denis, Shelton makes clear this visual connection between the dance and
Delsarte’s principles of movement: “Nothing more than a Delsarte exercise refined by a
keen artistic sensibility, The Incense became one of St. Denis’ most enduring dances”
(Shelton: 57). Certainly the off-white draperies of the “smoke colored sari” St. Denis
draped for herself in Incense recalls the white robes Stebbins wore in her presentations
and the white, pure, incorruptible timelessness of a marble statue. Specifically, the
degree to which Incense derives its movement style from Ruth St. Denis’ Delsarte
training is directly stated in Shelton’s biography of her; as Shelton states:
Art Nouveau in dance, The Incense explored the evocative meaning of
line. The undulating arm movement at the heart of the dance typlified a
Delsartian “successive movement” as described in Genevieve Stebbins’
arm drill, “The Serpentine Series” (Shelton: 57).
While St. Denis absorbed the expressive connotations of movement and meaning
from the Delsarte structure, Shawn took Delsarte’s connections between gesture and
expression in a more analytical way. Shawn had several teachers in Delsartism before
joining St. Denis, and although most students and teachers of the system exercises were
women, their expressive applications and binding of spiritual and physical components
ideally suited Shawn’s goals as an expressive male dancer. Shawn’s approach to Delsarte
detailed in his book on the subject, Every Little Movement, is discussed with more detail
in relation to Gnossienne. But it is significant to note here that it is through a reading of
Delsarte principles of movement that one can perceive some of the more subtle contexts
and allusions in the dance.
56
Nijinsky’s exposure to Delsarte theories of movement and expressive meaning is
far more indeterminate than the training Shawn and St. Denis undertook. While Nijinsky
was a student in the Imperial Theatre in 1899, the directorship fell upon one Prince Serge
Volkonsky (son of Decemberist revolutionary Volkonsky; dates unobtainable) who was
intent upon effecting artistic renovations in the Russian ballet. Volkonsky engaged the
sophisticated and intelligent Serge Diaghilev in the project; to make the Russian ballet, as
Elizabeth Kendall puts it: “. . .innovative, to be recognized, to make a connection with
the wider art world in Russia and beyond”56
As part of this program, Volkonsky also instigated classes in Dalcroze training for
the Russian ballet students, of whom Nijinsky was one. In his efforts to formulate an
instructional system to improve the rhythmic response of musicians, Emile Dalcroze
(with whom Volkonsky studied) was certainly influenced by the ideas of Delsarte, and
taken together the two systems offer the avant-garde experimental dancer/choreographer
a basis of movement, expression, and musical response touching on perceptions of
naturalism in performance art. It is likely that if Nijinsky had any Delsarte training either
in Russia or Europe, it was the American version, as Duncan certainly would have
introduced (her own interpretation, anyway) it during one of her early visits to Russia.
The connection between the two systems was recognized as valuable to Shawn’s
teaching program when Dalcroze methodology was incorporated into the eclectic
education of Denishawn dance students along with Delsarte training. The influences of
this combined approach can be traced in the style of “authentic expression” that
characterizes modern dance performed today. However, out of the hands of artists and
applied to popular stage shows like melodramas or cinema narratives, methods of
systematically-arrayed poses and poorly-transitioned movements between them were
corrupted into mechanical, lifeless, and often comically-sentimental caricatures that had
no relationship to a naturalism of portrayal whatsoever.
Regardless of artistic purposes, mechanical, automaton-like exhibitions certainly
emphasized the constructed nature of performance and for Nijinsky, St. Denis, and
Shawn, the slip into that mode was a concern in different ways. While Nijinsky and
Shawn embraced an analytical response to movement in the ritualism of their respective
dances, they did so within an over-riding spiritual and emotional context that kept their
57
dances from simply becoming a physical show. Although both Faune and Gnossienne
could be notated and reconstructed to a high degree of accuracy from those notes, the
sense of performing a precise ritual in these dances kept the organic tensions between
mind and body in balance through repeated performances.
St. Denis had a much more difficult time with this, however; she refused to
precisely perform the same movements in the same way at the same moment in the dance
each time it was performed. While this tactic gave St. Denis a wonderfully organic sense
of connection to the specific audience for whom she was at that moment performing, the
indefinite structure made well-timed technical support57 almost impossible. Finally,
when her mother ordered her to “set” the dance, St. Denis is reputed to have completely
lost her temper. At another time during which she was repeating performances of
Incense several times every day on the vaudeville circuit, St. Denis simply refused to go
on stage at all and wept that she was not a machine
(Terry: 7).
Given the rapidly-changing conditions of modern life following the turn of the
century, St. Denis’ fears for her highly-prized individuality in dance are understandable.
Helen Thomas, in her book, Dance, Modernity and Culture makes a telling remark about
the problematic union of mind and body required for expressive dance at this time:
In a rationalized and technocratic culture such as ours, the mind and the
body stand in binary opposition, with the former being placed under the
category of culture and the latter under that of nature (6).
Culture and nature viewed from the technological perspective could not at all combine
the way Art Nouveau suggested they should, and in response, arts tackled issues of the
anxieties and excitement of technology from another aesthetic basis. Futurism,
previously discussed as one of the first art movements of the Twentieth Century,
attempted to capture the visual and emotional impact of increased speed, essences of
transient qualities, and personifications of abstract concepts. If it was “beautiful” or
“ugly”, the designation was assigned by the viewer, not the artist. Futurism in this
context became:
. . .an anthropological project: a new vision of man faced with the world
of machines, speed, and technology. . .a mental discipline. . .pursuing the
58
perpetual regeneration of all things. . .seeking the utmost integration of
human life with the logic of becoming (Lista: 10).
But these kinds of art works expressed a reaction to new pressures in modern living in a
reflective sort of way; they allowed the viewer to stand back separated from the work of
art in order to view it. Even though an impression of a speeding car is captured on a
Futurist painter’s canvas, and gives an impression of what it would be like to stand on a
street corner and see a speeding car rush past, the material entity of the painting is still
static because it hangs up on a wall. As a movement, Futurism did not last long, perhaps
due to this characteristic; something quite different was needed.
The avant-garde impetus in Modernism also placed the human being in the midst
of and intrinsically connected to, confusingly rapid advancements in science and
technology very much in the same way Fuller placed herself in the midst of her illusory
effects. The first aesthetic philosophy behind this synthesis and equality among the arts
in harmony with new scientific discoveries and the industrial consequences of mass
production in culture was Art Nouveau. But it was quickly followed by another pervasive
art style that made an even more direct comment on the relationship of the human body to
the mechanical devices rapidly coming into common use: Art Deco.
Unlike Art Nouveau, Art Deco trimmed down all flourishes and decoration in a
way that incorporated its emotional evocations of an object into the very structure of its
form. It was “streamlined”, as if the rush of wind in rapid movement had etched the
surface of the object leaving it smooth, clean, and “fast”. While the line of Art Nouveau
was florid, graceful, and asymmetrical, Art Deco favored straight horizontal, diagonal
and vertical lines. And while the organic flow of Art Nouveau suggested an illusory
incorporation of human and nature, Art Deco tended to assemble related, divisible
physical units into a composite that had as its very nature a particular style of line, very
much in the same way a sky scraper could be assembled out of pre-designed parts into a
unified whole.
This approach encouraged the aesthetic of the machine; its movement, usefulness
in accomplishing a task, and efficiency of production was reflected in the lines and
shapes of its form. Since modular structures coincide with mass culture, this aspect is
59
discussed in greater depth in Chapter Five. However, it is important to bring out here the
fact that all three dances in this study bear a relationship to Art Deco. A kind of static
balance is imposed in Incense due to a preponderance of symmetry; what appears to the
left also appears to the right. Despite the tendency to compare the dance to elements of
Art Nouveau, St. Denis the person, artist, and character always inhabits the center of the
stage scene flanked by two large incense burners as the center from which all movement
flows and to which it returns. There is in this structure an implication of classical
pictorial perspective that applies to Art Deco objects such as radios, dressers, or cabinets
that whimsically invoke the bicameral symmetries of the human face or body in the same
way St. Denis referred to hers in her dance.
Gnossienne, as will presently be discussed in Chapter Three, also refers to the
solo priest in a central fashion, but with quite a different effect. Here, Shawn’s
worshipper uses sweeping diagonals and gestures in curves and spirals ending in
aggressively straight lines that were interpreted as “manly”. There is a soldierly precision
to this priest, who places his body in submission to his devotion with bravery and no
small dose of humor. But it is in Faune that the closest correlation with Art Deco
appears. Poses from Faune in a flat, angular, iconic presentational appearance were
etched into glass, shaped into bronzes, or painted on ceramic surfaces; the latter in ironic
placement to the Archaic Greek pottery figures which inspired the ballet in the first place.
Like the cultural art style that came before it, Art Deco, or “decorative art”
encompassed a wide variety of arts and crafts; including wrought iron grilles, lamps,
jewelry, fabric, wallpaper designs, lithographic posters, combs, staircase banisters, etc.
Dancers, with the immediate evidence of the human body in inhuman conditions, also
served Art Deco as popular subjects, along with flowers, deer, clouds, etc., all of which
were rendered in highly-stylized geometric form. While some of these objects were oneof-a-kind, others could be mass-produced in the same design. This had a distinct
advertising advantage because a car, a steamship, and a cigarette lighter existed almost
interchangeably for use through a unifying characteristic of rounded edges and the
application of “speed whiskers” (Wood) even if the object was not one that had been
mechanized for movement:
60
. . . transportation mediums like trains and automobiles became
aerodynamic. . .[manufacturing design] introduced streamlined shapes into
even the world of cocktail shakers. . .the design of constant streamlining
enables diverse furnishings to coexist seamlessly in a room. . .[displaying]
influences of cubism. . .as reality is distorted by condensing the design to
simple lines and angular shapes (www.collectics.com: 30 October 2003).
This aesthetic incorporated an avant-garde technological revision of spiritualism, and a
naturalism controlled by the needs of sophisticated utility. Furthermore, Art Deco
embraced exotic overtones in other-worldly, constructs of time and space that glamorized
a sense of futuristic efficiency in paradoxical juxtaposition with ancient and archaic
motifs:
[Art Deco] Artists. . . were influenced by Egyptian, Greek, Roman, and far
eastern themes and historical subjects. Art Deco also coupled these
classical influences with modernism (“History of Art Deco Design”,
http://www.collectics.com: 20 September 2003).
While Early Modernism in its avant-garde examples can be examined in terms of
many pairs of opposing qualities (i.e. new/traditional, individual/national,
ephemeral/eternal, material/spiritual, natural/artifice, organic/mechanic, etc.) these
tensions provided rich creative results in the dances of this study. Authority of
representation, identity (including, but not confined to, gender), and a reordering of
narrative time and space played a part in the establishment of the avant-garde inclusive
of social perceptions and needs of the time.
Each of the three dances in this study conveys to varying degrees some form of
spiritual communication associated with a process of transformation. Of these, Incense is
the most directly experiential of an altered state of being. The dancer makes the
transition from domestic humility to insubstantial smoke rising to meet the divine. In
Faune, the half-beast, half-human creature undergoes a metamorphosis of gender; from a
condition of solitude in which no gender is expressed, through interaction with the
nymphs in which a masculine confusion surfaces. Finally, in appropriation and
“consumption” of the nymph’s dropped veil, the Faun adds to his “incomplete”
masculinity the unknowable feminine in an effort to become wholly human. And the
dancing priest in Shawn’s Gnossienne negotiates ritual certainty and indefinite
61
willfulness in the worship of his goddess; his all-too-human arrogance rendered comic by
his equally-painful references to the dominating monstrosity of feminine power (Chapter
Three).
Turn of century expression at all levels of representation opened new aesthetic
parameters amid rapid sociological changes. While inheriting pervasive attitudes of
Euro-American cultural superiority from the Nineteenth Century, exoticism provided an
accepted model of performance structure in which dichotomies of space, time, and
identity orientation could be opened. A renewed prompting of spiritualism in art
attempted to refresh Romantic notions of the artist as the mediator between physical and
divine realms, engaging art not as product, but as process.
In the performance of the exotic “other” as entertainment, dance presented a
flattering image of Euro-American superiority. However, the two concurrent projects of
Early Modernism avant-garde and exoticism were closely entwined. Just as attitudes of
superiority and authority of representation had been presented as essentialist fact through
Cultural Imperialism, various manifestations of Early Modernism negotiated parallel
arenas to present the artist as an expressive authority in an equally-constructed landscape.
In order to do that, artists recreated themselves out of the same materials as their art; to
cast themselves as interchangeable with the characters they portrayed.
This particular era produced remarkable artistic innovation and cross-influences
between artistic disciplines and artists. Architecture, domestic design, and especially
dance creators worked toward an expanded artistic expression that would reconcile the
“real” world (as exposed and fixed through the eye of the camera) and the “imagined”, or
the symbolic/psychological suggestions of ambiguous images first in Art Nouveau and
then in Art Deco. Such an open arena permitted the transference of artistic authority from
cultural assumptions to individual expression. At the same time, artistic authority was in
the process of being redefined through dramatic cultural and scientific developments.
This growth through art as a project of Early Modernism became as much an individual
as a collective process. By negotiating previously established conventions supporting
constructs of presentation, early modern artists of the avant-garde—including these
dance creators—began to redefine how art and culture could interact.
62
END NOTES TO CHAPTER ONE
1
The general categories of “performing”, “visual” and “decorative” arts in this study help define
differences and similarities among movements in this time. Visual arts referred to painting and sculpture,
or objects that are made with expressive purposes only. Decorative arts include objects that were both
aesthetically and functionally designed in the Art Nouveau and Art Deco styles, such as architectural
accessories, perfume bottles, jewelry, ironwork gates, lamps, etc. At the same time it is important to
remember that visual, decorative, and performing arts vigorously interacted with each other and the society
of the time.
2
As discussed in this study, collaborations represent conscious connections with the larger artistic and
sociological milieu, and influences suggest more or less unrecognized ones. For example, St. Denis
directly advised Shawn in the transformation of his classroom exercise into a stage solo by way of
collaboration, but the influence Nijinsky’s 1912 Faune may have had on Shawn’s 1919 Gnossienne is
speculative (Chapter Three). And it is recorded by Nijinsky’s sister, Bronislava (among other credited
biographers of Nijinsky), that Ballets Russes stage and décor artist Lèon Bakst directly suggested to
Nijinsky the theme and movement basis for his Faune, while the paintings of Gauguin, the dancing of
Duncan, and the choreographic exoticism of Fokine’s ballets speculatively influenced it.
3
Duncan first landed in London with her family but evidently found the British “cold and unemotional”. In
1903 they pilgrimaged to Greece. She went on to Paris, where she quickly fit into the passion for
originality in defiance of traditional disciplines (Bolitho: 197). Fuller landed briefly in London in 1889,
but although she did well there, her vehicle did not and she returned to New York. Through a German
circus tour she finally reached Paris, the Folies Bergère (the Opera rejected her) and enjoyed phenomenal
acclaim (though not much in financial remuneration) in 1892 (de Morinni: 209). Neither Duncan nor
Fuller returned to the United States except to tour their dances. St. Denis, on the other hand, retained her
American identity. As will be discussed in greater depth in Chapter Two, St. Denis’ particular brand of
Orientalism, spiritualism, and social conscience remained in conformity with American social and artistic
directions of the time.
4
Fuller’s performance was greatly admired by the Symbolist poet, Mallarmé, and she may also have been
the model of L. Frank Baum’s Oz character, Polychrome the Rainbow’s Daughter (Anderson: 11).
5
As in a cut-glass vase bearing the crouching image of Nijinsky in the role of the Faun.
6
This is not to mean that Art Deco fails to suggest movement; as will be discussed in this chapter, the
applications of “speed whiskers”, diagonal lines, and smoothed angles invoke the results of the object
(whether a steamship or a cigarette lighter) having moved at great speed in either water or air. However,
figures (human and animal) favored in Art Deco posed in a moment of conscious physical stability, or
stasis that is not true of Art Nouveau. The composition of most Art Deco objects is fastidiously
symmetrical. It is in this feature that Art Deco often adopted an Ancient Egyptian depictive style and
motif.
7
The term “Gilded Age” was first coined by Mark Twain to express American society’s showy surfaces
covering corrupt practices in the late 1800s. The period was characterized by a carefree playfulness on the
part of the wealthy few despite widespread destitution of the masses leading to progressive era reform
movements of the first decade of the Twentieth Century. While one New York socialite threw a party for
her dog to which the dog wore a $15,000 diamond collar, eleven million families earned less than $1,200
per year. Lavish display of American wealth appalled Europeans; French Prime Minister Georges
Clemenceau remarked upon his visit to the United States that Americans had managed to progress from
barbarians to decadence without achieving civilization in the process. As will be discussed in this chapter,
La Belle Epoque, or “Beautiful Age” (1890-1900) in Europe was characterized by a similar attitude of
playfulness and social license with its own dark corners under the gaity.
63
8
Forty more or less identifiable artistic/social/political movements rose, fragmented, and fell between the
1890 and 1940.
9
This investigation was undertaken by the author during the summer of 2001 as a research project under
the direction of Dr. Tricia Young, Dance Department, Florida State University.
10
Written by Lord Byron’s physician/friend Dr. John Polydori in response to the same competition in
which Mary Shelly wrote Frankenstein.
11
The aristocratic vampire of the opera, Lord Ruthven, was based (as was the vampire in the original story)
on Lord Byron.
12
This is not to imply that there was only one place for the avant-garde; however, the scene at Paris is the
emphasis in this chapter.
13
This new group of people who provided the colorful, flamboyant display of La Belle Epoque was
identified as Le demi-monde in the title of the younger Dumas’ play.
14
Breakfast in Fur (1936) by Meret Oppenheim; the film, Un Chien Andalou (1929 by Luis Buñuel and
Salvador Dalí, which begins with the tremendously shocking image of a woman’s eye being slashed by a
razor blade) and Marcel Duchamp’s first “ready-made” artpiece, Bicycle Wheel (1913) are some of the
varied examples of avant-garde “whimsy and violence” in rebellion against the middle-classes.
15
A long mural on prominent display at the 1900 Exposition featured a parade of stereotypically-portrayed
people representing all the nations of the world marching with their gifts to France as if they were lords in
presentation to their king. A similar kind of homage-bearing arrangement today exists in the Disneyland
exhibit, “It’s a Small World”.
16
The “wonder cabinets” of the European aristocracy (one of which the author was privileged to examine
in detail in an Uppsala University museum) were artfully crafted pieces of furniture decorated with shell,
ivory, and exotic wood inlays. They had an array of little drawers and doors with a complexity of hidden
compartments. In these receptacles could be placed small mementoes and curiosities from around the
world: a shark’s tooth, for example, or a shrunken head. These items were displayed to amazed visitors,
and symbolically also represented possession not only of the object itself, but the place or culture from
which it had been collected. A parallel shift of ownership exists between fine arts and the wonder cabinets
in that whereas before both were available to only the wealthy aristocracy as patrons, in this period both
became available to the middle-class public in the form of museums, circuses, and world exhibitions.
Further discussion of this trend in light of marketing and packaging performance is undertaken in Chapter
Five.
17
A good proportion of the bohemian scene was made up of refugees from the middle-class; as is true
today, the most passionate rebels had been born into the group against which they rebelled.
18
The long-standing power relationship between those who regard (men as owners) and those who are
regarded (women as possessions) is frequently analyzed in the texts of many Western works of art,
including dance and comprises a topic of greater complexity than can be adequately discussed here. The
means by which objectified human beings are examined by other human beings to express relations of
power was certainly in effect in Ancient Sparta, as Spartan citizens had for entertainment the drunken
dances of helots. Such demonstrations were used as a means of clearly illustrating the difference between
citizens and slaves and justifying the relationship by which one man had the right to own another.
19
Fin de siècle ballet in Europe and America (which emulated Europe in all styles of art) was in a state of
degradation. The ballet was a despicable profession in which no self-respecting man would engage.
Women who danced on any stage were of low repute and ballet dancers were subject to the attentions of Le
Jockey Club (an unruly crowd of young men in the galleries who attended the ballets to contract sexual
64
favors with the dancers and ogle as much female leg as possible). Male roles were often taken by young
women en travestie, wearing costumes that amply showed their charms as well. Given this state of affairs,
it was only the appearance of the Ballets Russes in Paris that arrested ballet’s trend toward becoming a
high-class burlesque show (Jonas).
20
It might be argued that these dancers were indeed “confined” to nighttime performances in specific
cabarets that kept them out of the city’s mainstream society. In any case, men who attended found
themselves inside the “cage” at close proximity to the exotic beings.
21
The links connecting Mallarmé’s poem to the music of Debussy and Nijinsky’s choreography are
undertaken in greater depth in Chapter Four.
22
Hierarchy in the ballet mirrored royal order in the Court of Louis XIV, by whom the art was first
established. This was expressed in all levels of its system of operations from who was listed first in the
programs, to off-stage privileges and salaries. The levels at which a dancer was cast were as rigid as the
orders of a pyramidal feudal society, with the largest number of (female) supporting dancers at the bottom
(Les Petit Rats) to the centrally-featured prima ballerina at the apex.
23
Essentially, if an artist could gain acclaim in Europe, audiences in the United States would at least attend
performances with some degree of respect.
24
Sada Yacco (1872-1946) was a rebel in her own Japanese performing culture, for she performed on the
same stage as men. According to Jonas, Yacco was a sensation at the Paris Exposition in the role of a
suicidal dancing girl in an adaptation of the Kabuki classic, The Dancing Maiden at Dojo Temple which
Fuller sponsored (199). Interestingly, Suzanne Shelton records in her biography of St. Denis that St. Denis
had had the idea of creating for herself a Madame Butterfly dance and proposed it to Balasco before her
visit to Paris. Belasco approved the idea, but the dance never seems to have been realized (Shelton: 41).
25
Ted Shawn specifically uses this title in his book about the art of Ruth St. Denis.
26
Fuller had many imitators, both in Europe and abroad and persuaded the management of the Follies to
dismiss some of them before she would join them. The secrets of her lighting techniques were closely kept
by her mother, and she also took out a patent to protect them from being used by anyone else (de Morinni:
208).
27
It is recorded that Duncan might have been inclined to join Fuller had she not been put off by the fact the
Fuller was constantly surrounded by a very close and affectionate group of women (Anderson: 20). Fuller,
ever on the lookout for fresh talent, also later invited St. Denis to join her, but St. Denis recognized that this
arrangement would likely impede or postpone her own directions (Shelton).
28
Vaudeville and European dance hall venues often featured a female dance act in which the soloist
manipulated full skirts and petticoats in a way that attracted male audiences not unlike those who flocked to
the Moulin Rouge. The “skirt dance” was performed by a pretty, young, and very agile girl. One famous
artist of this type was Kate Vaughn. In her early vaudeville days, Ruthie Dennis (who later became Ruth
St. Denis) broke into professional stage performance as a skirt dancer because she was both quite limber
and energetic. Even into her eighties, St. Denis retained a physical flexibility that allowed her to perform
high kicks and the splits every bit as effortlessly as any of the Moulin Rouge dancers in their prime.
29
Artists in the avant-garde frame frequently made reference to dance as the ideal expression of this reality
of life.
30
While Art Nouveau pieces depicted the flowing lines characteristic of performances by Löie Fuller or
Ruth St. Denis, Art Deco reflected the symmetrical poses of St. Denis’ Incense and the flattened
angularities of Nijinsky’s Faune.
65
31
Culture and Imperialism and Orientalism by Edward Said detail many complex connections between
European cultural identity and the fantasies of alien cultures. He presents features of exoticism as social
and artistic constructions that justify European (and later American) economic and political domination.
32
An excellent and thoroughgoing series of discussions on the exotic tradition in classical European
performances is provided in Jonathan Bellman’s book, The Exotic in Western Music (Northern University
Press, 1998).
33
It is possible that Shawn saw Nijinsky’s Faune, or at least photographs of it before Gnossienne, though
he made no reference to Nijinsky’s dance in any of the archival documents available to the author. Any
speculation on the idea that Shawn may have been influenced in Gnossienne by the earlier Faune may be
inferred by the similarity of movements in both dances but cannot be conclusively stated.
34
According to art historians, there is sufficient reason to believe that both Archaic Greek and Minoan
pictorial styles were much influenced by the earlier stylistic conventions of the Egyptians.
35
Jean Cocteau, who was a strong early supporter of the Ballets Russe in Paris reports that when Bakst
arrived at the Louvre he found Nijinsky staring as if in a trance at the Egyptian artifacts. It is possible that
the stylistic relationship between the Ancient Egyptian and Archaic Greek representational arts were what
impressed Nijinsky; not just one set of ceramics.
36
Many of these roles were choreographed for Nijinsky by Fokine, who was also engaged in renovating
traditional ballet tenets through exotic ballets. The stylistic and thematic relationships between the
choreographies of Nijinsky and Fokine are discussed in greater detail in Chapter Four.
37
While on site at the Jacob’s Pillow Archives, the author was confronted with a daunting number of boxes
containing materials on both St. Denis and Shawn. Most of these materials were articles, essays, lectures,
letters and other documents written by Shawn in the general tone of sermons on the benefits of male
dancing.
38
Both Jane Sherman and Walter Terry quote St. Denis in their books about her and Denishawn as
crediting Shawn with the greater teaching skills, while it was her forte to “inspire” their students.
39
Designations of movements such as Impressionism and Post-Impressionism appeared retroactively; the
Futurists were the first to call themselves “Futurists” and give the identification of avant-garde to artists in
opposition to the Academie. Futurists were, in fact, imitators and adaptors of already-established attitudes
in art that later came to be known as Cubism (Lista: 66).
40
The famous Cubist painter Pablo Picasso (1881-1973) made any number of jokes on literal perceptions of
form, function, space, and time. His many variations of looking at women from multiple perspectives that
characterize the style of Cubism can be reproduced by viewing someone at extreme close range (intimately,
as a lover might) and trying to see their face first out of one eye, then another, a practice the womanizerartist had ample opportunity to explore. Picasso demonstrated an almost “Busby Berkelean” sense of
humor with literal codes of form and size when he met an American soldier and asked to see a photo of the
soldier’s girlfriend. When the soldier produced the photo, Picasso quipped, “My, she is beautiful, but kinda
small, isn’t she?” (From: Life With Picasso by Francoise Gilot. Avon, 1981).
41
Dada and Surrealism have imprecise dates, because it could be argued that works supporting their
anarchic principles are still being made. These dates are the approximate years the two movements were
cohesively identified as such (Anderson: 24).
42
This unusual woman, Valentine Saint-Point (1875-1953), stood up to the general misogynistic feelings of
her fellow Futurists and insisted that both feminine and masculine attributes attended the ideal human
being. Her choreography reflected both a similar response to exoticism as St. Denis’ and a fascination with
66
the body in geometric shapes (she performed her dances with a scarf covering her face, for example) that
recalls the anatomical abstractionism of Bauhaus artist Oskar Schlemmer (Anderson: 91).
43
Controversy surrounded the photographer Eadweard Muybridge (1830-1904) and his contention that the
galloping gait of a horse includes an instant in which all four hooves leave the ground. Muybridge was
able to photographically prove his theory in 1872 by creating a system of producing a rapid succession of
dry plates. This system eventually made moving film production possible (Lista: 14 ).
44
The way in which stage performance conditions are arranged for the sake of the dancer is a study worthy
of more discussion than is possible here. In her discourse on the use of other sensory stimuli for dance
performances, dance historian Sally Banes has approached this issue, particularly the memory-invoking
properties of scent in such dance props as incense, etc. Taiwanese dance-actress Mimi Chen told the author
that the use of incense in her autobiographical dance about her father was to help her return to her own
memories more than it had to do with its effect upon the audience.
45
“Brother Dennis” hardly even had his own name or identity as a person, growing up as he did in the
overwhelmingly feminist household of his mother and sister following the abandonment of the family by
his father. Faithfully, he trooped along with his mother and sister, supporting with stage management
duties their fanciful projects from Incense on. It was primarily “Brother’s” job to see that the lighting and
special effects cues (such as smoke for Incense) were done right. And as time for each performance came
round, he was often heard to mutter, “Well, time to light up the Goddess again.” (courtesy misc.
unpublished documents/letters, Jacob’s Pillow Archives).
46
Exact stage conditions when Shawn performed the piece could not very well be determined; it is
speculated that when he toured Gnossienne, it was lighted in a general way with a simple cloth backdrop.
The video reconstruction from which this study drew its primary information about the piece showed the
dance being performed in a dance studio without any mitigating backdrop or more than a generally bright
lighting system. This adaptability to space (it could be performed anywhere, even outdoors) placed the
dance diegesis beyond any specific physical location, suggesting a metaphoric psychological or spiritual
space.
47
It is possible that Bakst knew Nijinsky admired the paintings of Gauguin, and that he tried to give the
ballet Faune an impression of the primary colors and flatness of perspective associated with primitivism in
this artist by designing a backdrop in this mode. Nijinsky, however, did not like Bakst’s design (Nectroux:
24).
48
Although the Russian choreographer Fokine criticized Duncan’s undisciplined style, she designed her
“artless, natural” (as opposed to “artificial”) dances with great care and forethought.
49
Duncan records that she did try ballet studies but quickly found the positions into which the body must
be placed to train in this style were absolutely artificial to a normal human body. However, it is interesting
to note that the exaggerations of position and movement through those positions that are essential to ballet
were indeed based in part upon the unusual physical attributes (such as ligament laxity in the hip joint
permitting turned-out legs) of the French king, Louis XIV.
50
Duncan records in her autobiography, My Life, that she made an attempt to study with Delsarte in Paris
directly and was disappointed to learn he had died long before her time.
51
As Elizabeth Bishop explains in her biographic sketch of Delsarte in her book, Americanized Delsarte
System, Delsarte particularly took to observing the actions of people who were not aware of being
observed. The extent to which such movements constitute “natural” gesture is questionable, given that
cultural training begins at birth. However, the term “natural” is taken in this study, like the word “spiritual”
at its meaning in context with the individual using those words.
67
52
It is important to note that Delsarte and his students assumed that their interpretations of meaning in
gesture were universal regardless of culture or time. If a non-European were to interpret these movements,
the meanings derived might be different.
53
Delsarte created grids of correspondence between the physical and the non-physical that almost
obsessively framed every categorical level in interlocking sets of threes. This conception was consistent
with his spiritual framework, and he applied the logic of correspondence to Christian belief. In this way
Delsarte urged his authority to state his ideas by invoking established traditions. It is easy to see how
compelling this frame of logic would be to the spiritual structures of St. Denis, Shawn, and Nijinsky. The
mechanism recalls a firm belief in the “music of the spheres” that had such influence on the Medieval
cosmos; because if it appears logically possible in the human mind, then it must be true at some spiritual
level. While the dynamics of the logic of correspondence as a cultural and artistic impetus merits further
study, suffice it to say here that its mechanism renders otherwise incompatible concepts (i. e. mysticism and
science) into a conceptual harmony through which individuals construct meaning.
54
Among the reports of social events, balls, and assemblies of Boston society there is included a brief
mention of one Dora Duncan who gave an interpretive salon performance of Narcisse. What is interesting
about the report is that the writer in describing the performance switched back and forth between female
and male designations. It is speculated the performer might have been Isadora’s mother.
55
In his play, An Ideal Husband, Oscar Wilde uses the motif of statue-posing as a corollary to the public
illusion of being pure and incorruptible like a marble statue. Another popular play of the time by George
Bernard Shaw, Pygmalion, refers to the Greek story of a sculptor who falls in love with his creation. The
white marble statue of a beautiful woman comes to life when the sculptor embraces it.
56
Kendall, Elizabeth. “1900: a Doorway to Revolution” (dance changes in the early 20th Century)
(abstract). Dance Magazine, January 1999.
http://www.findarticles.com/cf_dls/m1083/l_73/53501127/print.jhtml 8 March 2004.
57
Terry points out that the stage hands and her brother (who handled the lighting) could not follow what
she was doing every moment, and that this produced chaos at rehearsals (7).
68
CHAPTER TWO
Ruth St. Denis and Incense
When Ruth St. Denis returned to her family in New York after a 1906 Belasco
tour they surprised her, having moved into an apartment on Forty-second Street that had
room in it for her to dance. She had her own surprise for them. Based upon a poster for
Egyptian Deities cigarettes, St. Denis had, “. . . laid the foundations of what was to be my
real career. . .I had found my work in life. . .and my Egyptian dance was to be the first
manifestation” (St. Denis: 54). The Incense (also referred to as Incense) was her first step
in realizing a goal to arise out of “. . .a jumble of everything I was aware of in Indian art.
. .” (St. Denis: 56). It was also the first in a series of five solo dances St. Denis created in
1906 based on East Indian themes intended to pave the way to her Egyptian vision.
St. Denis’ first art dance (in contrast to her vaudeville skits) precedes both Faune
(1912) and Gnossienne (1919) making it an appropriate choice to begin this study. An
avant-garde example of Early Modernism in dance according to the five features
discussed in Chapter One, Incense is based on the exotic theme that provided the initial
vehicle for St. Denis’ danced spiritualism. The intimate format and posed centrality for
the solo dancer condensed time and space. Simple pedestrian locomotive movements
invested with symbolic meaning were intended to convey a truthfulness of expression
through their “natural” execution. And by placing the dance artist in a rarified condition
of emotional transport, St. Denis comments through Incense on her perception of dance
as a means to correct the ills of an American society absorbed in consumerism and
technological advancement.
The short piece (six minutes in the reconstruction for this study) introduced St.
Denis’ desire to meld identities of herself as a “legitimate”1 artist and dancer in spiritual
expression. In this first performance of her independent2 career as an American (woman)
dance artist who both choreographed and danced her own material, St. Denis signaled a
dramatic break with Western traditions of the only two theatrical dance forms available:
ballet and popular dance (Clarke and Crisp: 217).
69
In both these venues men taught the technique, directed, choreographed,
produced, and managed the performance of women on stage. Women dominated
performances under the direction of men. Starting with the Romantic era in ballet (182718703) and the development of the esoteric technique of the en pointe ballerina, men (at
least in Europe and the United States) gradually became less visible on stage. When they
appeared it was usually to support and showcase feminine beauty; finally, by the 1890s
men had all but vanished from the ballet stage. As will be discussed in greater detail in
Chapter Three, the same trend in which the main function of male partners was to
showcase the female in popular dances mirrored that of the ballet (Tomko: Introduction).
With Incense, St. Denis joined both Fuller and Duncan at the vanguard of women
who developed and dominated modern dance starting around 1890 and continuing nearly
to the Twenty-First Century. The act of creating the dance in which she was seen by her
audiences brought St. Denis into a larger cultural movement in which women added other
possibilities of expressive dance than those available in ballet and popular dance:
Conceived as “artistic”—as expressing aesthetic values—such dance
activity offered women a purchase on shaping American community and
polity, a process through which to constitute a new art form, and a means
by which to define themselves as women (Tomko: xii).
In essence, Incense is a studied adagio based on an impression of a Hindu
housewife in the act of performing puja4 (a simple ritual of worship performed by a
single devotee) in a home shrine. The audience’s view is implicitly acknowledged in that
the dancer’s movements always defer to it5 without overtly recognizing that anyone is
present. Placed in a position of privileged observance of a ritual worship normally
conducted in private, the audience encounters a suspension of ordinary, mundane public
life in favor of an individualized and private desire for divine union.
This desire was, however, only one aspect of her performing career; many of St.
Denis’ dances also developed secular, sensational narratives in which she expressed an
avant-garde irreverence toward middle-class conventions and humor6. While many were
solos or dances for two with her partner Ted Shawn, still others were spectacular, twohour productions co-choreographed with Shawn, incorporating elaborate sets, costumes, a
symphony orchestra, and as many as one hundred and seventy dancers (Dreir: 43).
70
What she did in all her dances was to imply the sacred in the sensual or vice
versa, according to her idealization of dancing as both a physical and spiritual act. In this
chapter it is understood that although Incense is primarily a St. Denis dance in her
“sacred” vein, it also contained elements of secular entertainment: “Every [St. Denis]
dance was a skillful wedding of a serious background of religious ritual and spectacular
pictorialization on stage” (Sorell: 179). The way in which she combined these
seemingly opposed elements in Incense permits us to examine it in terms of its distortions
of time and space, exotic content, spiritual implications, naturalism of movement, and St.
Denis’ ideas about the pressures of technology.
St. Denis’ methods of dance making, beginning with Incense, seem at first glance
haphazard and irregular. Her exoticism was eclectic; she took what she needed and left
out what she didn’t. Particularly her solo dances, from Incense on, were never precisely
set, and she often changed sets, costumes, and steps. However, as Walter Terry’s
biography of St. Denis, Miss Ruth: The “More Living Life” of Ruth St. Denis states, the
starting point of her creativity had a conceptual orientation that resulted in a dance, rather
than a dance first created on movement later invested with a context (as was the case for
Shawn’s Gnossienne):
. . .although she was basically expressional, creating by impulse and
instinct, there was a distinct pattern to her approach to choreography. The
creative sequence in everything she did went something like this: first she
had the idea, next the way of expressing it; and then, ultimately, the
character, the scene, the civilization, the period or era in that specific
culture. This was the evolution she followed throughout her career
(Terry: 82).
This adherence to a core idea from which the whole of the performing experience derived
was what melded St. Denis as a woman to her art, her life, and her spiritual beliefs as an
intrinsic whole. It permitted St. Denis to inhabit the ambiguous territory of Orientalism
and guide her audiences through the symbolic meanings she derived from it in dance.
From the instant she stepped into the audiences’ view she transformed any stage space
into her own sacred realm, even though moments before it had been inhabited by a
vaudeville comic. At the same time, she transitioned without pause between exotic form
and an American interpretation of spiritualism.
71
The orientation of her sense of conceptual balance came from within herself,
despite popular tastes; the draw of a display of feminine charm; or even her own
perceptions of respectability—though she certainly took advantage of these points in
every performance. Rather, form and context were arranged to serve the idea and how
she was to express it, instead of trying to force the idea to serve any preset form and
context. The result was an extraordinary combination of performative tensions suited to
an avant-garde work: feminine (as opposed to masculine) authority that turned art ballet
conventions “backwards”; art in a popular venue; movement in pose and vice versa; and
an exoticism that became particularly American in its spirituality.
St. Denis evidently had some fondness for Incense. She kept it in her repertoire
of solos throughout her phenomenally-long performing career. A 1963 photograph of her
performing the dance appears in Terry’s book with this caption7:
“The Incense” was the first dance in her [St. Denis’] East Indian repertory
and opened the historic program at the Hudson Theater, New York, in
1906. Five years before her death at 91, she was still dancing it
(Terry: 50).
That she was readily identified with this dance is evidenced in the decorative border
applied to an October 1928 Denishawn brochure in which a pose of Incense is depicted
(among other well-known solos and partnerings with Shawn) (Cohen: 12).
Closely following—or concurrent with—the initial success of Incense, St. Denis
made several other short solos for herself on Indian themes suggesting a variety of scenes
with corresponding narratives and moods. Nautch presented a greedy street dancer as
enthusiastic in the pleasure of her swirling skirts as in cursing an imaginary admirer who
won’t pay her enough for the show. Given St. Denis’ early career as a skirt dancer in
low-paying, rowdy vaudeville halls, the dance takes on an autobiographic context. The
Cobras, in which a snake charmer8 flirts with venomed death, capitalized on St. Denis’
ability to move her supple arms as if they had no bones9. In this dance, she wore a pair of
large green glass rings (made for her by her father) on each hand to make the eyes of the
snakes glitter ominously (Shelton: 57).
The Yogi reflected the mystic search for the
divine implied in Incense. Instead of a pre-dawn interior setting with a Hindu housewife,
this dance suggests a remote jungle setting in which a hermit ascetic performs “his”10
72
solitary, intensely private rituals of meditation. In 1909 she added yet another meditative
solo to the series, The Lotus Pond.
The culmination of this Hindu series was the longer, thematically-more complex
Radah, also completed in 1906. In this dance, St. Denis transitioned from the worshipper
in search of communion with her deity in Incense, into a personification of the deity to be
worshipped. In so doing she recognized that she was experimenting in an unusual—if
not unique—performing condition. St. Denis remarks on this in her autobiography, An
Unfinished Life:
. . .there is a vast and psychological difference between a dancer, moving
on an altar before the image of his god in propitiation or sacrifice of
praise [as is true of Eastern religions distinct from Christianity which does
not include liturgical dancing] , and the embodiment by the dancer of the
elements which he conceives to belong to the godhead [or art dance as St.
Denis was beginning to conceive it] (St. Denis: 57).
Flanked by a row of non-dancing extras11on either side of her, St. Denis as Radha stood
posed on a centrally-placed dais. The temple statue of a goddess12 comes to life and
dances her enjoyment of physical pleasures in the five senses of human experience. The
premise was not unfamiliar to audiences in that it mirrored then-popular Delsarte-inspired
exercises (tableaux vivant) in which middle- to upper-class women posed as GrecoRoman statuary (Chapter Five). As will be discussed in greater detail in this chapter, the
posed imagery of Incense through which movement seamlessly passes provides the
pattern of her subsequent dances.
Although Radha marked the summation of her first series of dances inspired by
Hindu India, Incense defined the meditative and solitary being as the quintessential
dancer of St. Denis’ imagination. St. Denis describes herself as “faithless” in service to
art, God, and physical love (Terry: 1). But she also adhered to a fusion of self with her
persona as an exotic, spiritual dancer in every piece she created. Whether it was an
intimate solo of spiritual transcendence such as Incense, or large, spectacular productions
incorporating the full Denishawn company such as Egypt Through the Ages (1916), St.
Denis’ dances placed her firmly at the focal point of the stage as surely as if she had been
painted as a Renaissance Madonna. The image of self as exotic persona and dancer
infused with a spiritual illumination into which St. Denis walked forward in the opening
73
movements of Incense firmly informed all her dances, even during periods when she was
no longer fashionable (Shelton: Preface, xvi).
As part of her initial exotic dance series, Incense was usually performed first on
the evening’s program. In it, St. Denis recognized she was also introducing herself as a
serious artist. She immediately used the opportunity Incense provided to set forth what
she required of her audiences. By placing it in the privileged, yet responsible position of
the deity being worshipped, St. Denis the dancer and worshipper of Incense required an
attentive respect. In so doing, she dictated the terms, not only upon which subsequent
dances in the Indian series were to be understood, but also those on which St. Denis
herself—the artist, the woman, and the dancer—was to be viewed and understood.
The timing for this turn of exotic spiritualism was excellent, for America was in a
period of fascination with Orientalism. Oriental motifs in the United States represented
both; “. . .a serious pursuit and a popular culture phenomenon” (Shelton: 54-5). From
kimono robes and tea-sets available for purchase as novelties in midde- to upper-class
homes to travel brochures and Chautauqua lectures, Far East treasures and customs
intrigued audiences. St. Denis’ dances were a commodity in this trade as “body-lectures”
that inspired and informed an intellectually-curious, respectful (and respected) group
sensitive to beauty: “. . .lecturers were especially popular with female audiences, and
women were the major purveyors of orientalism in America (Shelton: 55). And St.
Denis took her dances to these women, as had Duncan before her, performing them at
intimate soirees and salons to the well-to-do who could—and did—augment her
reputation as a serious Oriental artist.
Even so, St. Denis took work wherever she could get it, and that meant vaudeville
as well. Unstable conditions toughened the artist, and St. Denis found a refuge of
stability within her own dancing body that kept her in balance despite distractions
(including, but not limited to, a series of attractive, smitten men). The details of
movement and non-dance elements supporting them in Incense changed slightly in
subsequent performances, yet all her all the variations of her many dances adhered to a
unified aesthetic regardless of inspirational source, performing conditions, or audience.
74
St. Denis recognized that this artistic and personal bonding on a spiritual level
was as essential to her as to her audiences. Although stage dancing of the time in
America was: “. . .trivial, and it was supposed to be trivial” (Terry: 52), St. Denis used
her exotic status in combination with its educational potential to bridge the conceptual
distances between the secular and sacred in art dance, first for herself and then for her
audiences. As Terry notes, St. Denis: “. . .made the stage her altar; the theater, her
church” (52). She reflected on the commercial pressures Denishawn made on her solitary
spiritual impetus and attempted to negotiate these opposing demands by way of a
socially-corrective, educational measure:
. . .the Orient was my personal art which audiences would expect me to
give for some years to come. . .the still beauty of the East should be
infiltrated into both the school and the company as compensation for the
space-covering athleticism of our American life (St. Denis: 182).
Balancing opposites was a familiar task to St. Denis; to begin with, her dance
development grew out of her position in a typically-American yet unusual family. Born
Ruthie Dennis (she did not gain her stage name of St. Denis until later), she was the only
girl in the family and the focus of her mother’s aspirations:
Ruth Emma Dennis [Ruthie’s mother], whether consciously or
unconsciously, planned to make her young daughter an embodiment of her
theories about a better life on earth (Kendall: 25).
Neighbors of the Dennis farm in New Jersey evidently regarded its matriarch,
Emma Dennis, an eccentric—possibly dangerous13—intellectual with a medical degree
and utopian notions, including dress reform (she didn’t believe in corsets). Emma
fashioned her home into a kind of homespun “salon” to which she invited bohemian
artists in all mediums, and staged drama productions, for which:
. . .she [Emma Dennis] cleverly used the talents of her brood. The males
took a backseat. . .as the reigning star in a family constellation which
included willful mother, dreamy father, nameless brother. . .Ruthie learned
from childhood a role which her life and art came to serve (Shelton: 2).
Both Ruthie’s parents were from ordinary, humble backgrounds, but they
responded to that condition in different ways. It is speculated that Tom Dennis met
Emma at Eagleswood, a retreat where artists and intellectuals devoted to a mystic
75
utopianism inspired by the theories of Emanuel Swedenborg (1688-1772) gathered. In
work, Mr. Denis was a machinist and failed inventor: “An avid reader and confirmed
agnostic. . .clever, charming, handsome roughneck who liked to swig whisky and play the
violin” (Shelton: 6). By contrast, Emma turned from medical science to the solace of
religion and the ideas of Mary Baker Eddy (1821-1910). An ardent feminist who also
suffered ill health, Emma determined that Ruthie would not be subject to the restrictions
she had endured, and invested her daughter with the mission to correct those failings:
“. . .to remake the world as a spiritual matriarchy, something her daughter found out how
to accomplish years later on the stage” (Kendall: 26). Thwarted in her ambitions by the
vague withdrawal from economic and social responsibilities of her common-law14
husband, Emma took matters into her own hands; taking in boarders, selling produce, and
doling out folk medicine remedies from the farm (Shelton: 8).
As a youngster, Ruthie had the run of twenty acres of land in which she played,
freely dressed in “tomboy” clothes. Deportment was her weakest subject in school, and it
is recorded that she didn’t hesitate to answer a boy’s insults by hitting him with a shovel.
She often escaped the escalating arguments between her parents over money troubles by
“reading, roaming, or best of all, playacting” (Shelton: 9).
The combination of a high-minded literary diet and physical freedom encouraged
Ruthie to absorb and process for herself every experience that came her way. These
experiences included not only caring for a variety of pets, but also listening in on
discourses on Christian Science15, Theosophy, and women’s rights among the artists and
intellectuals who rented rooms. And since New York City was a short train trip from the
farm, Ruthie also attended a variety of exotic performances there. In her book, American
Modern Dance Pioneers, Olga Maynard suggests that St. Denis had already absorbed
impressions during the course of her early education that would have a direct impact on
her conceptions of expressive dance:
Friends took her [the pre-teen Ruth Dennis] to [see]. . .the Barnum and
Bailey circus’s Burning of Rome, a colossal spectacle. . .Next she was
taken to a performance of Egypt Through the Ages, another spectacular. . .
(Maynard: 75).
76
Later, on another trip to New York in the winter of 1892, Ruthie attended a Delsarte
matinee given by Genevieve Stebbins, a performer/lecturer/teacher, who had transformed
her mastery of Delsarte exercises into a plastic art of “statue-posing” based on breathing
and a “natural”16 kinesthetic flow of movement (Ruyter: 20-30).
Although technically neither a dancer nor an actor, Stebbins distinguished herself
from other “Delsartians” by transitioning from one pose to the next in a physiological
manner, free of extraneous gestures. She presented her story-dances with simple
directness, against a green drape background17 and wearing white “Greek” robes.
Stebbins’ expressive gestures in a simple, almost austere setting impressed upon the
young Ruthie Dennis a conjunction of expressive dance with exotica to impart the feeling
of a ritual sacrament; “. . .the first spiritually, artistically, and socially acceptable dancer
the young girl had ever seen” (Shelton: 15).
These were qualities Ruthie was anxious to attain for herself; from a very young
age, Ruthie was inclined to dance and enjoyed performing before an audience. Based
upon an “expert” opinion that her daughter did indeed have dance talent, Emma
organized a program of training and promotion that would give Ruthie the best
opportunity possible for a lucrative stage career. If her daughter’s energy and leggy good
looks attracted audiences, perhaps this was a means to lift the family out of the shame of
bankruptcy. With this idea in mind, Mrs. Dennis made Ruthie the center and purpose of
her life; expertly fending off suitors who threatened to end stage engagements with
romance or proposals of marriage, and enlisting the unrecognized back-stage support of
sons and husband in the task—or abandoned the men altogether (St. Denis and Shelton).
Recognizing, as had Isadora Duncan’s family before, that a humble station
dictates a humble start, Emma began by training Ruthie in the rudiments of Delsarte
exercises. Once Ruthie had good management of them, they were applied to danced
stories which the girl interpreted to the spoken narrative of her mother. The training was
to become her foundation; so second nature to her performing action that she commanded
and incorporated these principles into every dance she made:
Details in her [St. Denis’] movement held audiences spellbound—a flick
of a finger, a nod of the head, a hand on a hip. Her sense of timing to
clinch a point was uncanny, no matter what stage she was on
(Schlundt: 6).
77
Desarte sessions were soon augmented with dancing classes at Maud Davenport’s
nearby studio in which Ruthie quickly excelled. Finally, when the time seemed right and
Ruthie looked of age to pass for an intriguing ingénue, mother and daughter made
frequent trips to New York to connect with agents, producers, managers, etc. who had the
power to launch new stage successes (Shelton: 16-7).
The progress of this stage training program was interrupted only by one semester
at Reed College in 1893, out of deference to Hull relatives horrified by Ruthie’s rush into
the decadent world of the theatre where no proper Christian girl should go. Ruthie had
no intention of turning into a proper Christian girl, and left the school by Christmas
(Shelton: 17). A few weeks later, she made her first dance appearance at Worth’s
Family Theatre and Museum as a skirt dancer in six performances per day.
Dime museums such as Worth’s were popular entertainments of the time;
they “. . .housed the first family-oriented performance spaces, menageries,
and, in fact, nearly every type of entertainment available in 19th Century
America. And all for only one dime.
(http://www.dimemuseum.com/history/htm 9 December 2002)
The dime museums were also a venue of experimentation; the first “moving
pictures” shown in America were viewed in dime museums as part of the range of
novelties presented in an “experiential buffet” format. And the managers kept it clean,
for the most part18. Even so, this venue was thought barely respectable, and skirt dancing
remained on the outer edges of what even Emma considered moral. Despite the
sensationalistic voyeurism of physical anomalies, the museums kept up the appearance of
having educational value in the person of a “professor” or “lecturer” who guided the
crowds through the exhibits and explained them. The concert shows in the museums also
implied an “uplifting theme”19, and when skirt dancing appeared there, it had more to do
with chaste manipulations of the full skirt than a view of anything under it, which was not
always the case on vaudeville or burlesque (dimemuseums.com).
Later, when vaudeville took over the respectable family entertainment business
from variety shows and dime museum concert shows, such dancers—including Ruthie
Dennis—found they were also in demand:
78
From the dime museums to the vaudeville stage, through musical
comedies and serious melodrama, Ruth would slowly rise. Each of these
genres would leave its mark on her unspoiled imagination. . .
(Kendall: 30-1).
American vaudeville was a variety show venue consisting of a series of short
(often three minutes or less), individual “acts”, which toured throughout the United States
on five major “circuits”. Vaudeville offered a broad spectrum of entertainment
experiences, none of which was directly related to any other. In an attempt to attract the
broadest audiences possible to make a profit, vaudeville shows offered something for
everyone even to the point of fragmentation:
Broadly speaking, there were at first only two kinds of variety shows,
those for men only and those for mixed audiences. . .Both forms
contributed to what was to become standard vaudeville (Sobel: 22).
A serious rendition of Hamlet’s famous speech by an actor in full Elizabethan
costume might, for example, be followed by a brother and sister contortionist act, or a
talking dog. As will be discussed in greater detail in Chapter Five, American vaudeville
had its roots in the English music hall tradition and minstrelsy, but it also exchanged acts
with dime museums, honky-tonks, beer hall concerts, circus acts, and burlesques. Almost
anything could—and was—worked up into a vaudeville act and tested out “on the
boards” before rowdy, demonstrative audiences. While some vaudeville theater
managers20 worked to provide good, wholesome “family entertainment” by restricting
acts to those that any woman of class would not be embarrassed to attend, it took a gutsy,
determined survivor to endure the long hours, grueling tour schedules, and low pay.
Vaudeville was a proving ground on which raw talent was either seasoned into audiencedrawing attractions or dropped from the stage entirely (Sobel, et al).
Conditions were hard, but vaudeville offered independence and the confidence of
accounting to no one but the theater proprietor and the audience. A vaudevillian was his
own manager, choreographer, agent, stage-hand and costumer; a learning experience
many vaudevillians later put to good use on Broadway or Hollywood. Although
vaudeville was a desperate measure for those with no other means of making a living, it
also offered opportunities for advancement to people who had few other options:
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Whatever their origins, one factor united the vaudevillians: one
way or another, all of them were beyond the pale of native-born, middleclass society. . .However hard and precarious such a life might be, it
offered unique opportunities for one group: women. . .In vaudeville they
could see the possibility of an independent career and wages that were
virtually closed to them in other fields. . . (Snyder: 44-54)
As a young woman eager to gain financial independence and artistic recognition,
Ruthie determined to stick it out in vaudeville until a better opportunity presented itself.
Aside from a youthful appearance and an energetic athleticism, Ruthie Dennis developed
the knack of emphasizing her physical strengths, including a flexible back. Spins and
leaps in Ruthie’s dances were contrasted with a long slow kick and slide into the splits
that vaudeville audiences found pleasing. As St. Denis herself explained to Terry:
I was like thousands of other girls with lithe, quick bodies, who loved
rhythm, who danced easily to whatever music was being played, and
somebody told them they could earn a living by it, and so I tried it in
vaudeville and this and that. It was most ordinary, I assure you (Miss
Ruth: 21).
Long before she conceived of herself as the “divine” worshipper of Incense, St.
Denis had been performing steadily with the sheer economic intent of supporting her
family. By eighteen, she was a veteran dancer of vaudeville and dime museum acts.
Finally, in 1900 St. Denis joined the more “legitimate” Balasco21 stage productions in
which she toured both the United States and Europe for four years, taking dancing/acting
roles in ZaZa, Madame DuBarr, and The Auctioneer. She was closely guided and
accompanied in this by her mother in every detail from the arrangements of her routines
to choice of costumes and the terms of contracts. Emma Dennis kept a close watch on
Ruthie, well aware that:
. . .her daughter entered a profession that was next to prostitution in the
popular mind. A dancing girl depended for her livelihood on a network of
powerful males. . .who could be ruthless in exploiting a young women
financially if not sexually (Shelton: 23).
In 1904 St. Denis turned twenty-four, and found herself torn between acting and
dancing, both of which seemed to be leading her down artistic dead ends. She had bit
parts dancing and acting on the Belasco tour of his historical spectacle, Madame DuBarry
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(1902) a grueling string of performances that paid the bills but left her bored and
unhappy. One spring evening, when the company arrived in Buffalo, Ruthie happened to
pass a local drug store, the window of which featured a large poster advertising Egyptian
Deities cigarettes:
It [the poster] depicted the goddess Isis, solemn and bare-breasted, seated
beneath an imposing stone doorway. . . The cigarette poster, which
became a permanent part of the St. Denis mythology, was but the catalyst
in a long-simmering process. . . a catalytic icon. . .(Shelton: 46-7)
She bought the poster and kept it a long time, studying its imagery and dreaming herself
into the image of the goddess; at one point St. Denis even posed for a photograph
enthroned and costumed as if she were the Egyptian goddess in the poster (St. Denis:
54). And with this majesty in mind, St. Denis began to also imagine herself into a
dance/pantomime realization of it in an effort to reach through it her own as-yet
unrealized performing idealism (Shelton: 49). In her autobiography, St. Denis chronicles
the way in which her attention was drawn toward the poster’s image:
. . .I saw a modernized and most un-Egyptian figure of the goddess. . .
Here was an external image which stirred into instant consciousness all the
latent capacity for wonder, that still and meditative beauty which lay at the
deepest center of my spirit (St. Denis: 52).
At first, St. Denis formed the idea of an Egypta dance incorporating a vision of
herself as a reinterpretation, rather than a literal embodiment of, a goddess: this
“modernized and most un-Egyptian figure”. It is interesting that, like the modern
paintings of women by Picasso and Manet discussed in Chapter One, this goddess looks
directly and frankly at the viewer, thus returning the judging, evaluative gaze. At the
same time, the deity is symmetrically seated in a classical frame of balance and
simplicity. The poster suggests, or refers to Ancient Egypt by reinterpreting the image in
a very modern, streamlined Art Deco style (Chapter One). If ancient and modern can be
so harmoniously melded in a cigarette poster, then so could dance and spiritualism
through St. Denis’ efforts. The narrative St. Denis conceived would present her as the
focal point of an allegory on the state of humanity (regardless of era, nationality, or
gender) between the physical and the spiritual joined in dance, incorporating an elaborate
81
set, lighting, beautiful costumes, and a company of devotees22. In 1905, St. Denis took
out a copyright on her idea (Shelton: 48-9).
But a theatrical project of that magnitude would take resources far beyond her
current means, and St. Denis was not yet so well known to persuade others to take the
risk without also making some compromises in the content of the project—or herself. In
any case, St. Denis and her mother closed the circuit of artistic and personal access to
include only family and friends as a means to retain control. Besides, the rule of thumb
to success was to work up an act that was like other acts that were popular, but also with
that little something extra that made it different. At the time St. Denis found herself
transfixed by the Egyptian cigarettes poster, Near East exoticism in dance—including
“Egyptian” ancient and modern—was popular all across Europe and the United States.
Ancient Egypt constituted a particular type of Near East Orientalism favored by
dance of this period in part because accurate, “authentic” representation was not required,
or even possible; any concoction that suggested a reference to Egyptian iconography was
acceptable. Furthermore, distinctions between “modern” and “ancient” Egyptian dancing
were vague; both came under the general heading of exotic, and that meant something of
a fantasy loosely connected to some notion of foreign delights. Audiences in every
stratum of society filled with curiosity and urban boredom flocked to view Egyptian
dances; entertainments that telescoped the world’s bewildering array of cultures across
time and space into a conceptually manageable form. And this form of display kept the
theatre managers happy and “in the black”, because it attracted both men (hoping for
some display of taboo female anatomy offered in filmy, brief costumes) and women
(enjoying the temporary escape from ordinary life into a glamorous luxury) (Snyder:
xvi).
At one end of the spectrum, a “hoochie-kooch” side show exhibition dancer who
billed herself as “Little Egypt”23:
. . . was engaged to entertain at the Seeley dinner. . .just as Little
Egypt was ready to pull off a few nifty wriggles, Chapman with a flock of
bulls broke in and pinched everybody. The raid was front-paged . . .this
put the cooch on the map (Laurie: 40).
82
A hoochie-kooch dancer moved in ways no ordinary woman could or would;
waving her arms and hands, twirling, or dipping in deep backbends with a physical
freedom and abandon that implied sexual looseness. The act was so popular that hundreds
of imitators seemed to spring up on stages all over the country overnight. “Little Egypt”
performed at Coney Island and at the 1893 Colombian Exposition in Chicago; one 1906
(silent) Edison film short features a hoochie-kooch in bloomers, dark stockings, and
heeled shoes24.
But small-time side-shows weren’t the only venues for these dancers. In 1900,
while on tour with the Balasco production of ZaZa, Ruthie attended the Paris Exposition,
an event that fueled not only her own impulses, but those of many other artists of the
time, toward Egyptian themes cast in the Art Deco style (Chapter One). St. Denis found
at the Exposition not only a wide range of exotic music and dance performed by
performers brought from distant countries, but also a variety of imitators and European
adaptations. She records in her diary having seen, as one American journalist suggested,
that the Paris Exposition was:
. . .nothing but one huge agglomeration of dancing. There were ballerinas
at the Palais de la Danse, Egyptian belly dancers, Turkish dervishes. . .
(Shelton: 42).
On the artistic end of the spectrum, audiences were overwhelmed with an
abundance of Salomés and Cleopatras in both America and Europe. They viewed not
only the performances of Maude Allen (1880-1956) in her Vision of Salomé (Vienna,
1906) but also Oscar Wilde’s play (published in 1893 and presented on stage in 1905),
and Richard Strauss’ music-drama, which premiered in 1907 with Mary Garden in the
title role. Diaghilev’s Ballets Russes toured Europe with a 1909 Cléopâtre that displayed
a beautifully costumed Ida Rubenstein. One of the biggest successes of the Ballets
Russes in Europe was Fokine’s lush Arabian Nights extravaganza, Schéhérazade (1910),
in which Nijinsky danced to acclaim as the sensual “golden slave”.
But in dance, no story was so compelling or popular with audiences than Salomé.
The exotic character of Salomé (and Allen's vision especially) offered an image of young
womanhood as both beguilingly seductive draped in translucent veils, and terrifyingly
83
depraved in demanding the head of John the Baptist. Perhaps this character invoked fears
and fascinations with the character of a strong and independent young woman who took
matters into her own hands, displaying a feminine allure inextricably bound with a
“masculine” aggressiveness. This new young woman was healthy in mind and body, out
of her tight corsets and her dragging, germ-catching long skirts25, confident in her
decisions and more or less “out of control”; that is, out of male control of her sexuality.
The New Woman described by Elizabeth Kendall in her book, Where She Danced is
discussed as a product of the later “ragtime craze” around 1914, but this description could
also have been applied to Salomé, who:
. . .was modern because she was a dancing addict and the sign of a future
when no one would bother with social conventions and ceremonies
. . .crudely ignoring the proprieties and acting instantly on one’s desires
(Kendall: 100).
Daughters (such as St. Denis) had been invested with the lessons of their mothers’
defeats in life. These daughters (like Salomé) learned to demand what they wanted from
men; the modern incarnation of womanhood. The public, at first stunned by this kind of
aggressive feminism, fell into a period of “Salomania”, and many dancers sought to fill
the demand. St. Denis considered creating an allegorical Salomé for Reinhardt's 1907
production of Strauss’ work, but could not come to terms with the more lurid aspects of
the role (Shelton: 76-77). Perhaps less squeamish, Fuller mounted her own version in
1907.
Also in the Middle Eastern vein, Edvard Grieg’s “Arabian” music for Peer Gynt
(1876) proved irresistible to a wide variety of dancers, particularly Anitra’s Dance. One
Rita Sacchetto (1880-1959) included; “an allegory for a cast of thirty to the music of Peer
Gynt that showed the striving of the soul of woman upward from the darkness of
submission into the light of emancipation”(Anderson: 32-3). Few others had such
feminist messages, however, and there consequently followed a series of exotically
seductive Anitras, among them St. Denis.
Ancient Egyptian themes as serious art topics were rare, though they retained
some of the exotic sensationalism of popular entertainments. Sent M’Ahesa, (now all but
forgotten) who was born Elsa Maragethe Luisa von Carlberg in Latvia around 1893
84
specialized in ancient Egyptian dances inspired by tomb paintings, and her angular style
was commented on in a review of 1910 as both strange and beautiful. The most famous
of her dances was titled Bird of Death: “. . . in which she portrayed a sinister birdlike
creature with enormous wings said to live in caves beneath the earth” (Anderson: 39).
Some presentations purported to express a “dime museum legitimacy” through an
educational veneer. In 1913 one Adorée Villany gave programs claiming to trace the
history of Egypt, Babylon, and Assyria in dance that included a Salomé. However, the
attention she received was largely due to being fined in Paris for performing these dances
in the nude (Anderson: 40). Finally, exotic dances from Egypt became so commonplace
on stages throughout Europe and America that they could be wittily burlesqued:
Probably one of the best known of dance acts in music halls, which lasted
until recently, was the superb comic trio of Wilson, Keppel and Betty
whose mock-Egyptian sand dance, performed with utmost seriousness,
was one of the joys of the late English music hall (Clarke and Crisp: 234).
Still, it is curious that an image of Egypt that had so captivated St. Denis should
have first resulted in a series of dances inspired by Hindu India. Perhaps she understood
that with so many Near East exoticisms rampant in regular entertainments from
vaudeville to opera, she would have to (literally, geographically) go beyond its ready
accessibility and familiar audience/performer contexts in order to dictate the terms by
which her art was to be understood. In other words, St. Denis had to clear her stage space
of the clutter of “all those other dancers” by staking out new territory in a heretofore
unexplored frame of exoticism. As it turned out, she found what she was looking for in
the spiritual exoticism of Hindu India. And at least some of her audiences received the
message of her danced spiritualism. In his book, Theatrical Dancing in America: The
Development of the Ballet from 1900, Winthrop Palmer quotes26 Charles Frohman’s
stage manager of musical comedies, who wrote of St. Denis:
This sort of dancing—the new sort—appeals to the higher senses and
makes you think. It interprets beautiful things and can be as expressive as
music or poetry. . .more postures and pictures than actual dancing, as we
understand it (Palmer: 57).
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There was probably more than one reason for the diversion which can be found in
the structure of Incense. To begin with, the dance follows the rituals in an exotic display
St. Denis describes as having been influential on her initial choice of a Hindu theme:
During these days [1906, New York] someone took me down to Coney
Island. . .my whole attention was not captured until I came to an East
Indian village which had been brought over in its entirety by the owners of
the Hippodrome. . .something of the remarkable fascination with India
caught hold of me (St. Denis: 55).
Another influence in the direction of India for St. Denis was Edmund Russell and his
(sometime) wife, Henrietta, who had studied with Delsarte in Paris. Their “. . .ideal was
to treat life as art and to enhance it according to the principles of Delsartian esthetics”
(Ruyter: 24). Henrietta27 was particularly popular teaching ladies of high society how to
move, pose, speak, dress, and even decorate the house according to the principles of
Delsarte. Life should encompass in every detail a sense of beauty and rightness guided
by a “natural and practical” approach suffused with the mystic, instead of dominated by
the near-sighted, uneducated, and frankly mercantile concerns of the middle-class. And
for this brand of spiritualism, these aesthetic Delsartians also:
. . .equated art with religion, the physical with the spiritual; and bypassing
the disesteemed ballet, they identified their expressive arts with the glories
of ancient Greece and the mystical East (Ruyter: 29).
Edmund Russell particularly cut quite an exotic public figure, disdaining European male
attire in favor of Eastern garb with a reputation as both an actor and Orientalist who had
actually been to India. He taught deportment and gave dramatic readings that melded
spiritualism with exoticism in a uniquely American context:
The deeply spiritual and intuitive quality of Oriental thought struck a
responsive cord. . .As eclectics, the transcendentalists found little
difficulty in incorporating selected Oriental ideas into their view
. . .Oriental thought was accommodated to both the religious and the
postitivistic mood [in America] (“Oriental Ideas in American Thought”:
429-438).
Russell’s most popular presentation was a long poem by Sir Edwin Arnold, called The
Light of Asia. Both St. Denis and her mother attended these sessions with great
enthusiasm. They were part of a larger group of intellectual Americans captivated by this
86
uplifting oratory that stirred the emotions and evoked a utopian, rather than a utilitarian
vision of progressive idealism:
. . .Arnold exploited the sensation the book created by coming to the
United States in 1891 to lecture on Buddhism and to read from the Light
of Asia before enthusiastic audiences. . . Oriental thought was carried
out almost entirely through books and the written word. Knowledge
gained was largely second-hand (“Oriental Ideas in American Thought”:
437-8).
The elegant prose of the literature captured St. Denis in a flow of words that felt to her as
if they could be transformed into dance. But this was not the first time St. Denis had
made the connection between “prose and pose”, for she also recollected a performance of
Sarah Bernhardt which, if you:
. . .put your fingers in your ears so that you can’t hear her. . .you would
see that she is dancing. I feel that my picturesque posings on the stage,
sometimes artificial and sometimes legitimate, stem from watching this
performance of Bernhardt (St. Denis: 58)
Upon becoming friends with Russell, St. Denis borrowed his books and solicited his
advice on how to devise her dance. As a result, the spatial symmetry of Incense, in which
the dancer is effectively framed by two large incense burners down stage right and left
bears direct visual correlation to the staging of Edmund Russell’s Light of Asia:
He [Russell] made a deep impression on me as he stood on the platform,
dressed in a rich Indian turban and a long raja coat28, flanked by two tall
candlesticks. The rest of the room was in darkness, and he made an
arresting figure as he read in his modulated, beautiful voice. . .
(St. Denis: 59).
Russell was further instrumental in advising St. Denis on the details of Hindu life that
would enhance the conviction of authenticity expressed in Incense, and on several
occasions St. Denis and Russell gave joint performances of Incense and The Light of
Asia. The success of this association between lecturer and dancer expressed a
compatibility of meaning between movement and speech at the essence of Delsarte’s
theoretical work, whose principles were closely studied by both Russell and St. Denis.
As St. Denis reminds us, her impetus in choreographing Incense for its communicative
properties was as much conceptual as physical:
87
It must be remembered that my creative instincts were and at the same
time were not those of the dancer. . .Without question I was at that time a
kind of dancing ritualist. . .I longed to translate into rhythmic patterns a
spiritual significance. . . (57)
In the process of realizing that goal, St. Denis incorporated whatever suggestion,
regardless of source, that seemed appropriate to her at the time. For Incense she
undertook library research, consulted East Indians29 in all walks of life then living in New
York, and paid attention to the reactions of friends and family30 to whom she showed her
progress. This is not to imply that St. Denis was careless of the sources of her material.
But she was enthusiastically eclectic. And no one thought to tell her that what she
wanted to do couldn’t be done—hadn’t been done—on any Western stage. Instead, St.
Denis found a faith and confidence generated in her inner circle of friends she not only
drew upon, but also exuded. She would need all the confidence she could draw from
within herself for her first paying public showing of Incense, which was booked into the
New York Theater Saturday Night Smoking Concerts (a nearly all-male audience) by
Louis Weber to substitute for a cancelled act. And her earliest advertising copy billed St.
Denis’ “Indian” dances as Native American (she learned to describe them as “Hindu” for
her American concerts) or invented fabulous tales of her “true life story” as an exiled
Oriental princess.
But not everyone missed the point; Henry Burleigh, the negro singer, admired her
dances so much he arranged a concert with her and presented her at Charles Frohman’s
Aldwych Theater (An Unfinished Life: 65-6). Finally, when a group of upper-class
women bought a special showing of St. Denis dances at the Hudson Theatre she also
drew upon their perception of her not only as an artist, but also a spiritual guide light, for:
“. . .Each of these supporters saw in Ruthie’s dancing a serious attempt to translate
oriental principles into American art” (Shelton: 55-6).
St. Denis herself acknowledged that shifting from an Egyptian theme to an Indian
one seemed strange, though it did not constitute a significant change of concept; quite the
contrary. In some degree recognizing the generalized nature of Oriental themes in
western culture she states that:
88
India held my interest to the same degree that Egypt had. . .However, it
must be clear that this seeming shift of loyalties involved no basic change.
The image of Egypta had set into vibration an inward state that would
inevitably express itself. . . it made no difference what the artistic
environment or race culture was that I transmitted through the dance (St.
Denis: 55-6).
This kind of thematic amalgam of exotica matched St. Denis’ eclectic mixture of artistic,
philosophical, and spiritual impressions acquired through voracious reading and
reflection. Filtered through the utopic idealism instilled in her by her mother and (to a
lesser extent, her father), and reconstituted into unified, all-embracing spiritualism, dance
became for St. Denis the mechanism of synthesis for her expression. And even in her
first venture into this new art St. Denis confirmed her innate, unerring aesthetic sense of
time and space by positioning her body as her commitment to what she called “truth and
beauty”:
In this rhetorical fiat, the material body is not so much denied as
transposed into the figuration of transcendental vaules. Through her
dance, St. Denis declared that she was presenting the mystic’s experience
of unity with God (Desmond, Dancing Out the Difference: 261).
St. Denis worked to make this commitment recognized by audiences of Incense,
and her subsequent sacred/exotic dances constitute developments and variations on that
pattern (St. Denis: 277). In the process, she transformed herself from an impoverished
American New Jersey farm girl into an international goddess of dance.
In Incense, St. Denis straightforwardly presented herself to the audience as a
dancer, choreographer, and an exotic character engaged in a spiritually-expressive state.
To better understand how these identities were communicated to her audiences, it is
useful to examine the movement and non-movement features of this dance. A detailed
account of the movements in a performance for a video reconstruction of Incense is given
in Appendix A. It is on this account that the following discussion is developed regarding
how the movements successively combine to create meaning. As has been previously
mentioned, St. Denis varied the details of this dance over the course of its many
performances, and this video reconstruction is based on one of her later versions (Clark:
interview, 30 January 2003).
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True to its introspective and self-absorbed nature, Incense contains no sudden
movements thrust out into space, such as jumps or rapid changes of direction. Instead,
each gesture grows out of the one preceding it and fades gradually into the one following,
just as the fragrant smoke of burning incense slowly ascends and shifts suspended in the
air without abrupt beginning or end. This predominant dynamic supports the impression
of the performance as a sacred ritual, and transforms the stage area of Incense into sacred
space:
I was dimly aware [none of the temple dances] belonged in the theater
. . .when I tried to invoke an atmosphere of worship. . .I tried to restate
man’s primitive use of the dance as an instrument of worship. . .
(St. Denis: 72).
As a Delsarte-informed ritual, each movement of Incense is deliberate and
purposeful; only the effort required to accomplish each move is used, and what is not
immediately engaged is left at repose, yet ready. As a reverie, the attention of the dancer
is internal, almost trance-like. She follows a progression of development according to a
compelling, unseen, yet irresistible impulse from within the center of her own body.
Time and space seem to support an eternal now of being. Nothing is rushed; nothing is
delayed. “A true Delsartian, St. Denis believed that each gesture should objectify an
inner emotional state” (Shelton: 62).
To accomplish this ritual, St. Denis employed natural and simple movements that
non-dancers could perform, such as walking, kneeling, and standing. But out of this
simplicity she presented a deliberate stylization; by slowing down the speed at which
these movements are usually executed in ordinary life, St. Denis suggested otherworldly
tasks. All her precise movements are neither hurried nor delayed, and invoke Western
classical depictive traditions of Ancient Greek and Egyptian statuary styles in that they
are performed so that the audience receives at all times an “open” (as opposed to
“closed”)31 picture of the dancing that is symmetrically-composed in the performing
space. While the torso faces the audience, the dancer offers a three-dimensional twist of
head, hips, legs and/or arms in a way that recalls the contrapposto postures of Greek
sculptures, and passes through positions in which one leg is relaxed with the rest of the
body compensating balance invoking the Praxitelean curve32
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The dancer first presents herself and the offering tray held in front of her by
directly facing the audience. This initial composition presents a symmetrically triangular
balance with the dancer equidistant up stage center between the two incense burners, one
positioned down stage right, and the other down stage left. A fourth point of reference is
implied by the privileged position of the audience in a direct frontal line from the dancer.
Although the dancer circles both incense burners, she does not move far from their
implied perimeters. Both the dancer’s arrival at the beginning of the dance and departure
at its end occur at the same central upstage point, between the folds of two hanging
tapestries. This entrance and exit of presence is gradual and unassuming, just as there is
no distinct moment of arrival or departure of the scent of incense. Within this confined,
“diamond”-shaped space the whole dance and its experiential meanings are contained.
The dancer’s first visible movement33 in Incense is a gentle rocking step toward
the audience that establishes the variations of rippling movements of which the dance is
composed. In this, as in all locomotive movements, the center (a point about two inches
above the navel) of the dancer’s body leads, and it is from this center that all gesture
unfolds and in turn is refolded. In keeping with the impression of an ordinary Hindu
woman performing the ritual of puja, locomotion across the stage is accomplished in a
fluid undulation. The carriage of the upper body is serene and simple, with the head
slightly lifted. Transitions are always smooth and flowing, and once direction is
indicated in the glance, the body goes there as if in direct obedience to the inclination of
spirit. The impetus of movement always seems to arise in the center of the body to flow
evenly outward to the extremities in a way that does not waste energy.
During the dance (with one notable exception) all the joints of the body remain
slightly flexed so that the dancer is able to gently sway the tray forward and back as she
walks. The walk itself employs a sagittal34 rocking movement, as if testing the ground
before a complete transfer of weight is executed. Together, the gentle swinging of the
offering tray and her walk suggest the ebb and flow of breathing. This flexible impetus
and yielding quality is graphically expressed in the stance of the dancer as she walks
toward each incense burner. Her upstage arm reaches in front of her in the direction of
her walk, palm outward, while the downstage hand supports the offering tray behind her.
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Besides being a sculpturally-interesting position of the upper body as she walks
and inclines her head slightly from side to side, the position suggests an offering of the
self spiritually before (i. e. in front of) the physical incense powder in the tray.
Furthermore, it opens the tensions between a physical self transformed into ephemeral
spirit the same way burning incense is transformed from powder into perfumed smoke.
In this sense, St. Denis drew her audiences into an experience of time and space as
insubstantial and unstable as perfume so that the enduring spirit inhabiting that temporary
continuum is felt as eternally beyond it.
As the dance builds to its climax, the body of the dancer is increasingly seized in
sequentially flowing ripples—first of the arms as the incense burns, and finally into a
full-bodied rippling. The surrender of the self to the deity is as gradual and irresistible as
the lingering scent of smoke:
The rising smoke of the incense was to me a symbol of devotion, of prayer
and meditation, of the surrender of self and the ecstasy of release, and I
attempted to say with my rippling arms and my whole body what I felt in
my heart (St. Denis: 69).
Tensions between a substantial body and insubstantial smoke are enhanced by the
choice of filmy drapery in the costume. The dancer in the video reconstruction examined
for this study appeared to be wearing red trousers with a choli35 top. Over this, two semitransparent veils were draped across her body; first a white veil, then a silver-trimmed
dark-blue veil that covered her head and framed her face. She wore a thin silvery band
across her forehead and a silver bangle on her right arm, and was barefoot.
An examination of photographs, and accounts of those who saw St. Denis perform
in Incense, reveals that the costume she wore was different36 (Shelton: photoplate facing
page 55, captioned as having been taken in 1906). Although the Incense costume
changed somewhat over time, it remained a “smoke-colored” sari made of a semitransparent fabric plainly decorated37 and draped so that it both concealed and revealed
St. Denis’attractive female form. The endpiece of the sari was draped over her head. St.
Denis’ choli, or under-blouse was covered in pearls, and she wore a cap of little white
flowers invoking strings of sweet-smelling jasmine that Hindu women often twist into
their hair. Her feet and waist were bare.
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There are other differences between this early Incense photograph and the video
reconstruction. For example, the dancer in this video reconstruction does not appear to
be wearing more than standard dance makeup. St. Denis states that for her earliest
performances of Incense she applied full body makeup that darkened her skin,
emphasizing the illusion of remote exotic authenticity (Desmond, Dancing Out the
Difference: 265). So effective was this illusion that she recalled press releases billing
her as a kind of half-Indian royalty, trained in the esoteric arts of dance in a raja’s palace.
Later, when her reputation as a serious concert dance artist was established St. Denis
abandoned her darkened body makeup for the dance (St. Denis and Terry).
In any case, the pale color of the sari augmented the impression of purity and
devotion appropriate to the dancer. This illusion of seeming to “shine from within”, as if
St. Denis were a candle flame38 was enhanced by controlled lighting designed for her by
her “Brother Buzz”. Even beyond performing Incense, St. Denis seems to have been
fond of this garb, for photographs of her teaching at Denishawn often show her and her
students wearing saris (as well as Greek chitons) in this fashion, posing with peacock
feathers, or in performance of many subsequent dances on Indian themes (Shelton, et.
al.). The costume apparently also served as a “uniform” of authority not only in teaching
Oriental dancing, but in lecturing the general public, as well. An early film
documentary39 shows St. Denis standing on a darkened stage wearing a pale sari like the
one in Incense and declaring that she, Fuller, and Duncan first invented modern dance.
Claims of invention aside, the point here is that this speech claiming St. Denis’
preeminence in having instigated a wholly new dance form was made wearing an exotic
costume that recalled the authority of oriental spiritualism which St. Denis established for
herself in her first solo.
Professor Jack Clark, who produced the video reconstructions of both Incense
and Gnossienne used in this study explained during the course of several interviews with
the author that he arranged this adaptation of costume to facilitate the dancer’s
movements and preserve the essential qualities St. Denis required. St. Denis wrapped her
sari according to both her perception of authenticity40 and the need to move
unencumbered. Layers of transparent veils draped around the dancer’s body were
intended to suggest the swirling qualities of smoke reflected in the mimed gestures.
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However, as previously noted, St. Denis’ costume was by no means a set element
of the dance. St. Denis often changed the steps and accessories during her many years
performing Incense:
St. Denis not only changed costumes and settings for her dances, as whim
or circumstance dictated, but she was also given to changing the dances
themselves. . .her reason for the changes was simply that she got bored
. . .(Terry: 73).
In any case, the consistent feature of “smoke-colored” veils compliments the implied
narrative of the woman intent upon yielding her spirit to the divine, for in traditional
Hindu India only renunciate, widowed women wore white or very pale-colored saris like
the one in Incense.
At the same time, the figure of the dancer swathed in gauzy near-white against a
heavy, dark tapestry background produced quite a contrast between dancer and her
surroundings. It is she who is light, airy, and as prone to shifts of feeling as smoke is to a
breath of air; an insubstantial entity come briefly into the heavier, weighted material
world. In this context, St. Denis draws upon Romantic ballet contexts, in which an
otherworldly feminine elusiveness was swathed in plenty of white tulle41:
While Romantic ballets had certainly exposed the female form, costuming
it in gauzy skirts and tight-fitting bodices, many choreographers had
promulgated images of chasteness and veiled voluptuousness as well
(Tomko: xi).
The stage setting/dancer arrangement also recalled the formal seriousness of
Delsartian Genevieve Stebbins and the classical connotations of Greek marble statuary
mimicked in the tableaux vivants42. Several interesting features come into play when a
performer assumes the characteristics of statuary. The figure becomes impersonalized
and abstracted, or separated from common contexts of time and space. Furthermore,
individual imperfections disappear in a generalized uniformity; details reside in the
movements instead of superficial features such as hair color, complexion, etc. The image
is depersonalized so that the person is transmuted out of the ordinary and the temporary
into the eternal and rare.
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Correspondingly, the implication is that petty human imperfections are surpassed,
and the dancer, associated with the classical beauty of antiquities found in museums, is
equally rare, unique, and precious. In drawing upon Greek statuary for the imagery in
Incense, St. Denis was in effect defying an impression of her experiential product as
having been “mass produced”, even through grueling repetitions of “six a day” stints on
vaudeville and tours repeating the same dance so many times that she would at one point
collapse off stage, wailing that she was not a machine (St. Denis: 101). As did the
avant-garde artists discussed in Chapter One, St. Denis with Incense referred to classical
traditions without allowing her dance to become dominated by them; in other words, the
materiality of the form is intended to support insubstantial feelings, or impressions
instead of the other way around.
An interesting tension is established in Incense with the figure of a woman who at
once appears as enduringly posed in grace and beauty as a Greek statue of marble, and
yet is as ephemeral as incense smoke and fragrance. The implication is that the
“statuesque”43 St. Denis in Incense is to be revered on the stage with the same respect as
a Greek statue on display in the Louvre. In this context, Incense is a work of art “turned
upside down”. Instead of asserting that living flesh melts into mortality while statues
endure, another kind of balance between “transient” and “eternal” is forged: the dancer
in the here and now not only brings marble “to life” but suggests in her fleeting repeating
dance the enduring quality of constant reinterpretation, while static, inorganic marble
(and by extension any physical “representative” of the human including machines) can be
smashed, eroded, or lost altogether44.
Not only were the movements and costume of Incense eclectic, but also the music
St. Denis chose for it. Her selection reflected what she considered to be a tasteful balance
between the purulent and the grandiose; or, between the ballet music and popular dance
music, neither of which were “spiritual”. The task of finding the right music was harder
than usual because St. Denis wished to distinguish herself as a different kind of dancer.
As has been previously noted, other “exotic” dances of the time were usually thinlydisguised burlesque acts, and this status applied also to their staging and choice of music.
Ralph Locke, in his essay, “Cutthroats, and Casbah Dancers, Muezzins, and Timeless
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Sands” discusses the adaptation of music with an exotic turn—from popular to traditional
opera and ballet—for Western audiences:
The use of simple materials was conditioned by many factors: the
limitations of Western notation and Western instruments and performance
traditions (both of which allowed no room for microtonal scales); the
limitations of Western hearing and of the Western conception of the
musical “work,” when confronted with the very different complexities of
non-Western music. . .and, always, the underlying assumption that nonWestern culture was inherently less elaborated. . .more easily reduced to a
few concrete images. . . and musical devices (Locke: 117).
Unlike later dance artists, early pioneers like St. Denis, Fuller, and Duncan did
not have the resources to commission music for their first works, and in any case, serious
composers of the time—especially in America—were not given to writing music for
dance. Generally, dancers were forced to rely on the variable talents of pick-up
musicians found in each location they toured. Most of these only played piano, and their
repertoire of music was limited. A rehearsal normally consisted of the dancer telling the
pianist the kind of music wanted, and then a brief run-through to mark positions on stage,
set the tempo, and cut or augment measures as would fit the needs of the dance.
Short, three-minute solos or duets with their simple, repetitive musical cues were
ideal performing units. Since nearly every theatre had a piano, almost all the music was
set for that instrument. Many vaudeville skirt dancers of all kinds, as well as both Fuller
and Duncan did at least one dance to Mendelssohn’s Springtime, a piece of music now so
cliché that only cartoon characters dance to it. But exotic dance did not depend on exotic
music anyway; in fact, much of the music St. Denis used was Western in nature. As
Margot Fontyn comments in her book, The Magic of Dance:
[St. Denis] . . .was infused with a deeply sincere mystical
conviction that made her a compelling performer, and undoubtedly she
pioneered a public for serious dance with her oriental phantasies set to
Occidental music (Fontyn: 98).
Certainly the tune “Little Egypt” was typical accompaniment for any dance acts on
exotic ideas. The Fantasie arabe by “the wildly fashionable [European] pianistcomposer, Frantz Hünten and arranged by Philipe Mustard” was according to Locke, the
norm. He summarizes this tune’s corresponding popularity in America:
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Narrow in range and obsessive in its melodic patterning, it would have a
second vogue in America. . .even today this “Hoochy Kootchy Dance” as
it is often known, probably remains the “exotic” tune best known
throughout the Western musical world (Locke: 116).
But what St. Denis wanted was something fairly recognizable to Western musical
tastes with just a hint of the Oriental to it; as simple and direct as her danced message in
Incense. The rigors of touring her works through vaudeville circuits could not
accommodate an orchestra, so St. Denis searched for piano-adaptive music that could
provide a transition between a comfortable familiarity of popular tunes and the serious
expressions of spiritual transcendence she was after. St. Denis relates that:
I found it very difficult to find the music which would express these
qualities. . .The Incense was not finished yet, but I had met Harvey
Worthington Loomis, the composer, and heard one of his haunting little
pieces, and I knew it belonged to the piece. He seemed pleased at my
appreciation and dedicated the little piece to the Incense (St. Denis: 57-8).
St. Denis’ choice of an American composer who shared her ideals of a newlyrevised American utopia was appropriate. Although biographical information about
Harvey Worthington Loomis (1865-1930) is sketchy, it is noted that he was primarily
inspired by Native American folklore in his piano pieces. He is also listed as a member
of the Cornish Colony, a New England group of artists, writers, crafters, and composers
active between 1895 and 1925. Members generally came from New York, and stayed
full-time or part-time in the general area of the colony. Collectively, these artists inspired
and encouraged one another toward realizing an Americanization of a past golden age.
As part of this artistic and intellectual collective, Looms believed that his role in the
effort should be to create music inspired by non-European sources even though he relied
on established musical conventions of the West to convey them.
His short piano composition for Incense followed Western musical conventions of
melody, harmony, and rhythm. At the same time, it evoked nostalgia for a lost memory
of perfection appropriate to the wistful curves of St. Denis’ movements and poses. It is
sweetly reverential—even introspectively sad—without being overly sentimental; the
piece contains minor notes that fall in a simple melodic line without flourishes.
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Created on a utopian ideal of Orientalism as a basis for a uniquely American
brand of mysticism, Loomis’ music suited St. Denis’ purposes well. Above all, the music
did not stand out for itself in a way that overpowered the subtle movements of the dancer.
Its climax rose gradually and logically; each phrase in the music built on the one that
went before to imply a steady seeking for, and brief moment of connection with, divine
communion. Finally, the music repeated its opening melody at its conclusion, just as the
dancer exits in the same fashion as she entered the stage. Like the dance designed for it,
the music was understated, suggesting a neo-classical ideal of restraint, moderation, and
simplicity.
Professor Clark, who created the video reconstruction used in this study,
emphasized the importance of the musical structure to how St. Denis arranged the dance.
The dynamics of the music were reflected in a corresponding physical/emotional
response in the dancer of Incense, and this quality of matching visual meaning and
auditory impression is consistent in nearly all of St. Denis’ subsequent dances. The fitting
of the dance to the music depended largely on her intuitive sense of timing, which
could—and evidently, according to associates often did—change from one performance
to another:
All through her long career, St. Denis was given to improvising. One of
her dancers once said, “I think Miss Ruth has key places in all of her
dances and she always gets to them on time, but what she does in between
varies from performance to performance.” Left to her own devices, she
was unfailingly effective, but it was sometimes difficult for her to adjust
her own inspirational movements to the routines of others (Terry: 73).
No two audiences of Incense ever quite saw the same dance. This was due, in part, to the
open-ended nature of choreography at the time. But even when St. Denis was able to hire
her own accompanist Louis Horst (1884 -1964) a kind of informal arrangement between
movement and music continued. Dorothy Madden, in her book, You Call Me Louis, not
Mr. Horst, quotes Horst, who worked as the Denishawn accompanist from 1917 to 192745
on how dances were fitted to their music:
There was no choreography in those days. We didn’t even know the
word. You did sixteen bars, and then you heard the next sixteen bars and
thought about what to do with them (Madden: 36).
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St. Denis dances even as late at 1917 tended to shift in length, become absorbed
into larger works in good economic times and broken off as solos during bad times.
When Horst accepted a pickup accompanying/conducting position with the Denishawn
Company on two weeks’ trial, it was a vague and confusing start. Madden records that:
There was no time to rehearse, only a moment or so to ask the dancers
how some of the music went. Ted Shawn was there and went over his
dances, but Miss Ruth was not present to explain her famous solos. The
dancers’ answer to his question, “What’s this?”, holding a score, was:
“Well, this goes yum, bum, bum, bum.” That was all he was given. . .some
of the music was printed but most of it was in manuscript (Madden: 29).
Respect for the music as an integral part of performance was slow in coming, but
over time, Shawn and St. Denis came to trust Horst, and offered their students an
opportunity to study music with him in their school. Horst received top billing with
Shawn and St. Denis during Denishawn’s tour, which was half concert, half vaudeville
bookings. He engaged serviceable musicians to play the music, conducted with one hand
and played the piano with the other, managed the tour while Shawn was in the army, and
smoothed relations among artists in the company. Both Shawn and St. Denis praised
Horst’s presence as one of incalculable worth. Due to his comments in rehearsal, St.
Denis became aware of the fact that her dance changed every time it was performed, and
he impressed upon her the need to more closely fix the dance to the music:
The cut and paste system was what Miss Ruth was using for her dances.
She had been criticized about her choice, mish-mash, and use of music and
admitted that the criticism was valid as she knew little about music.
Eventually she credited her musical growth to Louis and Ted
(Madden: 34).
Complimenting the intimacy of movements and music, the stage setting for
Incense is simple, even austere. In the video reconstruction of the dance used for this
study, the dancer is close to the audience and on the same level. There is no special
surface on the floor. A plain scrim provides the background, and the audience sees the
entrance and exit of the dancer to and from the upstage center of the area where the dance
proper begins and ends.
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The performance is moderately well lit with general lighting. It provides for no
particular distinction in any area of the stage or segment of the dance above any other; in
other words, the lighting remains uniform over all areas of the dance space and
unchanged throughout the dance. While it is speculated that the original lighting
conditions for Incense were, based upon both St. Denis’ and Terry’s descriptions of it,
probably subdued to promote the atmosphere of a predawn ritual and mystic ambiguity, it
still was carefully controlled. She probably had been impressed by how effective good
lighting schemes acted in support of Fuller’s performances in Paris (Chapter One). As
with other elements of performance, what St. Denis began in Incense she proceeded to
develop in her subsequent dances. Shawn’s student, Barton Mumaw recalls to Jane
Sherman in her book, Barton Mumaw, Dancer, the extent to which lighting was important
to St. Denis:
. . .look to Ruth St. Denis, a true lighting innovator in her day, who
maintained that, “You cannot talk lighting. You have to do it.” Working
with and learning from her, Shawn often complained that she had no
conscience about expense when it came to that department
(Sherman: 311).
The stage space of Incense is otherwise bare except for two tall incense burners
placed downstage left and right. Although they are listed here as part of the stage set, the
burners serve several implicit and actual functions to enhance meaning in the dance itself.
As the dancer moves between them, the burners provide important symmetrical spatial
points of reference. They in effect frame the movements of the solo dancer, not unlike
the way in which the heavy, ornate borders of the Egyptian Deities cigarette poster
framed the seated goddess Isis. The two burners also offer supporting points of an
equilateral triangle in which the dancer is the apex. In this function the burners serve as
symmetrically-stationary parts of the stage set, interacting visually with the dancer as a
visual stasis contrasting with her movements.
However, when the dancer adds incense powder to them, they also take on the
function of props, pouring out fragrant smoke. The stir of the air around her as she
dances, “choreographs” these swirls of smoke, as if they had been veils tossed by
servants. And finally, if the positions of the burners are taken in context with subsequent
St. Denis dances, they also imply a supernumerary function as non-dance bodies.
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The smoke arising from the incense burners is left to the imagination in this
reconstruction. However, in her autobiography, St. Denis specifically states that the
incense burners were lit, and gave off their perfumed smoke while she performed her
dance46. She also had incense burners lit in the foyer of the theatre at its first public
performance, and required that the exotically-attired ushers move about with quiet
efficiency in greeting the audience. This pre-performance condition incorporating the
sense of smell promoted an atmosphere of reverence and authentic sanctity associated
with a temple for the audience (Terry: 53).
The dancer bears in her hands an offering tray from which she grasps powdered
incense to be burned. This tray is a physical property in service of a spiritual ritual
enactment. Its connection with the physical body of the dancer is established in the
opening movements of the dance in the way she sways it forward and back parallel to the
forward and back sway of her walk. The dancer manages the tray smoothly, shifting it
from hand to hand and supporting it with hands and palms as an extension of her arm.
The tray furthermore suggests smaller points of triangles spaced evenly on either side of
the dancer’s face as it is lifted to the right and to the left. Its function of containing an
offering to the deity is emphasized, just as the body of the dancer “contains” a desire for
divine communion.
When the dancer lifts her tray high over her head it symbolically marks an
intermediation between heaven and earth. It is placed on the ground in front of the
dancer while she undulates her entire body as if she had been converted into insubstantial
smoke. In that position the tray acts as a physical, immobile and “grounded” marker to
which the dancer refers (that is, she does not move away from her position directly up
stage center of the tray) even as she is freed from the confines of the earth as suggested
by her undulations.
The offering tray (like the incense burners) metaphorically supports the dancer in
the opposing tensions of permanent materiality and the impermanent, ephemeral qualities
of the dance. Through its position in front of her on the floor and the ceremonious way it
is placed there and picked up again, the tray’s framing function is both spatial and
temporal. The tray and incense burners frame the dancer in Incense, who is at once
worshipping and to be worshipped, lit up inside the little black box of the theatre to be
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admired at a distance, but never touched. These conditions promoted an atmosphere of
reverence lifted out and away from modern life into a realm of unchanging sanctity:
Some scholars suggest that the American brand of orientalism represented
a rejection of the fluctuating modern world, a retreat to the sacred societies
of the East as primitive havens of spiritual order (Shelton: 55)
The success of Incense established St. Denis as a serious artist with a spiritual
message for her audiences. It became the first in a life-long series of dances for St. Denis
that explored an astonishing range of different exotic themes and narratives from India,
Egypt, Japan, and China collectively, from traditional legends and stories to ideas of her
own; and across Hindu, Buddhist, and Christian sources. A distinct psychological
division was established in St. Denis’ Oriental dances to separate the dancer from her
audience, and in no dance is this more pronounced than in Incense. This “intimately
remote” relationship is maintained even in her “music visualizations”, which nominally
had no theme except to physically express the dynamics of the music. In the flowing,
organic process of dancing life itself becomes suspended, a quality St. Denis touches
upon in describing why exotic themes held such a renewing fascination for her in so
many of her dances:
. . . I am in a more harmonious state of being than at any other time. . .The
anxious, commonplace moods of ordinary living are excluded. . .I find a
real escape from the limited sense of life. . .Human relations are
suspended and the sense of age—of being any particular age—is
nonexistent. . .(277).
There are a number of elements in Incense to which St. Denis consistently
returned even in her last works. These include the use of veil-like drapes (often white)
for costumes that both reveal and conceal the feminine body; a central orientation in the
stage space to focus on the solo dancer in slow, meditative movements flowing into and
out of iconic pose invoking gentle introspection. St. Denis dances noted for such
qualities in particular include Kuan Yin (1919), White Jade (1926), and Color Study of the
Madonna (1934). In her discussion of the art and popular appeal of St. Denis’ career,
“Into the Mystic with Miss Ruth”, dance writer Christena Schlundt points out the
continued success of lighting and costuming first pioneered in Incense:
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Her [St. Denis’] stages were light shows long before the term existed
. . .suggestive shadows revealed deep mysteries. . .yardage surrounded her
like foothills around a mountain. She stirred, whipped, churned them,
settled them in meaningful peace (Schlundt: 6).
The influence St. Denis had on other dance artists is nearly incalculable and a
topic of greater scope than is possible to fully discuss here. However, it is appropriate to
mention that Incense and the performance aesthetic for which it stood profoundly
influenced the work of both her partner Ted Shawn (whose work Gnossienne is discussed
in greater depth in Chapter Three) and their Denishawn student, Martha Graham. While
she studied more directly with Shawn, Graham nevertheless mastered movement qualities
and the centrally-staged soloist for dramatic point of view that had become St. Denis
trademarks indicated in Incense. These include contrasts between reaching away from
and yielding to gravity in kneeling or sinking, bare feet that feel the contours of the
ground, and movements originating from the center of the body. Agnes de Mille in her
discussion of the first modern dancers in America from her book, The Book of the Dance,
makes the connection between such dance movements and the exotic, non-Western
themes that gave them expression. She47 says of Graham that she was:
. . .influenced at first by St. Denis’ Oriental studies. . .the use of the
ground, the kneeling, squatting, rising, and sinking, which is an essential
part of Oriental dancing and found nowhere in any Western form, she
incorporated into her style. She also appropriated the Oriental use of the
foot, the shifting and sliding on the earth, the curling of the toes to act as a
hinge. . .she stressed continuous unfolding movement from a central core,
as in all Oriental movement, but she added spasm and resistance which are
not characteristic of the East at all (de Mille: 157).
Even when there were other dancers on stage with her, St. Denis occupied a
central position. So often were other dancers appearing in a kneeling position on either
side of her in highly symmetrical arrangements, that it is a small reach of the imagination
to consider the two incense burners for her first dance a pair of “silent” dancers. Very
quickly the two burners were replaced by two diagonally-positioned rows of seated
Indian men (ostensibly worshipers) in the later Radha. This central focus was also
adopted by Graham.
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The idea of centrality in Incense is not really a new one: the arrangements and
movements of groups on stage in Denishawn dance works were comparable to those of
classical ballet. The Swan Queen in Swan Lake (Petipa: 1895) occupies the center of the
stage and the focus of the audience flanked on either side by the corps du ballet swans
kneeling and posing in support of her star position. Not only did the groups support the
individual, but also the male supported and framed the female. In partnership with Ted
Shawn, St. Denis was usually down stage (i. e. in front, from the audience point of view)
from him, so that his masculinity framed and presented the central perception of her
feminine point of view, not unlike the traditional ballet pas de deux in which the male
dancer’s main purpose is to showcase the ballerina.
Graham learned very well from St. Denis how to centrally position herself in
solos and maintain oppositional contrast in larger group works so that the audience is
always connected with her character’s point of view. If, as is the case in Graham’s
Primitive Mysteries (1930), the group of women around her are standing and jumping in
unison, she is seated quietly in the center of their activity. If the group is in dark colors,
she is in white, to emphasize not only her perspective of singularity facing a group, but
also her isolation—her seprateness—from the group. This central position in the work,
whether solo or ensemble, was so much a feature of her dances that Graham, when once
asked by a naïve stage hand where center stage was, firmly replied, “Wherever I am, that
is center stage.”48
Probably one of the most noticeable influences St. Denis had on Graham was in
the area of lighting, costume, and props. It has been noted that Graham is “fond of capes
and veils” (Leatherman: 141). In Acrobats of God (1960) Graham wore a vividly-hued
sari, the end of which trailed behind her on the ground:
A red-yellow-orange-gold strapless evening dress with a cumbersome
train, it is a sari given to her [Graham] by Rukmini Devi when she was in
Madras. Revering it as a gift and as a garment, she refused to cut it and
spent many hours at the mirror draping and redraping it about her before
she fashioned it to suit herself (Leatherman: 29).
Many of Graham’s costumes have the comparable effect of both covering and revealing
the body as St. Denis’ sari did for her in Incense. In some of Graham’s dances, though,
the body of the dancer seems pitted against the costume. Ropes entangle, drapes
104
smother, and skirts drag against the legs and feet. In Clytemnestra (1958), Graham wears
a veil covering the back of her head and falling to the ground in a way that recalls St.
Denis’ veil in Incense with the effect of mystery, of concealing and revealing the female
form, and indicating her character’s separation from other dancers and the audience. But
in the same piece Graham also wraps a long length of cloth around herself, the ends of
which are bolted to the floor of the stage on either side of her. While St. Denis used these
objects to serve her spiritual message, Graham employed the same symbolic choices to
reveal a psychological experience of the human condition. Generally for Graham,
costumes and their properties of drape, lighting, and movement are integral components
of the dance in question:
Fundamental to her approach is the old sense of the significance of dress,
of dressing as ritualistic change. . .that sense which has, except. . .in
certain rites of the churches. . .all but vanished from the modern mind. It
permeates Martha’s plays. Her characters, in particular those she portrays,
are often ritually dressed in the course of the action or they shed outer
garments to convey changes not of worldly status but of states of mind and
heart (Leatherman: 139).
But in the use of props, Graham pushed their use deeper into symbolic meaning
than St. Denis did. St. Denis used her focus on the offering tray in Incense to modestly
draw her eyes downward and emphasize how the impetus for her walk came from the
center of her body as if pulled forward and out away from her by the tray. She referred to
the two burners on each side of the stage almost as if they were supporting dancers. But
Graham’s dances had characters manipulating poles, stylized daggers, ropes, whips, fans,
and even wind chimes to the extent that in some of her pieces the differences in function
between props, sets, and costumes become indisinguishable. For example, Jocasta’s hair
ornament in Night Journey (1947) refers both to her mythological name (“Shining
Moon”) and the sickle-shaped robe brooch with which Oedipus blinded himself. And the
umbilical cord binding Jocasta to Oedipus is the same cord she uses to hang herself.
Just as St. Denis built her spiritualism on exoticism, Graham built her
psychological dramas on the previously-established spiritualism of St. Denis. One
striking difference, however, between Graham and St. Denis lies in the use they made of
music in their dances. St. Denis conscripted existing Western-style pieces that could be
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played on the piano, and that suggested Oriental themes. But Graham commissioned
nearly all her music specifically for each piece. And while St. Denis followed the
melodic and rhythmic line of the music with a corresponding sequence of movements to
achieve an emotional concordance between them, Graham dance movements cohabited
the same time as the music in a way that allowed both music and dance to make separate,
yet emotionally-associated statements.
The other dance artist upon whom St. Denis exerted considerable influence was
her partner, Ted Shawn. He records that in March of 1911 he first saw her perform, and
that the vision she presented to him of a sacred being wholly absorbed in dance left a
deep impression:
I had seen the Russians a few months before, and although I marveled,
they had awakened nothing deep in me. But when I saw Incense I wept—
not caring that it was in a crowded theater. . .I date my own artistic birth
from that night (Terry: 84).
The statement is curious, given that the Ballets Russes did not come to the United
States until 1913; it is speculated that Shawn may have instead seen Gertrude Hoffman’s
parody of the works the Russians had been presenting in Paris. In any case, Shawn had
already set upon a dancing career. He did not like ballet particularly, but he discovered
he did like to dance. After joining with several partners (notably Norma Gould) for tea
dance performances, teaching and even a film documentary, Dance Through the Ages,
Shawn answered an advertisement in 1914 from St. Denis who was looking for a partner.
Joseph Mazo describes Shawn’s audition for St. Denis in his book, Prime Movers:
The next day he [Shawn] danced for her [St. Denis]; he performed an
Aztec dagger dance which St. Denis later described as “one of those rather
crude and simple rhythmic dances which in after years one looks back
upon with a kind of loving tolerance” (92).
Even so, St. Denis was impressed with Shawn, and they spent time together talking about
their artistic goals. They married and combined their names into Denishawn, an
organization that would become a school and performing group to frame their
partnership.
106
Shawn’s professional and personal life with St. Denis was unusual for a man.
While she was called “Miss Ruth” and preserved the distant benign persona of the
goddess even with her most intimate students, Ted Shawn was simply called “Ted”:
Ted Shawn was never a great dancer. . .but his choreography was
exceptional by current standards, and he had a flair for mixing art and
business in the right proportions, cleverly devising programs that allowed
St. Denis her mystic vein but ended with a dash of ragtime jazz. . .
(Fontyen: 108)
St. Denis was the dominant performing artist and more publicly recognized, but Shawn
was certainly the more methodical in directing and teaching students, dealing with
performance technical support, and devising choreography. While St. Denis drew upon
the students for her productions, teaching was less interesting to her than dancing. By
contrast, it was mainly in the context of the school that Shawn created a great many
different kinds of dances, from large production numbers to brief solos for himself, of
which Gnossienne was one. When his professional and personal partnership with St.
Denis had effectively dissolved in 1920, remnants of the Denishawn school continued
with him until 193149.
Both St. Denis and Shawn had serious spiritual messages to convey through their
dancing but their differences in dealing with the exotic in spiritual service were
pronounced. While Shawn claimed to be a missionary for the right of men to dance with
dignity, and (after Denishawn) worked diligently to realize his all-male company of
dancers, all of St. Denis’ exotic dances carried mystic, spiritual messages that were
deeply connected to her sense of self as a person and as a performing artist.
But Orientalism did not suit Shawn’s athletic ideal of the expressive male dancer.
Although he produced his own Arabian Nights fantasy with Julnar of the Sea in 1919 and
from time to time incorporated Oriental themes, this was a realm that remained St. Denis’
preserve. While St. Denis’ remote exoticism permeated every dance including her music
visualizations, Shawn’s dances seemed to draw audiences into closer identification with
the dancer, often with an element of humor even when his themes had an exotic basis. St.
Denis was always the goddess. But Shawn constantly changed characters, from
contemporary (Frohsinn: 1920) to ethnic studies of a profane nature (any of his Spanish
or Jazz pieces) to divine subjects (The Cosmic Dance of Shiva: 1926). Although he often
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took himself as seriously as did St. Denis, Shawn was not without a sense of humor in his
dances, a trait he actively passed on to one of his male students, Charles Weidman. Still,
Shawn did not often successfully combine attributes of physical athelticism, spiritual
expression, and exotic material, except in his Native American dances.
This may have been due, in part to gender codes of the period. St. Denis assumed
her performing role as a woman, but Ted Shawn’s entry into dance was a different matter
altogether. At a time when the reputation of all professional dancers was morally
suspect, and the status of a man who danced was even lower than that of a woman
(especially in the United States), Shawn summoned a missionary’s zeal to bring the male
dancer into full artistic respectability. In nearly all dance performances of the time,
women dominated the stage. Since a man dancing with sincere expressiveness on a par
with poetry was so rare, the dances and dancing of Ted Shawn was an exotic event, and
he was not slow to realize the potential of “the never-when, never-where” ambiguity of
distant lands and cultures that had become a staple of St. Denis’ work. His negotiation of
his artistic balance led him to develop themes first using ancient Aztec images, and then
drawing on Native American and African-American traditions in which St. Denis had
less interest. While he did create some “Far East” dances, Shawn is more well-known for
being the first American male dancer of any note to bring Native American themes into
the concert stage repertoire, among them Osage-Pawnee Dance of Greeting (1930), and
Xochitl (1920) based on an ancient Aztec theme, and in which he had as his partner the
young Martha Graham. A fuller discussion of Shawn’s dance art expressed in
Gnossienne is the topic of Chapter Three. The point to remember here is that Shawn’s
greatest artistic influence in the years leading up to Gnossienne was St. Denis, who, like a
“mother/wife” (a role associated with the goddess Isis) guided his choices in everything
from choreography to costumes. How he was able to reinterpret a feminine-dominant
expression of spiritualism in dance into a masculine one will be examined presently.
With Incense, St. Denis arrived on the American dance scene just following
Duncan and Fuller, absorbing lessons of stagecraft from each. Along with her
experiences in vaudeville, dime museums, and with Belasco, she learned the value of
adaptability and Oriental mysticism in a uniquely American context. A determined
survivor who insisted that her audiences respect her seriously spiritual message, St. Denis
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arranged the sequencing of solos in her dance programs to accommodate widely varying
performing conditions, from those of a salon in a private, upper-class home50 to
vaudeville tour stops and concert stages:
She [St. Denis] made the middle class take account of itself, and if the
form she used was less dance than pantomime, more spectacle than ritual,
it was nonetheless magnificent, poetic pageantry in the grand romantic
style (Palmer: 57)
Incense introduced St. Denis as a spiritual dance artist and Orientalist dancer.
Each dance in the cluster of which Incense came first was designed to be as flexible as St.
Denis’ personal appeal. Such dances had to be capable of being inserted or withdrawn
from any given production on short notice, and generalized enough in content to allow
for the rigors of repetitive performance and touring. This modular construction is
consistent with St. Denis’ method, successfully pioneered in Incense, of going through
the creative process by negotiating between her inspirational content and a systematic
procedure to realize it as a staged presentation.
Incense is an interesting example of early Twentieth Century avant-garde
experimentation. In it, St. Denis maintained a sober, serious tension between her exotic
East Indian theme that all too easily could have disintegrated into a salacious
entertainment, and her uplifting message of spiritual transformation. Neither popular
dance, nor ballet familiar to middle-class sensibilities, dominated Incense, and yet its
features drew from each. This tension at first confused, then intrigued her audiences,
who were captivated by her combination of sensual visual appeal and remote distance
from possession by a male gaze. She was, first and last, “unavailably accessible”, an
artistic “wife and mother” who inspired many across a great divide of the footlights.
Like its creator, Incense invoked the geographic distance of India, yet spoke to a
particularly American ideal. St. Denis’ stage conditions for the dance, regardless of
venue, condensed time and space into an intimate expression of human yearning for
union with the divine. Drawing heavily upon Delsarte principles of movement and
meaning which were particularly understood by her female audiences who had studied
the exercises or performed themselves in tableaux vivants, St. Denis used natural,
ordinary movements that non-dancers could do, but invested them with ritual symbolism.
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Passing imperceptibly from one pose to the next in the dance, she made of Incense a
commencement oratory of the dancing body in service of expressive desire.
St. Denis asserted the unique, organic interpretation and reinterpretation of the
human body charged with obedience to the soul; an attitude toward physicality Western
culture had not seen since the Renaissance. As much a Romanticist as Duncan, St. Denis
presented the individual—in this case, female—as the beleaguered yet undefeated
Romantic heroine in the role of society’s guide and educator into a utopic idealism.
Despite grinding vaudeville tours, Incense defied a precision that implied mechanization
of human gesture and feeling. That kind of experiential commodity was one St. Denis
determined could never be exactly the same twice; never precisely reproducible. The
worshipper of Incense performed her simple ritual many, many times, and each time it
was the first.
110
END NOTES TO CHAPTER TWO
1
The term “legitimate” was often used at the turn of the century to distinguish between “highbrow” stage
presentations based on themes that enobled typically high-class audiences with an educational or uplifting
context, based on European aesthetics and traditional arts and “lowbrow” entertainments that pleased or
titillated low-class audiences, such as dime museums, fairs, and vaudeville.
2
The term “independent” here means that St. Denis retained artistic expressive control rather than
following a “genre” pattern established in both popular dance and the ballet. In this context the combined
expression of the woman and the artist is perceived as a human one, instead of the image of a woman acting
as a vehicle for the expression of male fantasy.
3
Dance historians Mary Clarke and Clement Crisp place the Romantic Period in ballet as commencing
with the appearance of Marie Taglioni in La Syphide and ending when the male dancer as porter (i. e. “the
ballerina’s third leg”) was banished entirely from the 1870 Paris Opera production of Coppélia. The male
hero Franz in that production was fetchingly portrayed by a girl (147).
4
Some distinction needs to be made between the terms purdah and puja. Purdah is a Moselm term
incorporated into North Indian Hindu life signifying the secretion of respectable women away from the
public (masculine) eye. It refers to covering the head and sometimes (as in wedding ceremonies) the face;
to providing a separate screened gallery for women only at public presentations; and to allowing the
women of the household private access to the home or temple shrine (usually before dawn) for worship
when no men are present. Puja refers to the Hindu practice of offering the deity flowers, food, milk, and
incense as part of the ritual worship that includes requests for blessings, favors, thanksgiving, and praise.
St. Denis’ use of these words indicates that she very well understood the religious and practical distinctions
between them; some of her commentators, however, confused these terms.
5
An “open” position for the performer is one that does not “block” or “close off” the body from the point
of view of the audience. If the lower part of the body below the hips is turned away from view, for
example, the upper part counterbalances the turning by facing the audience, or the downstage arm is carried
lower than the upstage one so as to not cover the face. There is in these visual stage conventions an
awareness of where the audience is at all times.
6
A “Chinese Gamine” dance taught to the author by one of St. Denis’ Denishawn students includes a good
deal of pantomime, shrugging, eye-rolling, and mugging at the audience.
7
In this photograph, St. Denis wears a sari draped in the modern Nivi style, which had been prevalent in
India since the early 1900’s (Lynton: 71). Her sari hem, however, is lifted well above her ankles, as would
be practical for dance even though the correct sari length for a Hindu woman of quality is that it should fall
just above the toes. Earlier photographs of St. Denis in the dance wearing a sari show the hem in its correct
length. It was speculated by Sherman that St. Denis may have “hiked” up the hem in response to
vaudeville and burlesque managers requiring her to “show a little leg” (Tomko: 73).
8
National Geographic writer Pallava Bagla (April 23, 2002) discusses the disappearing street performance
of India’s snake charmers as an art handed down from father to son, indicating that women were not
included in its near-mystic/magic techniques in managing poisonous live cobras. A photograph of St.
Denis in the dance appears in Shelton’s biography of her (facing page 78) wearing what would have
corresponded to masculine attire. Women street performers sang, danced, or played musical instruments.
Mysterious arts such as snake charming and fortune-telling (in India, at least) belonged to a male preserve,
though the precise caste and religious affiliations of these performers seems to have been indeterminate; a
fortune teller, for example, may variously call upon a series of Hindu deities and throw in a couple of
references to Islam’s Allah and “The Beloved Mother of Christ” for good measure. However, Terry’s
description of the dance states that the snake charmer of St. Denis’ interpretation is a “dirty, evil-looking
woman” (Terry: 54). It is possible that both St. Denis’ yogi and snake charmer more accurately belonged
to that ambiguously-gendered category she had enjoyed growing up as a “tomboy”.
111
9
This arm ripple was evidently something St. Denis had developed previous to Incense, for she mentions in
her autobiography that her friend Bob Scully wrote to her advising her to keep it in while she was working
on the first Hindu dances, of which Incense was one (St. Denis: 57).
10
A yogi is a male renunciate; a yogini is the female counterpart. Few Hindu women—especially beautiful
young ones—disappear into the jungles to seek God because they were far more valuable to their families
as wives and mothers. Living in solitude in the jungle and begging once a day for food is an uncomfortable
lifestyle, and a single female was considered far more vulnerable to “demonic influences” than a single
male of any age. The last phase of a Hindu Brahmin’s life in old age was to give away all his possessions
and enter a life of simple contemplation and withdrawal from society. In this he was accompanied by his
wife if he was married.
11
St. Denis persuaded a miscellaneous group of Indian men living in New York ranging from students at
university to “unmistakable neer-do-wells” to first play music and answer her questions, and then sit on the
stage as if in worship for Radha (St. Denis: 58).
12
The term “goddess” is here used to emphasize the centrality of St. Denis’ figure on the stage scene as if it
were a Hindu temple in which St. Denis occupies the position of a deity attended both by on-stage
“worshippers” and by implication, the “off-stage worshippers” of the audience. Strictly speaking, Radha is
not the name of a goddess in the Hindu pantheon, a fact of which St. Denis was quite aware (St. Denis:
57). As she explains in her autobiography describing the creation of this dance, St. Denis liked the name of
the very lovely mortal girl whom the Vishnu avatar Krishna loved best of all the gopis (cow-herd girls).
Radha is revered in written and oral traditions as an example of earthly love of the divine and she is often
depicted in paintings and statues as Krishna’s beloved; she is not, however, worshipped separately.
Symbolically, Radha represents a sympathetic, compassionate intermediary between human and divine not
unlike a Christian Madonna.
13
It was believed that when the Dennis family took in a girl who was pregnant out of wedlock, Emma
planned to execute an abortion. Neighbors called her to court on the matter, an incident which left a strong
impression of unstable social acceptance with Ruthie (Shelton: 7).
14
St. Denis attributed her “illegitimacy” of birth with having invested her with a sense of being born a kind
of rebel to law and social norm; that she never quite had a firm foundation upon which she could rely. This
impression may speculatively have impelled her to the intense reinvention of herself through her art that
characterized her artistic and personal relationships (Shelton: 7).
15
Both St. Denis and her mother became converts to this “practical theology”
16
The term “natural” in this context meant an easy, unimpeded flow of correspondence between feelings
and the physical body. Many Delsarte exercises contain a meditative stance impelled by suggestive
imagery to place the mind in the desired frame and a relaxation of the body. Only those muscles required
to execute the movement were to be engaged. Grace was a simple succession of movements that were
truthful and beautiful because all that was tense or artificial had been removed.
17
Stebbin’s “uniform of authority” costume is invoked by St. Denis’ choice of a “smoke-colored” sari, and
her green drapes have a counterpart in the tapestries that provided a backdrop to Incense. The correlation
between sari and Greek robes is not all that odd; during the Chola Dynasty in South India (300BC to
1250AD), Greek soldiers made their careers as policemen, forming a unique caste (Yadeva) of Hindu
society all their own. Hindu historians have informed the author that this also meant a cultural exchange
between pre-Hellenic Greek and Hindu societies, including dress.
18
One popular dime museum concert performance type brought indoors from the circus in cold weather
was the tableaux vivant. A few covertly catered to salacious appetites with naughtily “nude” models that
were covered in white paint (Sobel: 24).
112
19
Some dime museum tableaux were elaborately expressive, such as “The Happy Family”, in which a
beautiful young woman sat among a menagerie of live animals, none of which—amazingly--disturbed each
other in the show (Laurie: 168 ).
20
Tony Pastor’s Palace Theater in New York was at the top of the vaudeville pyramid for class acts
imported from Europe (including leading actors and opera singers) and the best American performers
(Snyder, Sobel, et. al).
21
Belasco recognized in St. Denis’ dancing a curious “virginal sensuality” and gave her the nickname Ruth
St. Denis by she was known ever since. While she worked for him, St. Denis proposed the idea of creating
for herself a “Madame Butterfly” dance. Although the project never materialized, the idea suggests that
even before her episode with the Egyptian cigarette poster, St. Denis had an interest in developing Oriental
dances (Shelton: 41).
22
This production formula was first applied to Radha.
23
The title “Little Egypt” was taken by any of a number of “exotic” dancers of the time. Donna Carlton’s
book, Looking for Little Egypt discusses this entertainment phenomenon of the time.
24
A series of Edison shorts demonstrating film’s debt to vaudeville format appears in the video
reconstruction, The Great Primitives. Details of this documentary video are unavailable at this time.
25
These were specific objections Emma had to female dress of the time, and she sought to free her daughter
from them (Kendall, Shelton, et al).
26
The author was unable to locate the precise context of this quote, which was evidently from an uncited
article by the stage manager called, “the Hindu Dances of Miss Ruth St. Denis”.
27
By the time St. Denis met Edmund Russell, Henrietta had left him and continued as a serious teacher of
Delsarte. Shawn later encountered her and learned from her as Mrs. Hoving.
28
If this outfit imitated the dress of the Hindu Swami Vivekananda, who made a dramatic appearance at the
Parliament of World Religions in 1893, it is speculated that it was either white or saffron, colors associated
with a renunciate holy man. If so, it would have made a stark contrast against a dark background, as if the
man was “illuminated from within”. Russell, for all his emphasis upon the spoken word in his
presentations did not neglect his visual impact. Not only did he dress the part, but on occasion dressed his
faithful black nanny in Indian clothes to lend authenticity to the event as she ushered invited guests to
refreshments, or to be seated for the reading. The creation of a total atmosphere in the surroundings of the
performance of Orientalism was not lost on St. Denis who, for her earliest performances of Incense, had
Indian ushers seat the audience, and the scent of incense burning before the start of her dance.
29
St. Denis reports that at one point her questions on religion prompted a violent argument between a
Hindu Indian and a Moslem Indian (St. Denis: 58).
30
St. Denis’ friend Bob Scully is credited in her autobiography with urging her to keep rippling arm
movements which so fascinated audiences of Incense (St. Denis: 57). St. Denis proudly recalls also that a
group of German physicians who had seen her perform the dance on tour in Germany respectfully
requested to examine up close the physical mechanism by which she accomplished the illusion. It is
interesting that modern versions of the classical ballet Swan Lake (Petipa: 1895) viewed by the author also
contain a similar arm ripple performed by the “white swan” Odette in Act II.
31
An open position means that the stage picture of the performer shows the front of the body; closed refers
to a view of the back. In Delsartian terms, an open position implies honesty and a straightforward
expression. A closed position implies deceit or secrecy. Everything the dancer does in Incense is visible to
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the audience; particularly, she does not turn her upper body away from the audience even when arms or
legs cross. When she kneels, the downstage leg is down, and arm movements to each side lift and descend
in a way that leaves her face and upper torso open to view. These open positions are characteristic of
Greek sculpture, influenced by stylizations of the human body in Ancient Egyptian renderings (Matthews
and Platt: 81).
32
Matthews and Platt briefly describe this convention of Greek statuary as exemplified in the sculptor
Praxitles’ Hermes with the Infant Dionysus, in which the figure of Hermes is lounging in a casual yet
dignified pose that presents the body in a gentle S curve (Matthews and Platt: 81).
33
In this reconstruction the dancer visibly walks into the stage area from the right and takes a position
facing the audience once she has reached up center stage. As she pauses there, she forms the apex of a
triangle with the two incense burners from the point of view of the audience. In the earliest performances
by St. Denis, however, the dancer approached the stage unseen by the audience while the first few bars of
the music were played. The first she is seen, she goes through the central opening provided by two ornate
cloth hangings, already facing the audience.
34
Front to back relative to direction of locomotion, as opposed to swaying from side to side which would
convey a more sexual connotation.
35
A choli is a short, form-fitting cotton blouse usually worn only under the drape of a sari, the sleeves of
which reach to the elbow or it may be sleeveless. A salwar chemise is a long, loose fitting tunic over
matching trousers that is ample in the hips and fitted tightly at the ankles. Around 1900, Sikh and Moslem
women of North India wore salwars while in the Hindu South, saris were favored (Lyton: 71).
36
Professor Clark explained to the author that this choice of costume at variance from St. Denis’ sari had to
do with the fact that saris, draped and tucked, have a disconcerting tendency to unravel in movement. The
author had ample opportunity to experience the embarrassment of tripping over the hem of a sari in exiting
a public bus in Madras. It is not known how St. Denis kept her sari in place, but it is speculated by the
author that she would likely have had to pin it rather aggressively.
37
Most saris (with the exception of those worn by widows) are brightly-colored and a wedding sari
particularly should have a trim heavily embroidered in gold thread, “the width of which should be no less
than the length of the bride’s forearm” (author’s travel diary).
38
As has been previously discussed, St. Denis saw Loie Fuller perform at the Paris Exposition while on
tour with Belasco in 1900. Fuller’s use of colored lighting on volumes of silk for a stunning effect would
surely have impressed upon St. Denis the potential of effective controlled lighting.
39
Trailblazers of Modern Dance WNET/13, 1979. However, it is interesting that St. Denis was visible
only from the neck down.
40
It is speculated that St. Denis learned how to wrap a sari from descriptions given to her by men who
might not necessarily have known exactly how it is done. Young girls traditionally learn this skill only
from older female relatives who, in the author’s experience, take great delight and care in estimating the
girl’s height, build, coloring, caste, family status, personality, and demeanor before advising on the precise
kinds of saris she should wear to appear her best. Only girls who have had their first period are allowed to
wear saris; prior to that, they wear “half-saris” (a full length skirt, choli, and short veil) as soon as they can
walk. The two main styles of wrap come from the North and South. In the North, influenced by Islamic
political rule and cultural domination since 1206, women drape the endpiece of the sari over the head so
that its decoration shows in front. Older style saris of the North drape the endpiece over the right shoulder
but this practice went out of style in India by 1900 and the Nivi style from the South (in which the sari
endpiece goes over the left shoulder and shows its ornate border in back) became universal (Lynton: 71).
One reason St. Denis might not have been able to consult the wives of the merchants who helped her select
sari fabric and explained Hindu rites to her is that those wives probably could not speak English. While the
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English language became nearly universal in the South along with the “mother tongue”, Hindi persisted in
the North (The Story of English, by Robert McCrum, William Cran, and Robert MacNeil, Viking, 1986,
page 39). In later photographs, St. Denis draped her sari various ways, sometimes with the endpiece over
the left shoulder, but one section always covered her head. This suggests to the author that the Hindus she
consulted were probably from North India. This impression is reinforced by photographs of some of them
sitting on stage on either side of St. Denis as Radha; they wear a head wrap which is also characteristic of
North India influenced by Islam; in the South, men do not wear it.
41
In this context, St. Denis reverses ballet convention, for while ballet dancers of the time cased their
waists in corsets and their feet in stiff toe shoes, St. Denis’ waist and feet were bare.
42
It is ironic that the marble statues are treasured as white, when evidence indicates they had originally
been painted over to more closely resemble living human beings.
43
This quality of statues and statue-posing invested with an eternal beauty free of human imperfection is an
important theme in Oscar Wilde’s play, A Perfect Husband.
44
Delsarte books featuring photographs of Greek statuary that were intended to serve as inspiration credit
that many of the statues were to be found in the Vatican, and that they were Roman copies of Greek
originals that had been lost.
45
Mr. Horst left Denishawn at the same time as Martha Graham, and the two of them worked together until
his death in 1964 (Sherman: 9).
46
A 1906 publicity photograph of St. Denis wearing her smoke-colored sari and pearl-covered choli shows
a blurring of detail above each incense burner suggestive of columns of smoke. The same blurring appears
above the dish in her hands. But this does not mean the incense in them had been lit; it is equally possible
that the effect of smoke in the photograph was created by the photographer in the darkroom employing a
simple technique known at the time as “dodging”. Descriptions of the dance as St. Denis performed it
specifically mention that the burners were lit and exuding a fragrant smoke during the dance.
47
De Mille’s statements are grandly generalizing but useful here to point out the direct influence of St.
Denis’ Orientalism on Graham’s early style and further development.
48
This anecdote was told to the author in informal conversation with former Graham student Dr. John
Wilson.
49
In November 1919 their house burned to the ground. From 1919 to 1920 St. Denis and Shawn toured
separately and a process of dividing dancers, rehearsal space, billing, etc. began (Shelton: 160).
50
Like Isadora Duncan, St. Denis found it profitable to appeal to the artistic intelligence of affluent women
by performing in their salons for small groups of guests. The tactic proved effective in establishing artistic
fame for earlier virtuoso performing artists of the Romantic period, such as the Italian violinist Nicolò
Paganini (1782-1840), and pianists Frédéric Chopin (1810-1849) and Franz List (1811-1886) as well as the
American composer/musician Louis Moreau Gottschalk (1829-1869). However, unlike Duncan, St. Denis
was careful of her reputation as an artist of good taste and a woman of moral integrity.
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CHAPTER THREE
Ted Shawn and Gnossienne
It is easy to dismiss Ted Shawn’s quirky, two-minute1 solo Gnossienne as
marginally useful to the development of avant-garde dance early in the Twentieth
Century. However, after its premiere in 1919 it remained in Shawn’s repertoire for more
than thirty years, passed into the repertoire of his protégé, Barton Mumaw2, and then
from Mumaw to his dance student, Jack Clark. With Clark’s 1995 reconstruction for
video (the version used for this study) Gnossienne spans more than seventy-five years in
performance3, and remains a stylish, male solo demanding absolute physical control.
That Shawn was readily identified with this dance is evidenced in the many
photographs taken of him in the role. The decorative border applied to an October 1928
Denishawn brochure that also showed St. Denis in her most famous dances (Cohen: 12)
included one of Shawn in a pose from Gnossienne. But unlike Faune or Incense, the
dance transferred smoothly4 from its original dancer/creator into the performance
repertoires and teaching programs of others. Of the three dances in this study,
Gnossienne represents a tantalizing amalgam of interrelated goals for its creator, only one
of which was public dance performance (Mumaw, Sherman, et. al.).
As an example of early modern avant-garde performance art, Gnossienne is
suitable for this study. It is self-reflexive in bending time and space into an intimate,
circularly-contained ritual. Like the other two dances, Gnossienne presents the dancer in
a central physical position on stage, indicating an internal condition witnessed by the
audience. Its presentation of spiritualism in exotic dressing produces a sly parody of
religious form empty of spiritual content. At the same time, Gnossienne comments on the
dominance of female artists in exotic dances of the time. Created and performed by an
American man, the dance defies normal conventions of gendered performance; if a man
must dance at all, he may do so only to support and show off his female partner. As will
be argued in this chapter, Shawn’s character of an arrogant priest “partners” a
dominating, demanding off-stage goddess. It tests perceptions of naturalistic
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performance in its tension between an external, stylized physical exhibition and a
psychological joke. Finally, Gnossienne comments on the role of technology in modern
life. The (male) dancer’s body is presented as an efficient tool to express conflicting
responses to submission to duty, the exertion of free will, gender, and power.
The dance occupies the middle position in this study for several reasons.
Although it was first performed for the public in 1919 after the premiers of both Incense
(1906) and Faune (1912), Gnosienne reflects a stylistic and narrative negotiation between
them. The dance bears a strong resemblance to Faune5 in choice of theme and masculine
gesture; with its flattened, iconic movements and poses and methodical choreographic
development (Chapter Four). But Gnossienne as a narrative of ritual worship and in the
way the dancer moves from one posed moment to the next also demonstrates the impact
of St. Denis’ dances, of which Incense established the template. Shawn’s “Gnostic”
priest directs his worshipping energy in very much the same way St. Denis’ Incense
worshipper referred to an off-stage deity. This chapter presents evidence that St. Denis’
(and the public’s) perspective of expressive, spiritual dance as a feminine preserve
established in Incense is playfully satirized in Gnossienne.
In his developmental dance training and orientation in an artistic life, Shawn is
appropriately positioned between St. Denis and Nijinsky. Both St. Denis and Nijinsky
were encouraged and trained to become dancers from an early age. They had performed
and achieved fame in the choreography of others long before making their own. But
Shawn grew up under American perceptions of the dancing male as (at best) a foreign
import tolerated only for the sake of “high art” culture (i. e. the European-based ballet) or
(at worst) a feminizing degradation (Tomko: 29-30, et. al.)
Shawn’s projection of himself into an artistic life was precarious and complex,
and he found inspiration and direction to dance from the writings of other men. But in
the specific physical instruction of dance, nearly all Shawn’s teachers were women6. Out
of the words of men and the physical dance expressiveness of women, then, Shawn
forged his own version of how the dancing male should perform and what his place in
society should be.
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Shawn found it especially difficult to reconcile movements that would read to
American audiences as masculine with ritual spiritualism. First of all, “real men” didn’t
dance; especially American men. If a man did dance, his role was to show off his
partner. If he danced alone, he had to present a virtuoso display of athletic vigor in an
“alien” context; Russian, Spanish, African, Irish, or perhaps an inhabitant of an
ambiguous geography such as a sailor. And second, any idiocentric expression of
spiritualism through movement was rare enough even when performed by women such as
Duncan or St. Denis. An American man in that position virtually did not exist; the brief
dancing career of Paul Swan, for example, ended in ridicule (Kendall: 111).
Shawn believed it was his job to change that, and he spent his career dedicated to the
effort.
Unlike St. Denis or Nijinsky—both of whom began dance training as children—
Shawn came to dance relatively late in life. He was a Methodist divinity student at the
University of Denver when he began taking lessons in ballet to recover from the
weakening effects of diphtheria. With characteristic vigor, Shawn set about to train
himself in any and all forms of physical expression7 in which he could find instruction. It
wasn’t long before he was also teaching and performing. By the time he first saw St.
Denis in Incense at the age of twenty in 1911, Shawn had already been busy teaching,
learning, creating and performing a wide range of exotic and popular dances in
partnership with Norma Gould (Palmer: 34).
Although he reports having been profoundly affected by St. Denis’ vision of
spiritual dance, it was not until 1914 that Shawn answered her advertisement for a dance
partner and married her. As an extension of their personal and performing partnership,
Shawn and St. Denis co-founded the Denishawn School of dance that would supply them
with a company of well-trained dancers, and a source of revenue to mount and tour their
more elaborate dance projects:
The Denishawn school, training ground of the Denishawn dancers, was
created by Ruth St. Denis and Ted Shawn, but Shawn, who arranged
schedules and taught most of the classes, was its real head (Palmer: 38).
The professional and personal marriage contributed to the mutual growth of both artists.
But while St. Denis conceived of Denishawn as a means to provide her with the dancers
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and income to produce larger productions, Denishawn for Shawn was a model upon
which he could frame his educational aspirations:
To realize his vision, Shawn relied on organization, emphasized the
importance of the school, and recognized the necessity for many dull,
difficult tours if Denishawn were to survive financially (Mumaw: 59).
In a very real sense, Shawn managed the school as part of his mission to educate
both himself and American society in the right of men to dance. His earliest dance
teachers and students were all women. Certainly this irony is a great part of the humor of
Gnossienne, which wryly acknowledges the dominance of women in dance at that time.
Its simple narrative presents the ritual dance of a priest of ancient Crete in worship of the
“Snake Goddess.” It is to this all-powerful female icon (who remains hidden off-stage)
that the priest finds he must surrender his own willfulness as sacrifice.
Gnossienne also reflects Shawn’s simultaneous roles of teacher, student,
choreographer, and performer. Unlike St. Denis’ Incense and Nijinsky’s Faune, both of
which marked the public commencement of those dance artists as choreographers, the
movement sequence Shawn later transformed into Gnossienne was first created as a
teaching tool for his summer Denishawn students. Barton Mumaw’s description of the
dance (which he learned as Shawn’s student) in the book he wrote with Jane Sherman8,
Barton Mumaw, Dancer begins as follows:
Gnossienne was originally created by Shawn in 19179 as a classroom
exercise to help pupils achieve disciplined body control. It remained in
his repertory for thirty years after its first public performance in 1919
(Mumaw: 251).
The dance was not the first Shawn had choreographed for himself, either; from
1911 to 1918 he had created jointly with St. Denis and on his own no less than sixty-one
dances, of which twenty were solos for himself (Dreier: 43-6). Many of these
Denishawn solos featured Shawn’s male body in a variety of exotic dances with spiritual,
heroic themes. Amid the nearly exclusively-female10 performing company and school of
Denishawn surrounding St. Denis, these Shawn dances often took on an evangelical
urgency. For not only was Shawn struggling to make himself “seen” as a male dancer, he
needed to be respected and taken seriously; independently from the women. In his
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discussion11 of Shawn’s art, Winthrop Palmer suggests that this combination of tasks was
both an asset and a detriment to Shawn’s ambitious goals:
He [Shawn] was strong enough to break away from a weak and dangerous
pattern of human authority. . . It remained for his followers to create a
dance expression that revealed man possessed of human virtues, not of
heroic qualities alone. . . (Palmer: 32-3).
Whether or not one would agree with Palmer’s assessment of Shawn’s
contributions, it was typical of Shawn’s earlier dances that religious fervor presented the
male body as an end in itself, rather than as a tool through which that fervor expressed its
ineffable presence12. Although sequences from previous dances13 are evident in it,
Gnossienne is exceptional in its strong, forceful, yet controlled series of poses and the
strange ways in which those poses are connected. The dance occupies a special place in
Shawn’s repertoire in part because it seamlessly incorporates an abstract movement
vocabulary14 suitable as a dance class exercise with a cleverly devised dance story.
But Gnossienne’s arrogant, willful priest is different from Shawn’s previous
works, as well as Incense and Faune in the way it forges a synthesis of spiritualism,
exotic theme, and manly expressive gesture in a humorous way. Making a joke in dance
got the laugh on the audience before they could ridicule him. Shawn expected audiences
to find humor in Gnossienne and went out of his way to encourage it in the way he took
his bows at its conclusion. (Sherman: letter to the author, 6 September, 2003). As has
been discussed in Chapter Two, Incense was quite serious in its spiritual expression. And
Nijinsky’s Faun, for all his adolescent naïveté over the complex mysteries of the feminine
ends with a serious enigma of the self relative to the “other” at the conclusion of the
ballet (Chapter Four).
Gnossienne’s priest, however, seems to revel in the “quizzical quality of the flat
gestures; he thinks he’s hot stuff, dancing for himself” (Clark: Interview 1/30/03). This
kind of arrogance seems to refer to previous solo male dancers15, who had learned to
entertain with virtuoso stunts displaying manly strength and agility. This character has
no spiritual communion with the divine, or any real insight into the nature of his
presence. From start to finish in the dance, the priest exaggerates his ritualized
performance, suggesting the unresolved torment of dancing on the “horns of a dilemma”
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between exercise of free will and the absolute demands and judging eye of his goddess.
The humor in this all-too-human state may not have been readily accessible to audiences
on a conscious level, but Mumaw reports that:
Children, more quickly than adults, recognized the suggestion of fun in the
unusual movements [of Gnossienne]. They often giggled freely, while
grownups seemed unsure if they should enjoy the laugh hidden in the
dance. . .Not until the dancer took his first bow in character did they
realize that it was “safe” to be amused (Mumaw: 253).
Just because the theme suggested the ancient solemnity of a Cretan ritual didn't
mean it had to be regarded with hushed reverence. If laughter was a doorway through
which changes of attitude could pass, then by all means it should be encouraged.
Throughout his long career Shawn was unflagging in his crusade to gain men the right
and dignity of dancing. The preacher and educator in him would use any means at his
disposal to bring that about—including jokes. Shawn was well aware of what he faced as
a male dancer in the United States in pursuit of sacred expression. Long after Denishawn
had dissolved he concluded that:
Though I, the first American man16 to make the art of dancing his life
work, had made good, there still was a prevailing prejudice against
dancing for men. It was considered to be an effeminate, trivial, and
unworthy occupation for the strapping and well-muscled male
(Shawn, One Thousand: 240-1).
Shawn set about to overcome these entrenched social stigmas almost concurrent
with his intention to become a dancer. It was all very well to partner women in popular
dances, or to support a ballerina in a ballet. Shawn made a handsome frame for Norma
Gould in the popular dances that had become the rage of the time. Later, he served the
same function for St. Denis in her artistic, exotic “ballets”. But to meld introspection and
dance in masculine performance in a way that the American public would support it was
a much trickier task. Consequently, Shawn set his course upon a multi-faceted creative
life17 dedicated to both self-education and the education of the American public to respect
the dancing male in expressive dance. Gnossienne was an important step in the
realization of Shawn’s goals:
Shawn’s desire to raise the dance to a higher sphere and again give
expression to religious emotion through the dance, which has been his
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from the very beginning, has never let it interfere with his fine sense of
delicate humor. . . This complete realization that though life is serious yet
it is gay, and that pure laughter is as healing to the spirit as the vision from
the mountaintop (Dreier: 13).
Born in 1891 in Kansas City, Missouri, Edwin Myers Shawn was the son of a
Kansas City newspaperman. His mother’s family was in show business (Palmer: 33) so
he did have some precedent of theatrics upon which to draw, albeit mainly in the arena of
entertainment18 and a far cry from sacred dance. Still, Shawn’s mother, who was related
to the Booth family of actors, evidently encouraged his artistic and spiritual leanings:
Mary Lee Booth Shawn, like St. Denis’ mother, produced amateur plays
starring her own child, and eventually Teddy channeled his dramatic talent
toward a career in evangelism (Shelton: 119).
But at this time the ideal American boy wasn’t supposed to enjoy either religion or
theatrics. He couldn’t be studious, well-mannered or church-going because participation
in these social conventions constituted submission to female domination. Following the
conquest of the last western frontier in the 1800s, the concept of manhood in American
life yielded to a carefully-constructed and performed masculinity. Just as race and class
distinctions hardened into Victorian social order, so did the divisions between the “male”
preserve outside, and the “female” preserve inside the home (Kimmel and Levine).
In order to display manliness, men got as far as possible out of the house, the
domain in which their wives, sisters, daughters and especially their mothers reigned. If
they were ever to grow into real men, boys had to negotiate a difficult balance between a
remote respect for women and a vigorous resistance to any and all attempts by women to
“civilize” them. As soon as they were old enough to run19, “real” boys did so, even if it
was only as far as the corner drug store, an alley, or empty lot to “hang out with the
guys”. Only sickly, bent, pasty-faced pansy boys stayed at home, too weak physically or
emotionally to resist female domination. Such boys were often perceived as adopting
“feminine” tactics of deceit and artificiality. Any good, honest boy was the same, inside
and out, and his idealization made certain assumptions about the proper development of a
boy into a man; “echoing late nineteenth-century masculine complaints against the forces
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of feminization. But it is also developmentally atavistic, a search for lost boyhood. . .”
(Kimmel: 320).
Grown men, of course, escaped Victorian domestication by spending their leisure
time in beer halls and saloons, or if of the upper classes, in men’s clubs from which the
presence of women was banned. Regardless of class, however, the point was for a man
to be perceived at all costs as, “not female”. To do that, men engaged a public
performance of masculinity that was diametrically opposed to the feminine. If women
dressed in color with an elaboration of accessories, men dressed simply in somber shades.
Even more fundamental than clothing was the perception of quiet, indoor activities
(including going to church) as both artificial and feminine. That made it imperative for
men to be outdoors in a “natural”, rugged rural environment away from “citified and
sissified”, even decadent influences. And even if they spent all their working days
indoors laboring in the cities, men grew rugged beards and affected hearty tans in order to
project an honest image:
The central characteristic of being self-made was that the proving ground
was the public sphere. . .the new man of commerce wore plain and simple
clothing “to impart trust and confidence in business affairs”
(Kimmel: 26-8).
In order to grow up as good men, boys should spend their time outdoors in the
countryside and be vigorously active. Any activity that was quiet, reflective, or even
religious in nature signaled an inherent weakness, both physical and mental. Boys,
including Shawn, were in the precarious position of having to earn their young manhood
by proving it to themselves and to others. And the regimen by which this proof was
accomplished was harsh:
Boys [at the turn of the century] were to avoid dancing, sleeping on
feather beds, warm rooms and reading books—these last because they
were “artificial”. . .compared with [a] “completely natural experience,” the
real instruction of manhood (Kimmel: 161).
All “social graces”, including Christianity, had been meticulously feminized in
Victorian society. It took the violent20 histrionics of a Billy Sunday to shake loose its
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sentimentalized image of Jesus as a gentle androgyny and reforge Him into an honest,
hard-working laborer of peace, and a virile warrior in the war against evil (Chapter Five).
This social condition meant that although Shawn, “passed his childhood among books
and amateur theatricals” (Kendall: 104), as a young man he had to find a way to
negotiate between his deeply religious feelings and the need to be accepted as a real man.
The answer came to him in the writings of two men. The first of these, Elbert
Hubbard (1856-1915), was “a culture popularizer” who drew upon legendary heroes of
the (sometimes ancient21) past and rendered them palatable to ordinary Americans in a
popular series of books called Little Journeys to the Homes of Good and Great Men22.
Hubbard’s utopian community, Roycroft, provided a redefinition of manhood that was
much less harsh than the Victorian model by promoting a Greek ideal of manly beauty.
Roycroft also “became a refuge of the New Woman”, in which Shawn took particular
interest (Kendall: 105).
This “New Woman” was the image of feminine power breaking free of Victorian
corsets and social behavioral constraints; a femininity as much “on the run” from narrow
morality and sentimental enfeeblement as men. The New Woman entitled herself to
smoke, work, agitate for the right to vote, and (of significance to Gnossienne) dance by
herself. The promise of Roycroft lay in a common ground of beliefs from which both
men and women could remake themselves physically and mentally out of Victorian
progressionism (Glossary) without actually abandoning it entirely (Tomko: 1-35).
As a “culture farm” Roycroft also presented Shawn with the template for his later
conceptions of communal artistic and lifestyle self-sufficiency in Denishawn and Jacob’s
Pillow. But in the more current terms of constructing himself as a young man, Hubbard
also offered Shawn an interesting compromise between; “. . .the European aesthete and
the American Rough Rider. . .Hubbard, by his example, showed it was possible for young
[American] men to be both aesthetic and robust” (Kendall: 105).
The second influential book for Shawn was by the Canadian poet, Bliss Carman
(1816-1929) called, The Making of a Personality (1906). Shawn evidently first
encountered this writing in 1911; the same year he first saw St. Denis. In this manifesto,
strongly influenced by Mrs. Perry King’s unacknowledged applications of Delsarte
exercises, Carman asserted:
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. . .that dancing was an ideal vehicle for “bodily and emotional freedom
and nervous relief as well as stimulus to expression within the limits of
orderly beauty,” and he [Carman] praised Ruth St. Denis’ efforts to create
a dance that was physically, mentally and spiritually nourishing
(Shelton: 120)
Shawn was impressed by this “. . .equation of physical beauty with moral purity”
(Kendall: 108). Longing to reintegrate religious fervor with idealism in dance, he left his
then-partner, Norma Gould, and went east to meet and study with the authors23 of the
book, which Shawn felt, “. . .said about dance all of the things I had been feeling and
thinking, but which I had never been able to express so articulately” (Shawn: 11-2).
Performance of such a project by women was easily acceptable, but when applied to men
they were not without risk, for:
Men, of course, had trouble enunciating a male aesthetic doctrine for fear
of straying into narcissism or homosexuality. However, it was just such a
doctrine, discovered by Bliss Carman in women’s books and restated by
him in his own, that freed young Ted Shawn for a serious dancing career
(Kendall: 109).
Even so, it would take Shawn some time to begin putting together these
seemingly incompatible roles. As a very young man starting out, Shawn’s idealism first
found expression in physical strength appropriate to the American male model.
Responding to President Roosevelt’s24 exhortation that all American men should cultivate
physical preparedness, Shawn spent his college year summers toughening up in logging
camps. But mere physical vigor wasn’t enough; Shawn’s deeply religious convictions
had led him to the ministry as well. He was studying to become a Methodist minister
when in his junior year Shawn succumbed to diphtheria. The enforced quiet reflection of
his recovery from ill health also led Shawn to recognize that he could not only “remake”
himself physically, but also “rediscover” the expressive prerogative of the human (male
as well as female) body as an instrument of worship (Sheldon: 119, et. al.). Just as St.
Denis was able to transition from an Egyptian to an Indian theme for Incense, Shawn
adapted his goals as a divinity student set for the ministry to his “missionary work” to
enlighten American audiences in the manly art of dance:
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It is interesting to have him [Shawn] recognize the fact that his
inner spirit did not change with the change in his form of expression.
Dancing took the place of preaching—that was all (Palmer: 33).
The long illness left him weak, and this was not an acceptable condition for
Shawn’s self-image.
He [Shawn] rejected a civilization that accepted shrunk shanks in its white
collar workers, stooped shoulders, squinting eyes, puny arms in its
laboratory men, dull, brute power in the industrial plant worker, harnessed
to factory equipment, and the feeble attitudes of drug-store and drawingroom dandies (Palmer: 32-3).
In order to regain his muscular strength and restore his sense of balance, Shawn began his
dance training in ballet, and entered into a pattern of study that soon included designing
dances, teaching, and performing in partnership with his (female) teachers. The first of
these was Hazel Wallack:
. . . [who] taught with a thoroughness that revitalized Shawn’s body,
and a freshness that brought back all his boyhood theatrical fancies. He
was plunged. . .into all the current controversies over the new, aesthetic
dance (Kendall: 106).
These “current controversies” played an important role in Shawn’s gradual negotiation
of resistance against American men dancing expressively or in a spiritual context. In one
way, they concerned a veritable “dancing mania” of the time for popular ragtime dances25
that nearly amounted to a “social war”. The older generation and stalwarts of cultural
purity believed such dances were immoral. The younger generation “free spirits” (the
icon of which was the wild-female “flapper”, or the “New Woman”) used these dances to
declare independence from Victorian stuffiness.
Gone were Dodworth’s dance manual injunctions of minimal contact between
partners performing the once-radical and potentially-decedent waltz and polka. Perhaps
more direct to Gnossienne, some of the new social dances could be socially performed by
anyone of either sex without a partner:
The dance craze of 1911 brought with it the Texas Tommy, bunny hug,
turkey trot, one-step, camel walk, etc., all of which George Dodworth and
all the old teachers violently opposed. These dances, many of them from
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the slums and dives, brought with them certain teachers from the same
sources (O’Neill: 99).
While lower classes went in for “animal” dances that could be performed without a
partner, upper- to middle-class women particularly wanted to learn the new partnered
dances that offered close body contact26 between men and women. But these affluent
women would not want to learn them from “unsavory” sources or perform them in lowclass dives. Consequently, 1910 to 1914 saw a brief surge of interest in “tango teas”,
where affluent middle- and upper-class women paid to dance with polished, attractive
young men. The “tango-tea” male dancer was suave, mysterious (anonymous),
sophisticated, seductive, urbane, and not a little “foreign” vis à vis the “true” American
male (husband/supporter) who was none of those things (and proud of it), but who held
down a respectable job and made money.
At the same time, refined dance performing/ teaching teams such as Vernon and
Irene Castle presented a stylish elegance, proving that the close partnering of a tango, for
example, didn’t automatically mean it had to be lewd; it could also be excitingly
romantic, even beautiful. This kind of elegant, romantic dyad social dancing also
“infected” ballet performances imported from Europe: the success of Anna Pavlova
(1881-1931) and Michael Mordkin27 (1880-1944) in exotic ballets was a direct result of
this popular arrangement (Kendall: 96-9).
Another “dance controversy” centered on the rash of popular interest in the
exotic/erotic “Salomé” dances (Chapters Two and Five) that not only appeared in
vaudeville and the ballet, but also “infected” the popular image of the dancing
“flapper”28. But here Shawn had to be extremely careful in how he presented himself as
a serious classical dancer even with exotic associations; a public intoxicated with ragtime
wasn’t very appreciative of a man in “classic” dance—particularly an American one29.
Shawn took careful note of the fate of his only close competitor, Paul Swan. Although
billed as “the most beautiful man in the world”, Swan’s attempt at serious expressive
dance as a male soloist met with humiliating ridicule in 1914, when he performed a series
of “classically-derived” solos at Hammerstein’s (Kendall: 111).
Shawn would be well advised to put as much distance as possible between
himself and Swan’s fate, and in a sense, he initially sheltered his aspirations “behind a
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skirt”. Soon after beginning his dance studies with Wallack Shawn joined her as her
dancing and teaching partner in 1910 and together, “they danced an amalgam of ballet,
ballroom, and Salomé styles” (Kendall: 106). This pattern of partnership in performing
and teaching continued to establish Shawn as a serious male dancer when he later joined
Norma Gould in 191130. The popularity of these elegant partnered dances Shawn
performed and taught with Gould offered an aegis of acceptance under which other, more
serious classical themes could gradually be introduced. An undated brochure advertising
the ambitious array of dances Shawn and Gould offered for instruction included;
“Grecian, Oriental, Nature and Barefoot, Rhythmics and Aesthetics, Choreographic
Drama, Dance Pantomime, Music Interpretation, and Dance Originating31” (Jacob’s
Pillow Archives).
This broad range of instruction suggested an amalgamation of aesthetic and
educational goals justified by an historical context. And juxtaposition of beneficial,
educational physical exercises (something Americans of both sexes pursued as a
worthwhile self-reconstruction) with classical dance gave classical dance a cultural
validity. Likewise, if people were willing to pay for instruction in exotic, “ancient”
dancing, then placing them historically increased their legitimacy as a social and
educational benefit. The combination suited Shawn and Gould, and in 1913 Shawn sold
a motion picture idea to the old Thomas A. Edison Company for a Dance of the Ages
presentation:
. . .on a thin thread of supporting scenario, was strung my idea of the
dance from the Stone Age down to America 1912, passing swiftly through
Egypt, Greece, Rome, Mediaeval Europe on the way. . .being a moving
picture of Norma Gould and me and our group”32 (Shawn: unpubl. manu.)
So, very much like a dime museum “professor”, Shawn positioned himself as a dance
educator. He assumed the function of introducing American audiences to a variety of
exotic ancient dance forms while at the same time presenting himself as the exotic
dancer, albeit under the pretext of supporting the “real” dancer, Norma Gould. The
distribution of the film was an excellent means by which Shawn could reach many more
audiences than through live performance, (which he said was one of his reasons for doing
it). But it was only one of several ways in which Shawn supported himself in the process
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of learning basic dance vocabulary. Later that same year, he and Gould also taught
ballroom dance—an activity neither relished, “. . .but there was no one in Los Angeles so
well prepared as we were, and it was all so easy to do—and there was so much money
just ripe for the picking” (Shawn: unpubl. manu.). The ambiance of the place also
encouraged unorthodox performance:
When Shawn arrived in Los Angeles during the summer of 1912, he found
. . .no one was ridiculed for his ideas or for his attempts at innovations in
the arts. It was an exiting experience for Shawn, therefore, to find a place
in which he might work freely and without arbitrary, conventional, and
stultifying criticism (Poindexter: 132).
Finally, the Santa Fe circuit33 picked up on the entertainment value of the Dance
of the Ages film and sent the Gould/Shawn dancing duo with a few of their students on
tour. This expanded view of Shawn as an American classical dancer under both a
popular dance and an historical/educational pretext reaped limited benefit; the program
elicited cautious praise mixed with confused reactions. Shawn received a letter dated
5/27/13 from a school friend who had seen the Dance of the Ages film and informed
Shawn that:
. . .I am awestruck and completely and unconditionally proud of your
stunt. . .I have always disliked your dancing as an ambition but you I have
loved and it was on account of you I disliked the dancing for a man’s
dancing is not usual & is looked upon as effeminate but if you can stand it
I surely can. . .(from: letters and memorabilia of Ted Shawn, Jacob’s
Pillow Archives, 2003).
Despite such reservations, Shawn persisted. The complimentary arrangement of
touring, film, school, and performing group in partnership with Gould seems to have
provided Shawn with a template of development in his association with St. Denis;
Denishawn also combined these mutually-supportive activities under Shawn’s direction.
But the combination of exotic historical dances with the popular ballroom craze still
didn’t satisfy Shawn, especially after having read Bliss Carman’s book. Shawn left the
Santa Fe tour as quickly as he could to pursue Delsarte studies with Mrs. Perry King on
Carman’s advice. His choice to undertake the study was a change of direction for him;
Shawn records that he had previously seen many poorly-understood renditions and didn’t
have much respect for performances labeled “Delsarte”:
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. . .in my own childhood I saw only the distorted. . .“statue posing,” in
which amateur entertainers, costumed in bulky, graceless “Greek” robes,
whitened skin, and white wigs, took “poses” supposedly expressive
. . .(Shawn, Every Little Movement: 11).
This choice of a Delsarte teacher could have ended in disgust for the system entirely, for
despite Carman’s regard for her, King was not a Delsarte expert. King took the basics of
Delsarte’s methods and applied them to her own ideas about teaching young ladies how
to act and move with social grace. She taught the exercises she had learned as a student
of Mrs. Hovey (whom Shawn later encountered and with whom he continued his Delsarte
training) without crediting either her own teacher or Delsarte (Shawn, Every Little
Movement: 12). In addition, King had no idea how to teach expressive movement in
keeping with a masculine ideal:
Mrs. King proposed specific beautifying measures, exercises and diets, to
improve the person—and it was this emphasis Bliss Carman and Richard
Hovey seized upon. Their own self images, the clothes they wore, their
male beauty, were prominent features of their poetry. . .(Kendall: 109).
This public display Carman and Hovey adopted from King’s training had nothing
to do with dance. Although King had collaborated with Carman on several innovative
performances34, gender divisions had the men reciting the written word while women
performed interpretive dance/mime movements to them. Using words instead of music to
accompany expressive gesture was certainly unusual for the time, but a man who wanted
to perform as a dancer instead of reading text was heading into new territory. Mrs. King
really didn’t have a very good idea what to do with Shawn:
. . .it was all very well for the girls, but since 99 percent of Mrs. King’s
work had been with girls up to that time, she had no material, nor a
glimmer of an idea of what was masculine movement, or subject matter
suitable for a man (Shawn, One Thousand: 18).
This confusion was nearly universal in American society at the time; there simply was no
context in which to place a danced male expressiveness. In a letter to Shawn dated 27
May 1913 a college friend identified only as Hugh35 reported on reactions he overheard
to the film Shawn had made with Norma Gould. Hugh records comments from the
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audience struggling to place the ideas of “American male” and “dance” in the same
context, and pointed out that the effort cannot avoid comparisons to the feminine such as,
“. . . it was a funny calling for a man. . .”, or, “. . .he is graceful, more than feminine
litheness. . .so free acting and limber. . .” (Jacob’s Pillow Archives, 2003).
Still, Delsarte exercises properly applied held the promise to Shawn of
contributing to the development of expressive gesture for both men and women. It
wasn’t until Shawn was able to meet and study with Henrietta Knapp Russell36 (later
Mrs. Hovey) that he could begin to apply these methods. Shawn describes the impact
Mrs. Hovey--whom he had met only after marrying St. Denis—made on him:
From our 1915 meeting until Mrs. Hovey’s death, I took private lessons
from her. In 1916 I attended her lectures whenever I was able to duck
Denishawn extracurricular activities like sewing and dyeing
(Shawn, Every Little Movement: 63).
The impact of Delsarte’s system of movement analysis and discernment of meaning in
“natural” gesture (briefly discussed in Chapter One) on Shawn’s choreographic
development can hardly be overemphasized. Barton Mumaw acknowledged the
considerable contribution Delsarte made to the development of American modern dance
through the teachings of Shawn in an (undated37) letter to Rebecca Terrell:
Shawn is generally recognized as the Father of American Dance which is
evidenced by an article in the NY Times of Sept. 28/91 by our
distinguished dance critic Anna Kisselgoff in which she writes: Francoix
(sic) Delsarte is an often forgotten French Connection: Ted Shawn was a
follower of Delsarte: American Dance, in fact, had a French Grandfather
(Mumaw: 1991).
Mrs. Hovey offered a rigorous, meticulous training. But she still was not a
dancer, nor could she teach or coach Shawn in his applications of Delsarte in manly
dance. The key to melding spiritualism, exoticism, Delsarte, and dancing Shawn needed
appeared when in 1914 he auditioned (through the auspices of Brother St. Denis) for
Ruth St. Denis (Shelton: 120).
Despite her fame, St. Denis’ exotic mystic dances weren’t going over very well at
that time with a public intoxicated with the novelty of popular dyad dances. Thinking to
expand her programs to include a partner, St. Denis offered to incorporate both Gould
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and Shawn to perform these more popular dances so that they would carry her serious
artistic solos. Gould declined, but Shawn, entranced with St. Denis, joined her on tour.
According to Shelton, “Ted taught Hilda [one of St. Denis’ backup dancers] his ballroom
routines, and they also performed Greek and character dances he had choreographed”
(Shelton: 121).
St. Denis and Shawn shared similar ideals on life, art, and spiritualism; they also
shared the Delsarte training that informed their belief in “natural” movements translated
into dance (Chapter Two). They agreed that: “Delsarte himself believed that his science
was the key to all art, and some of his most ardent disciples. . .maintained that it was
almost a new religion, and the key to perfect life” (Shawn, Every Little Movement: 13).
Together Shawn and St. Denis toured, romanced, and finally married. Denishawn opened
its doors to students in the summer of 1915 (Shelton: 121).
This close personal and professional partnership had the curious effect of both
augmenting and restricting the two dance artists. Shawn freed St. Denis from managerial
and teaching duties at the price of popularizing her programs. Shawn had the advantage
of St. Denis’ fame at the price of her artistic domination. In general, Shawn’s Denishawn
work prior to Gnossienne wavered between the economic necessity to teach and perform,
and his desire to launch into spiritual dance expression on a par with St. Denis’ work. St.
Denis was certainly generous in her support of Shawn’s efforts; still, his quest for manly
sacred dance independent of her was slow to develop. This was probably due to the fact
that the only male body on which he could experiment was his own. Men did not join
Denishawn as students until 1920 (interestingly, the same year women in the United
States gained the right to vote), and even when offered dance classes for free, only a few
came. Shawn reflected upon this condition as a reason why he sought to establish his allmale dancing group after the dissolution of Denishawn:
. . .men were the minority in every company, including Denishawn, and
the public eye had not really been focused on the problem of men dancing.
I hoped. . .when people saw young American athletes going through
masculine dances, prejudice would be overcome and dancing as a career
would take its place with other legitimate professions
(Shawn, One Thousand: 241).
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At first, both the school and the company of dancers trained there were filled with
women. Most Denishawn dances were based on oriental themes favored by St. Denis,
such as the 1916 Pageant of Egypt, Greece, and India for one hundred and seventy
dancers, of which Shawn was the only male. And for most of his own group
choreography Shawn had only female bodies to work with, as reflected in titles such as
Apsaras38 (a 1915 Trio for Girls) and Garland Plastique (a 1917 ensemble for five girls).
As noted in Chapter Five, Denishawn provided training in Delsarte, Dalcroze, and a
broad range of dance styles to a number of silent film performers, all of whom were
women (Shawn: 59). In addition, some ballet dancers39 also took supplemental dance
instruction at Denishawn. One of these, Sadie Vanderhof (Vanda Hoff) became
something of a rival to St. Denis’ reigning deity with her own vaudeville dance drama,
The Dancing Girl of Delhi which “Brother (Buzz) St. Denis” produced after he had left
Denishawn (Shawn: 62). The pattern of female dance domination continued into
partnering; for those dances in which he appeared with St. Denis, Shawn’s main visual
function was to frame her feminine centrality, regardless of theme.
When it came to experimentation on his solos, Shawn was on his own. Although
her own aesthetics did not predispose St. Denis to be much help to him in the effort, she
nevertheless heartily encouraged and advised Shawn very much in the same way her
mother had advised and encouraged her through the creation of her 1906 Indian dances
(Chapter Two). “Manly dances” in Shawn’s repertoire of the time resorted to three cues
to signal their distinction from the feminine. They included a prop weapon, such as his
Samuri Sword Dance (1915) and Japanese Spear Dance (reworked in 1919); included a
masculine display of bravura inherent in the style, such as Spanish Dance (1915); or
suggested masculine labor, such as his Coolie Dance and Tillers of the Soil (both created
in 1916 and performed with St. Denis). The touch of the popular and familiar that Shawn
gave his dances encouraged audiences to relax, and provided a welcome relief to the
seriousness of St. Denis’ exotic mysticism in their programs:
Shawn had the great gift of creating and teaching movement that was
original, yet immediately understood by an audience, powerful and
athletic, yet expressive. His intuition told him that men’s dancing should
be based on familiarity with male physical limitations and abilities as well
as with the work and ideals considered “masculine” at the time
(Sherman: 101).
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While it is true St. Denis’ aesthetic preferences dominated Denishawn, Shawn’s
counteracting influence went a long way toward expanding its range of expression.
Former Denishawn student and dancer Jane Sherman contests the assertion that, “In
general, Denishawn demanded a flowing presentation, often in diaphanous costumes with
scarves and veils. . .It eschewed the bluntness of sharp percussive movement in favor of a
sinuous line.” (Don McDonagh: Times, 10 January 1977). Sherman counters this
assessment by saying that:
In general, Denishawn presented so many different types of
dancing that only one who had not seen the full repertoire could thus
generalize. “Sharp percussive movement” in direct opposition to a
“sinuous line” was an intrinsic element of many solos and ballets such as
. . . Gnossienne (Sherman: 1).
However, by 1916 (before Gnossienne), there were signs in the ranks of
Denishawn’s female students of a stylistic revolt40 against the preponderance of dances in
the traditional feminine style. As Denishawn’s director and teacher, Shawn responded
through experiments with “non-feminine” movement vocabulary on female bodies41 in
his Denishawn classes. Given this condition of choreographic experimentation in the
process of dance education for Shawn, it is not surprising that Gnossienne first grew out
of a class exercise taught to a group of Denishawn students:
Several of my solo dances were originally designed for individual students
or as class exercises. . .Gnossienne was a dance in flat, two-dimensional
style movement that didn’t come off when the class tried to do it for Ruth
who dropped by the practice studio. I jumped in and did the exercise,
solo. . .When I finished I turned to the class and then to Ruth, saying,
“There. That’s the way it’s supposed to look.” And that’s the way it was
done by me for the next thirty years (Shawn, One Thousand: 70).
The transformation of Gnossienne from a classroom exercise into a solo for
Shawn does not seem to have happened rapidly, for the dance did not premier until 1919.
Not only was he deeply involved during this intensely creative and developmental period
in teaching classes for the school, but Shawn was also choreographing and producing
with St. Denis a number of elaborate spectacles. Although Gnossienne might have fit
easily into a Denishwan program as a purely abstract piece (it was sometimes listed as
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“music visualization” according to Sherman), Shawn was further encouraged by St.
Denis to explore its potential as a narrative.
Every bit the enthusiast of libraries, museums, and historical lectures that St.
Denis was, Shawn first searched for the right music and found what he was looking for in
the first of a trio of eccentric piano pieces titled Gnossiennes (1889) by a then littleknown French composer Erik Satie42. He evidently came across pictures of the ancient
Palace of Knossos in Crete and chose a fresco known as The Cup Bearer to serve as his
model, fabricating a story around the image. The title Shawn chose Gnossienne: a Priest
of Knossos fit well to describe the close relationship between the music and the dance.
As Sherman introduces the dance in her book, The Drama of Denishawn:
This strange solo with the strange title represented Ted Shawn’s vision of
an ancient Cretan rite. (Gnossus is another spelling for the Cretan city of
Knossos. Gnosis is a Greek word meaning positive knowledge. By
onomatopoetic coincidence, both words apply to this unusual dance)
(Sherman: 33).
St. Denis and Shawn had very different ways of going about the task of both
teaching and choreography. St. Denis taught primarily by “inspiring” her students;
performing always for them (for everyone) to encourage them to emulate her. In the
process of choreographing and rehearsing, she relied upon the aesthetic impulse of the
moment43 and her well-tuned artistic sense to lead her to the right movements. St. Denis’
rehearsals were performances and her performances often as fluid as rehearsals because
she relied on the effect of melding her internal feeling with the external condition of
being watched (Chapter Two). This ability was considered second nature to the
feminine. “She [St. Denis] loved to put on a show. . .real work came to a halt as
rehearsing was immediately transformed into performing” (Mumaw: 27).
But Shawn taught analytically, breaking movements down into component parts
so that the dancer’s body could serve as a tool at the service of expression. This pattern
created a consistency between the functions of teaching and choreography:
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The purpose of these exercises [before the dance or the dance as artis
approached] is specifically to get the student’s body in such condition, and
his mind-body coordination to such a state that, when he begins to learn a
specific dance form or dance style, he will have. . .a perfect and effortless
instrument of his will (Shawn, Fundamentals of Dance: Forward, ix).
And when it came to devising new dances and rehearsing them, Shawn had a far more
internally-structured method of rehearsing on a par with Nijinsky’s secretive
development of Faune (Chapter Four): “He [Shawn] banned all spectators when he was
choreographing in the belief that ‘outside’ vibrations interfered with his concentration”
(Mumaw: 27).
Despite their working and performing differences, both Shawn and St. Denis were
dedicated to their religious fervor, and believed that dance should be an act of spiritual
expression. This impetus for Shawn took an interesting turn in Gnossienne. Instead of
hitting at an exotic/spiritual connection with a typically St. Denis-like mysticism44,
Gnossienne turned out a series of parodies of tried-and-true clichés on both religion and
dance of the time. The dance in this sense makes it a striking example of Early Modern
avant-garde art (Chapter One). The humor and fun in the piece is augmented by the
choice Shawn made of its music, a short piano piece by Satie: “. . .Shawn was able quite
amazingly to sense the sly, ironic intent of the music and to incorporate it into a Cretan
ritual of distinct originality (Sherman and Mumaw: 252-3).
The title given to the music by the composer set Shawn on a search of historical
accounts depicting artifacts from the Crete Palace of Knossos, from which he selected
specifically the “Cup Bearer Fresco” (Guest: 16) and invented a narrative to fit his
dance. “To music by Erik Satie, I represented a priest of ancient Crete going through a
ritual at the altar of the snake-goddess” (Shawn: 70). Shawn may not have been aware
of the extent to which Gnossienne’s inside joke appealed to audiences until after he began
performing it:
Ted Shawn had not expected the laughs this class dance got when
costumed and put in the spotlight. But showman as he was, he very soon
encouraged them—laughs—where appropriate—and he always milked the
2nd bow for a final laugh (Sherman: letter 6 September, 2003).
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But although the priest goes through the elaborate motions of his devotion to the snakegoddess (whom the audience never sees) with the utmost seriousness, something of a joke
is shared with the audience:
. . .it was danced with a straight face, [but] there was more than a hint
throughout that the priest and his Snake Goddess were secretly amused by
a ritual in which they no longer found deep significance
(Sherman and Mumaw: 252-3).
Gnossienne strikes and maintains an obviously analytical, highly stylized
approach to movement. Its precision of timing between iconographic45 poses, isolations
of parts of the body demanding great physical control, and rapid, abrupt (yet never
hurried) movements with this stylization demands that it be performed the same way
every time. True to its ritual basis, the dance draws its audience into an unreal space and
time that is more psychological than geographical; a feature Gnossienne shares in
common with Incense (Chapter Two) and Faune (Chapter Four). An uncredited review
for the St. Galler Tagblatt dated 29 April 1931 picked up on this circular, internal selfreferential quality:
This dance creation is without question a perfect one: strict carrying
through of motive, unbroken development of the idea, keeping to
essentials. The end flows back into the beginning.
Although former Denishawn student and dancer Doris Humphey is credited with
having said that Gnossienne could not be taught46, the dance has had a lively existence as
a teaching tool for Shawn’s lectures, seminars, and dance classes. In particular, it appears
as one of several exercises notated by Ann Hutchinson Guest in Shawn’s Fundamentals
of Dance. Guest characterizes Gnossienne as:
. . .a good springboard for discussion of parallel movement. . .[demanding]
clear spatial placement of torso and limbs, and quick, separated action of
the knees, ankles and feet. It features sharpness of movement and clearly
established positions (Guest: 1K Gnossienne Movement: 16).
One of Shawn’s most gifted students and performers who joined his company of
men dancers, Barton Mumaw47, learned Gnossienne from Shawn in order to assist Shawn
in his dance/lecture seminars (Introduction). The process of learning it demanded close
attention and an immediately responsive body able to produce the crisp, clear changes of
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direction and movements contrary to “normal” human movements (Clark interview). As
Mumaw noted to Jane Sherman: “I think Ted was surprised when I was able to learn the
Gnossienne movements. . .” ( letter dated 25 May 1979), and: “. . .my assisting Ted was
thrust upon me, so to speak, and I remember that 50 minutes of teaching [Gnossienne]
seemed endless and I worried every time about how I would be able to last that long
. . .”(letter 29 June 1979). The closed intensity of the piece was a challenge for novice
and accomplished performer alike:
This brief dance appeared deceptively easy to do. In reality, the strict
geometrical body positions, the persistent bent-knee steps on half-toe, and
the precise control of balance demanded tension in every muscle as well as
an exact rhythmic response to the accented grace notes and chords of
Satie’s weird melody (Mumaw: 252).
When Mumaw turned to his own dance teaching and engaged in the process of
reconstructing Shawn’s dances, he taught Gnossienne to his student, Jack Clark48. It is
Clark’s rendition of the dance for video that the current study uses for discussion
(Appendix A). In a letter to the author 6 September 2003, Jane Sherman recalled the
differences between Shawn’s and Clark’s interpretation of the dance:
Jack [Clark] was splendid—because slighter than Shawn, his
interpretation was a little fey—lacking Ted’s weight (in both senses of the
word), his humorous touches more “flirty” where Shawn’s were sly and
his approach more reverent, overtly. (I never saw Barton do it).
The movements of the dance are evenly crisp, precise, and abrupt, but not jarring.
There is no movement in which the energy of it leaves the extremities; it is contained
within the autosphere (Appendix A) of the body. Although distances are indicated, there
is no gesture of flicking, tossing, or throwing out into space; no loss of meditative selfabsorption to suggest a break with serious ritualistic form. Jane Sherman, who saw
Shawn perform this dance many times, points out the stylish efficiency of the
movements:
This [sequence of reversals of direction and arm movements] is done with
swiftness and precision. It becomes an oft-repeated theme, with all
gestures as controlled and exact as the moving of a fine watch
(Sherman: 33-4).
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Gnossienne furthermore can be “read” through Shawn’s training in Delsarte
expressive movement vocabulary; the extent to which Delsarte’s meticulously drawn
analysis of human movement and meaning influenced Shawn can hardly be
overemphasized49. He believed that Delsarte’s system of expressive movement; “. . .is
now, the most complete and perfect science of human expression”(Shawn, Every Little
Movement: 11), so it stands to reason the precision of Gnossienne should reflect these
artistic goals:
. . .he [Delsarte] said that emotion produced bodily movement, and if the
movement was correct and true, the end result of the movement left the
body in a position which was also expressive of the emotion. . .Delsarte
himself defined grace as efficiency of movement, that movement which
achieves its end by the least waste of effort, and with the least shock or jar
to the organism (Shawn, Every Little Movement: 11).
In no other dance Shawn choreographed is this correlation based on Delsarte’s
teachings more evident than Gnossienne. The dance is, rather like Delsarte’s discussion
of movement and meaning, rather more accurately a series of poses linked together by
efficient movements. Delsarte training, which Shawn took very seriously in his own
dance education and in the instruction of his students, included not only gesture and
meanings associated with physical attitude, but also the techniques of effective oratory50.
The analogy of expression between speech and movement in Gnossienne is not as great a
conceptual reach as may at first appear. Shawn repeatedly emphasized this relationship
between speech and movement:
Muscular strength must be built up through the right kinds of exercise—to
enable the dancer. . . to produce many different qualities of movement;
and he must eventually be able to improvise as readily as he engages in
conversation (from Introduction to Shawn’s Fundamental Training
Exercises, unpublished)
Shawn above all, advocated that all art, regardless of medium (that is, including both the
written/spoken word and dance) had in some fashion to recognize Delsarte’s “Law of
Correspondence” which Shawn states as a correlation between inner intent and external
manifestation that is both “true” and “natural”: “To each spiritual function responds a
function of the body; to each grand function of the body corresponds a spiritual act.”
(Shawn, Every Little Movement: 31). Shawn’s application of Delsarte was not
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mechanical; he abhorred performances which claimed to be Delsarte-based but which
mechanically, slavishly repeated the form without understanding the flexibility of its
content:
I have used these laws in ways and forms of my own. . .The knowledge
and use of this science does not confine, limit, or make one’s art
mechanical or regimented, but on the contrary they make it possible. . .
to express more perfectly those things which are uniquely his to say, in
forms never before seen. . .(Shawn, Every Little Movement: 77).
This idea of continually re-interpretive form designed to carry “true” feelings through
“natural movements” forms the basis of naturalism of movement to which both Shawn
and St. Denis adhered, and it literally and meticulously informed how Gnossienne may be
read for meaning. Shawn describes one position of the arms, a feature emphasized in the
dance in a way that invites comparison with Delsarte’s directions on meaning and
position. Shawn states that:
The arms are crooked at the elbow. . .the hand [of the right] in the same
position as the left hand and parallel to it . . .the arms produce the square
root sign of mathematics (Shawn, Fundamentals of Dance: 16).
Just as St. Denis in Incense referred to an off-stage, invisible deity in the general
direction of the audience itself (Chapter Two), Gnossienne’s priest pleads with an offstage, invisible deity—ostensibly the Snake Goddess who is not actually present on
stage—seems to be located somewhere off downstage right (Clark). But the poor priest
leaps back and forth between the “horns”51 of a dilemma the same way the dancer’s focus
shifts back and forth between stage right and stage left near the end of the dance. This
produces a comic effect, as the single-minded priest appears to be equally divided
between two opposing directions. Alternatively, this strong shifting between opposite
sides might indicate a spatial correlation to the personal pride of the priest in conflict with
divine command. The issue is apparently resolved when the priest finally turns with
stomping feet and an outward thrust with his arms toward the goddess, almost as if
shoving his obedience toward her.
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The combination of quick changes of direction paralleling changes in the bentknee or straight knee positions is part of the humor of the piece. Shawn notes in his book
on Delsarte that, “the knee is also a thermometer of the will—strong and straight in
aggression. . .but bent in submission. . .wherein one gives up self-will for Divine Will
(Every Little Movement, 41-2). However, the character of the priest in Gnossienne
manages to reverse these indicators of meaning; the pull of his will and the pull of the
goddess are successively responded to with almost equal fervor as his knees straighten in
poses characterizing association with the Cretan frescoes and bend quickly as if in a
rushed gesture of obedience; a mumbled chant to be got over as quickly as possible.
In all moments of standing before starting in a new direction, the dancer presents
the upstage leg forward, downstage leg back, lower body facing the direction of
movement, and upper body facing the audience. Quick shifts of balance permit the
dancer to lead with that upstage foot for any locomotion in that direction. Knees and
elbows are bent or straightened with the same abruptness as changes of direction52. Arms
trail behind the body forward or emphatically reach out in front of the body. Hands are
held with fingers and thumb closed53, like mittens as the wrist moves the hand quickly up
or down. Shawn gives this attention to the position of the thumb in context with Delsarte,
who instructs that, “. . .the thumb in spite of its seeming lack of expression, is the most
important finger, for it indicates degrees of vitality (Shawn, Every Little Movement: 434). By the way in which the priest’s thumb lies closed against the side of the hand,
neither folded toward the open palm nor extended wide, Shawn seems to be saying that
his “vitality” and energy is capable but restricted, severely under (ritualistic) control. In
this way, even the slightest detail such as the positions of the priest’s thumbs are
important; the visual whole of the dance is affected.
Shawn evidently took the arched back, the frontal torso with profile face, arms
and legs and the angular position of joints from the image of the fresco of the Knossos
Cup Bearer. The pose of this figure read through Delsarte told Shawn how he wanted to
enrich his character for the dance. This characteristic of studied stylization gives
Gnossienne not only its archaic grace, but also an intriguing tension between ritual
devotion and a quirky quality of individuation suggesting that the character of the Snake
Goddess’ priest is not quite all he appears to be at first glance.
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This priest certainly thinks well of himself (Clark) and is putting on a show of
religious fervor. As the dance continues, the priest becomes more emphatic in his
gestures, at one point stomping audibly on the floor with his foot. Through the cool,
highly stylized gestures, he reveals himself personally and all too-humanly engaged in a
struggle with his own high self-esteem before submitting to proper worship of his
goddess. Head held high, this individual looks down his nose at everyone. But when he
turns his back to the audience this priest also suggests that his individual pride is also
archetypal:
Seeing only the back, and not my individual face, it had stronger
suggestiveness towards indicating that this is what happens to mankind
. . .not just what happened to one individual
(Shawn, Every Little Movement: 77).
An emphatic gesture of defiance54 is expressed in the priest’s lunge toward down
stage left away from his deity. At this, the priest may be fooling himself into believing
his devotion is absolute and sincere, but the audience begins to wonder. Finally, the joke
is on the priest as the audience watches him turn first toward the station of the goddess,
then suddenly in the opposite direction in a continual development of the flat, twodimensional movements established at the beginning of the dance. This priest is truly on
“the horns of a dilemma”55 and the irony lies in his sincere attempts to cover his distress
with ritual. Not only is this a “Shawnesque” snub at conventional religiousness56 but it is
also a direct comment on the diminutive male dancer confronted with the overwhelming,
all-powerful divine feminine of expressive dance itself (i. e. St. Denis).
Bows in Gnossienne have several meanings. Near the beginning of the dance
there is a kind of running kneel in which the momentum of the dancer’s cross upstage is
not interrupted; something akin to a Catholic’s swift “shorthand” bend and bob of the
head coming into a church. Later in the dance the priest kneels with his arms
outstretched to stage right and poses in five stop movements from high to low indicated
by the music. The same stop action bow is repeated stage left.
Each position of the arms in this deep stop-action bow corresponds to a Delsarte
diagram from Every Little Movement indicating in turn, “it is improbable; it is doubtful;
it is; it is certain; it is absolute57. At each station, and by stopping the action so that the
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pose registers with the audience, Shawn wryly indicates the priest can’t make up his mind
exactly what it is he wants to project. Each pause may indicate the priest’s hesitation,
hoping for some divine sign of approval at the lowest possible degree of self-surrender.
This approach of “wheeling and dealing” with the divine faintly recalls the negotiations
of a small boy with his mother for privileges.
Certainly, the priest’s final act of falling rapidly to his knees and bowing his head
in the direction of down stage right suggests that he has at last come to acknowledge his
mistress’ divine supremacy. And even in this final supplication the outward bending
elbows as the palms of his hands press against the ground, give a peculiar angularity and
staginess to the surrender. It is as if in bowing to the goddess, the priest is also calling
attention to the gesture self-consciously and in ostentation. If she, and by association, the
audience is watching, this priest wants to make sure everyone knows he is yielding to
superior power while retaining some small sense of self-dignity. By contrast, bows and
bends of the body in Nijinsky’s Faune and St. Denis’ Incense do not call attention to
themselves with elbows jutting outward from the center of the body58.
In addition, the torso of the dancer’s body, and each extension from the torso had
to be independently articulated, very much as modern dance students of the Graham
technique today59 must be able to perform in every class session. Clark had to repeat
each short section of movement sequence in order to perfect its execution before
stringing them together as a contiguous whole: “Barton [Mumaw] had me practice the
simplest of the movements of arms over and over until I could snap into those positions
instantly.”
On the surface, the dance narrative in Gnossienne is about a priest in service to
the Snake Goddess of Knossos in ancient Crete struggling to submit to her divine will
through ritual performance. But it is in just this juxtaposition of abstract movement with
religious ritual that the dance reveals its humor. Underneath this priest’s ritual of
appeasement to his goddess lies the urging of his own willful spirit and pride. Gnossienne
represents one approach Shawn made to reconcile masculine dance gesture with
spiritualistic ritual. The abstract form of the piece suggests an almost automaton-like
mechanism characteristic of Art Deco and a comment on technology. If, as the ritual
suggests, Shawn’s priest has made the same gestures precisely the same way over and
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over, then the dance also invokes similar repetitive movements of factory workers. The
infusion of humor into the dance as a mitigating element keeps the dance from becoming
mawkishly preachy.
A lot of mawkish preaching against dancing was going on in Christian churches
in those days; denunciations from the pulpit vied with those from cultural purists in
blaming social dances—and by extension any and all dancing—for the downfall of
American society. It was indecent, self-serving, and non-productive; and since dance
was a feminine activity, it also could not be sacred. Taking this idea into account, the
joke of Gnossienne is not only on the character of the priest; Shawn may also have been
aiming a barb at any church trivializing both dance and its potential for spiritualism as
feminine, and therefore beneath serious consideration by men:
In his religious dance, Shawn was challenging the priesthood of the
established Protestant Church. He called the divorce of the art of dance
from religion and religious expression illegal. . .Shawn was saying that the
Protestant service had become dogma or sterile doctrine, that it must
return to a simple primitive language if the Protestant Church would
communicate with human beings and not die in dusty archives
(Palmer: 37).
Under its exotic veneer Gnossienne may also be read as a wry comment on the
male dancer struggling for a sense of himself in the (absent yet domineering) context of
“the goddess”60. So in addition to thumbing his nose at prudish religious objections to
dancing, Shawn also parodies the by-then “tried and true” feminine performing link
between exoticism and spiritualism, challenging its claim of exclusive right. The gesture
is a kind of gentle yet pointed dig at St. Denis herself as the chief representative of this
gigantic domination:
. . .St. Denis satisfied contemporary thirsts for “culture,” in its nineteenthcentury sense of things aesthetic and noble. . .Here were laid
foundations for the gendering of modern dance study as female. . .Female
spectatorship for new dance practices. . .wedged open the domain of
meanings and gazes. . .(Tomko: 77).
Shawn’s priest bends far backward and looks high above as if up to a gigantic statue in
his supplications. In so doing Shawn, through Gnossienne also, “wedged open the
domain of meanings and gazes” to the male expressive dancer as well.
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At all times the stylized depiction of Gnossienne referring to the Knossos Palace
frescoes61 is strictly maintained throughout the dance. In it, the audience is presented
with a vision of a still image from the wall of an ancient, long-abandoned palace that has
been forced into uncomfortable animation, while at the same time, unable to relinquish its
two-dimensional identity. The dance is in this regard a curious realization of Delsarte’s
declaration that, “Art is an act by which life lives again in that which in itself has no life”
(Shawn, ELM: 59). Any activity failing to support an organic mechanism in process, or
that aimed itself toward a product was anathema to Shawn:
[who] was in revolt against the worship of material power and the
submission of man to the machine. He taught his pupils to dance. . .to
destroy “the false religion”. . . the narrow conservatism that was
strangling American education. . .future dancers accomplished this task
because Shawn made a way for them (Palmer: 33).
The dance also lends itself to a decidedly avant-garde reading as a “nonperformance”; particularly if the narrative of Gnossienne can be interpreted as both an
appeal toward—and a “partnering” of—the unseen Goddess located off-stage right. It is
in this context that Gnossienne invites a comparison with Faune. The priest extends his
arms to her suggested location, evoking the Faun’s reach toward the Nymph as if
simultaneously pleading and offering to clasp her in an embrace. Such an embrace in a
dance brings to mind gendered balances and shifts of power and meaning in the popular
dyad dancing of the day; relationships that don’t always present one gender as dominant.
As has been previously noted, the role of a man in these dances—whether social or
concert art—is to display his female partner to the audience as an object of its gaze. He
does so by guiding her; signaling his decision about when and where turns and changes
of direction will occur by the pressure of his contact with her body (hands and waist62 and
moving forward so that his partner must counter by moving backward63. In a crowded
ballroom, a good male partner steers his partner to avoid collisions (she can’t see where
they are going), and he decides when she will turn under his arm. At the same time, the
female dominates her male partner in the gaze; it is she the viewer looks at, not her
partner. As has been noted earlier in this chapter, Shawn had plenty of experience before
Gnossienne with these dynamics in partnering Wallack, Gould, and St. Denis.
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The idea that the Goddess is a veiled reference to St. Denis becomes plausible as
Gnossienne’s priest performs positions and moves appropriate to his role in a dyad
partnership. He often looks up and kneels when he gestures to stage right, where the
goddess supposedly is located, as if she were either standing on a pedestal64, or very tall.
This gesture reflects the way in which Nijinsky’s Faun looks up at the Nymph as he
slowly kneels to her in a mirror image to the way the tall, dominating figure of the
Nymph had previously knelt to him65(Chapter Four). In both dances, a kind of partnering
is implied even though the person of the female is absent.
The gesture suggests a very unorthodox play on the qualities of stone vis à vis a
living human (discussed in relation to Incense in Chapter Two). If the Goddess’ image in
Gnossienne is both stone and of a gigantic stature (suggested in the priest’s extreme lift
of the head to make eye contact with Her), the thought of his partnering her becomes as
ludicrous as a religious rite making petition to an insensitive rock. The priest’s deep
lunges often end in iconographic poses and may be read as a visual connection with
photographs of Shawn partnering of both Wallack and Gould66 .
When dyad dances are put up on stage (art or popular), the male is usually
positioned upstage of his female partner. The view the audience has of him in these
posed, iconographic images is what can be seen of him around his partner. He is visible
mainly by being somewhat larger than she. But if Shawn’s priest were to actually partner
a gigantic goddess under these conventions, the diminished priest would be all but
invisible to the audience; She would appear to be dancing alone. Appearing with St.
Denis, Shawn may have felt invisible.
If St. Denis as the Snake Goddess is visible while the Shawn/priest is not, the last
part of the dance contains another kind of joke—a kind of avant-garde “nonperformance” that takes place only in her perpetual “shadow”. It offers a comment on the
difference between Shawn’s priest and St. Denis’ Incense worshipper. Both characters
make offerings to an off-stage deity. But while the Incense deity is located in the
audience (Chapter Two), Gnossienne’s Goddess is off-stage right. And while St. Denis
presents a public performance of a private ritual, Shawn presents its opposite; a priest
performing a public ritual as if it were a private (absentee audience) event. In this
reading of the dance pushing it to its absurd extreme possibility, it is the Goddess/St.
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Denis who is really on stage, visibly dancing for her audience; the priest is off-stage, his
ritual offerings invisible and unacknowledged67.
The difficulties in finding suitable music for dance that had faced St. Denis also
faced Shawn; serious composers were not inclined to listen to choreographers’ ideas.
Shawn comments that choreographers were confined by the disdain serious composers
had for dance:
We, in turn. . .resenting the limitations of the mostly doggerel music called
“dance music”, reached out for the works of the great classical composers,
and often were guilty of musical sins—cutting, changing and even
rewriting parts, in order to make the music fit a preconceived idea for our
dancing (Shawn, One Thousand: 45).
The attitude toward music and its incorporation into the dance productions of Denishawn
remained generally unchanged from St. Denis’ early years in vaudeville. In her
presentation of “The Lost Dances of Ted Shawn” at the 2001 conference of the Society of
Dance History Scholars, former Shawn student, Sharry Traver Underwood mentioned
that “Papa” Shawn had a casual way of dealing with music credits on the program. “If
you can’t remember who wrote the music for your dance,” he reportedly advised his
students in 1940, “just credit Tchaikovsky” (author’s notes). It is interesting that,
whatever the music chosen, Shawn:
. . .believed, for example, that strong, harsh, broad movements
corresponded to the lower, or masculine, section of the musical scale,
whereas softer, more lyrical feminine movements corresponded to the
scale above middle C. He later conceded that there was a discrepancy in
this rigid differentiation, but he never entirely abandoned his belief
(Sherman: 102).
The statement suggests a rigid, almost automatic response to music on the part of
Shawn. However, his choice of Satie’s music to transform his dance class exercise into a
solo performing piece suggests that Shawn was entering a more sophisticated rhythmic
relationship with music more pronounced in his dance works following Gnossienne68. In
any case, composer and dance artist shared compatible attitudes toward life, art, and
religion69 that were reflected in the dance. Both Satie and Shawn were engaged in
upsetting entrenched middle-class attitudes in Europe and America, respectively, and
enjoyed doing it with humor. Both started out in “low art” venues. While Shawn held
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tango teas and played vaudeville circuits, Satie was a habitué of the Monmartre cafe Le
Chat Noir, where he often played his off-beat, “tradition-bending” piano works (Chapter
One).
Satie was evidently as eccentric an artist of La Belle Epoque as his music
suggests, and he particularly attacked the hypocrisies of organized religion. Just as
Shawn sought to overthrow conservative Christian prohibitions against dance, Satie set
up an annoying, absurd, one-man campaign against traditional ecclesiastical practices.
He wrote scathing letters as the sole “shareholder” (Parcier de l’Eglise Metropolitaine
d’Art) of his own church with the same enthusiasm as he composed his short, circular and
intensely internal pieces. Part of the attraction and strangeness of his early short
compositions was that they bridged the gap between the studied formality of classical
compositions and the free spontaneity of popular cabaret tunes. His compositions were
neither classical nor popular, while taking part in both musical worlds, as if he were
trying to, “fly like a fish and swim like a bird”.
In every aspect of his public performance of himself as a musical artist, Satie was
intolerant of artificial boundaries of any kind and liked to exert his independence from
social expectations. Like other music artists of the French avant-garde with whom he
associated70 Satie delighted in thumbing his nose at middle-class complacency. He made
a public spectacle of himself out of being a noisy recluse. Outrageous in his
“ecclesiastical” proclamations, Satie carried out all his activities in a meticulous attitude
of serious humor that worked hard at appearing careless; a cubist approach to music that
“. . .suggests permanent movement and permanent rest” (Shattuck: 141).
Satie wrote the three short piano pieces under the title of Gnossiennes in 1889
during the first part of his musical career71 after hearing “exotic” music played at the
Exposition Universelle, whereupon he imagined himself under the influence of a
Medieval cleric72. He secluded himself in his apartment with elaborate barriers against
the outside world and covered the walls of his rooms with pictures, sketches and
paintings from the Middle Ages. Satie declared himself “happy” with this living
arrangement while he was occupied in composing Gnossiennes (Satie: 28).
Both Satie’s Gnossiennes and his earlier Gymnopédies (also a set of three short
piano pieces) quickly became popular among Parisian avant-garde artists for their
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strange quality of form, characterized as: “. . .neither a course nor a drifting. . .a
fascination with a series of points which turn out to be one point. His music progresses
by standing still.” (Shattuck: 140). “The comment at the Chat Noir was that this work
[of Satie] seemed to have been composed ‘by a savage with good taste’. . .proper to the
nakedness of his music” (Satie: 29).
These comments about Satie’s Gnossiennes also suit Shawn’s meticulous
development of the dance, which follows the music in its even and steady dynamics.
Shawn’s priest may be said to “move by standing still”; an exercise of ritual that finds its
purpose in serving itself. The music just seems to tick along on its own; the parts of its
mechanism performing separate and interrelated functions. This analogy is supportive of
Shawn’s approach to training dancers to be musically responsive:
His [Shawn’s] purpose was to train the dancers to analyze,
understand, and respond to one part of the contrapuntal music while
adhering to the disciplines of rhythm, form and design as they related to
the other parts or voices of the selected music composition. The parts
were learned and danced separately and then combined to present a
visualization in movement of the audible counterpoint of the music
(Poindexter: 182).
This kind of self-contained mechanism for dance and music together served the
intense, almost “second nature” movements required to execute the ritual of worship in
the dance; the impression conveyed is that it has been performed many times before, and
would be performed many times in the future the same way. This gives Gnossienne a
sense of timelessness in movement meaning and musical meaning; the point of reference
for the passage of time lies within the piece itself and not outside of it73 . This quality of
self-referentiality in movement and music also makes the dance adaptable to variations in
conditions; indoors, outdoors, concert stage, vaudeville, etc. It is both a classroom
exercise and an expressive dance solo successfully performed and reinterpreted over time
by Shawn, Mumaw, and Clark.
One of the first things evident upon viewing Clark’s reconstruction of Gnossienne
on video is that the speed at which the music was played for this reconstruction was faster
than it should have been; for some unknown reason, the pianist accompanying him
started at a fast clip, which surprised Clark as he struggled to keep up. Clark commented
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on this point in interview with the author, at which time we viewed the video together.
However, he added that for modern audiences, the speed keeps up the momentum of the
dance in a way that might have kept it from being “plodding”. Former Denishawn dancer
Jane Sherman admired this version danced by Clark, which she described to the author as
being more “light footed” 74 than Shawn’s though she could not compare it to the way
Mumaw performed it because she did not see Mumaw in this role. Certainly some part of
the appeal of Gnossienne as performed in the video restoration by Clark used for this
study is its speed. There is always a kind of startled quality to the movements of this
priest; an uncertainty whether or not he will be able to keep his balance.
In conversations with Professor Jack Clark (30 January 2003 and 16 September
2003), Clark referred specifically to issues of balance. He said that the center of gravity
in the dancer’s body had to be continually counterbalanced in order to perform each
locomotive and positional gesture. The balance of the dancer is particularly challenged in
the way in which he must quickly change direction with the lower part of the body while
leaving the upper body position intact, or vice versa. Gnossienne is a deceptively
difficult dance to perform (Sherman, Clark). As Mumaw describes it, the music has:
. . .no time signature, contains no bars, and has none of the conventional
markings. . . Instead, Satie’s musical instructions read, “With absolutely
unchanging rhythm throughout. Monotonous and white”, “Far away”
“Step by step” and even “On the Tongue.” They suggest a quality difficult
enough to translate from page to instrument, let alone from melody into
movement. But Shawn was able quite amazingly to sense the sly, ironic
intent of the music and to incorporate it into a Cretan ritual of distinct
originality (Sherman: 251-2).
Through this sense of ritual Shawn seems to have set up a kind of agreement
between movement and sound within the context of his ideas about dance training, for
which the movements of Gnossienne were originally intended. For all its sense of
interlocking mechanism and efficient functioning, the relationship between dance and
music remains fluid:
No matter how complicated or unfamiliar the musical beat, no Denishawn
dancer ever counted—in classroom, rehearsal, or on stage. We danced to
the music, or rhythm and our training enabled us to move together when
we should. . .Denishawn choreography followed the sequence of idea,
movement in terms of music, then costumes, set, and lighting
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(Sherman: 9).
Makeup for the priest in Gnossienne appears to have been normal skin tone;
Shawn evidently did not feel the need to emphasize the exoticism of his performance, or
suggest an association with marble sculptures on the order of tableaux vivants by
applying body paint75. The dancer is barelegged and barefoot. He wears only a pair of
gold colored shorts with thick rolls of fabric around his thighs and mid-torso. Similar
“snake” rolls are also worn around his upper arms and across his brow. The priest’s hair
is plastered flat against the head:
. . .Then I combed my dark hair down over my forehead, fastening it there
by means of a fillet76 under the headband to make a straight line across the
brow—a trick Shawn used for his solo, Gnossienne (Mumaw: 57).
Unlike Nijinsky (who had access to costumers and designers through Ballets
Russes), everyone at Denishawn—including St. Denis and Shawn—had to design and
make their own costumes. For his costume in Gnossienne Shawn seemed to exaggerate
the features of dress in the Knossos fresco in a way that opened the possibility of humor.
His gold trunks were decorated with spiral designs suggesting coiled snakes or seashells.
The thick fabric rolls around his torso and thighs appeared bulky; almost as if to suggest a
priestly attire designed to exaggerate the importance of the priest himself77 . Even so, the
final version of the costume Shawn devised was somewhat toned down from his original
intent. In a letter to the author from Denishawn dancer and writer Jane Sherman dated 6
September 2003, Sherman states that:
When Ted Shawn first designed it [the costume for Gnossienne] and
showed Ruth St. Denis for her approval, the brief golden trunks had the
‘snake’ roll not only around waist and legs, but also had a most suggestive
roll running between his legs and up back and front to the waist. Miss
Ruth was horrified. ‘Oh, Teddy, you can’t wear that!’ And Teddy
thereafter did not wear that.
And just as each dancer who performs Gnossienne makes it his own through
interpretation and physical differences, he also adds to it by making his own costume
based on Shawn’s. In a letter to Jane Sherman from Barton Mumaw dated 25 May, 1979,
Mumaw recalled that:
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I got great fun out of making the costume [for Gnossienne]. I had
Shawn’s as a pattern and the original wood-block to imprint the material
with the design which was a copy of a Cretan shell pattern. Stuffing the
rolls for the legs and the waist with discarded bits of cloth and theatrical
materials made them rather heavy. . .and the whalebone strips to hold up
the “tire” around the middle inserted pressing uncomfortably into my ribs
and back—yes, costumes are suffered. Ted used to say we were never
satisfied with a costume until it became impossible to move in it78.
This ability to adapt whatever came to hand for prop or costume was taught in the
Denishawn curriculum right along with dance classes in an effort to produce performers
who could overcome a wide variety of uncertain theatrical conditions of the time.
Clearly the Denishawn attitude toward costumes was that no matter how simple or
elaborate, its function above all was to enhance the dance, which was no good unless it
could be effectively performed without one:
. . .Shawn, that most theatrical of choreographers, said, “If you can’t make
a dance in the studio that stands independently of costume, that dance has
not earned a costume.” Furthermore, in many a Denishawn number
costume was reduced to such a minimum that dance simply had to be the
thing (Sherman, Drama of Denishawn: 7).
The stage condition for this video reconstruction of Gnossienne was an unadorned
dance studio with no accessories or props, although the positions of arms and legs at
some places in the dance suggest the manipulation of a bow and arrow, or a spear. This
impression of carrying a weapon is suggested by Shawn’s previous Arab, Japanese,
Javanese, sword, dagger, and spear dances. The lighting79 for this video version is
generalized and bright, which in one sense supported the dance by illuminating the
dancer’s body in a simple and uncomplicated fashion. However, a sense of ancient
mystery was not supported in the overall stage condition, suggesting that Gnossienne did
not need an elaborate set to establish an exotic locale. Some black and white photographs
of Shawn in this dance appear to have been taken outdoors; others with him posed before
a solid-colored drape. Based on these photographs, it is speculated that when Shawn
danced Gnossienne, some sort of fabric backdrop hung behind the dancer. This simple
arrangement was implemented for many Denishawn performances, regardless of theme.
In this video reconstruction there was no backdrop to distance the performance out
of a contemporary dance classroom, and in some shots, a view of the piano appears. This
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setting evokes Gnossienne’s origins and continuation as a teaching tool and
demonstration piece for dance lectures; nevertheless, it is a credit to Clark’s abilities that
he was able to convey the dance so clearly in these unsupportive conditions. However,
Gnossienne—as were many Denishawn dances—was also designed to withstand a wide
variety of performing conditions as might be found on vaudeville tours, foreign tours, and
even outdoor performances at private residences80.
Overall, Gnossienne is one of Shawn’s most successful combinations of danced
spiritual expression with humor. Occasionally Shawn returned to themes of ancient Crete
established in Gnossienne, but these were rarely as successful, perhaps because the
element of wry humor was missing in them. Such dances included Death of a God:
Cretan Ballet (1929) and The Bull God (1930). But while Gnossienne can be considered
an important step in Shawn’s search for the dignity of masculine dance, overly serious
exotic-themed dances did not work as well for him as they did for St. Denis81. Despite
the fervor of his Cosmic Dance of Shiva (1926) or the photogenic manliness of Death of
Adonis Plastique (1923) these came across as stiff and over-posed. However, following
the success of his Invocation to the Thunderbird (1918) Shawn developed other New
World dances with spiritual and ritual ideas, such as Feather of the Dawn (1923) Xochitl
(1920) and Osage Pawnee Dance of Greeting (1930). These experiments in a different
exotic frame than St. Denis’ Orientalism found freshness in an equally different
relationship to music:
During the summer of 1917, Shawn’s experimentations led him to
choreograph two widely divergent types of dances based upon the
resource of contrapuntal music and of the American Indian,
respectively. . . (Poindexter: 182)
In movement, an abstraction rather than literal gesture served Shawn more
effectively. The culmination of this direction for Shawn was his Kinetic Molpai (1925)
which nevertheless retained some link to ancient Greek sports
(Shawn, One Thousand: 273). He also choreographed several “machine dances”,
including Pacific 231, (1929), Geometric Dance, and The Metal Dance (both in 1930).
Some of Shawn’s memorable spiritual dances evoke, rather than literally represent, their
exotic origins somewhat along the lines of Gnossienne. Among them is the mesmerizing
abstract spinning dance, Mevlevi Dervish (1924). In the simple, profoundly expressive O
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Brother Sun and Sister Moon: A Study of St. Francis (1931) Shawn perhaps found his
most complete release into divine meditation through dance82. The sarcasm suggested in
Gnossienne nearly fifteen years earlier yields to a simple, self-assured statement of
danced faith in O Brother:
His main interest was in religious dancing—“Dancing and praying are the
same thing”; in dancing for men—“the right of a boy or man to dance as
an independent artist, not merely in the roles of comedian and acrobat”;
and in “Denishawn,” an organization of dancers83. . .(Palmer: 36).
Shawn’s legacy through teaching and dancing continued in the influence he had
on the next generation of American modern dancers who studied with him at Denishawn.
Both Martha Graham and Charles Weidman worked as his students from 1917 to 1927,
when they left to create their own independent dance styles. When Graham left she was
joined by Denishawn accompanist Louis Horst, who worked with her during her early
choreographic career to hone her deeply personal, individual expressiveness. Weidman
struck out with fellow Denishawn student Doris Humphrey84, and together they
established a company with a broad repertoire that reinterpreted the success of the St.
Denis/Shawn dyad.
Although they eventually developed uniquely individual styles, while they were
with Denishawn, Shawn taught and set dances for both Weidman and Graham that
marked their subsequent developments as dance artists. The experimentation with a
variety of choreographic styles under the training conditions of Denishawn encouraged
both Weidman and Graham to leave and find their own artistic courses. In particular,
Weidman and Graham took the abstract features of Gnossienne in their own ways.
Graham moved directly into serious dramatic expression, especially in her series of dance
dramas based on Greek tragedies. Weidman, however, moved in the direction of satire.
Weidman was one of the first men to stick with Denishawn training long enough
to join the performing company, and Shawn quickly perceived in the young man a fine
potential for humor; “. . .even his bushy eyebrows could be expressive. . .” (Anderson:
164). Shawn brought that aspect out in Weidman to overcome Weidman’s initial lack of
self-confidence as a dancer by creating the popular Crapshooter on him. “Shawn
detected a flair for the comic in Charles and choreographed a comic dance for him,
forcing him against his will to perform it,” according to Olga Maynard in her book,
154
American Modern Dancers (135). Weidman caught on to the challenge and
choreographic potential of humor, and many of his own dances reflected the wit of
Shawn’s work with him, of which Gnossienne was a part. Weidman was, “. . .best
known as a comic dancer and choreographer. . .Yet he could also be deadly serious. And
some of his jokes could sting” (Anderson: 164).
One of Weidman’s most successful pieces, Flickers (1941) was a wicked, manic
send-up of silent films of the day and featured (his usually serious partner) Doris
Humphrey’s “. . .outrageous clowning as a vamp” (Anderson: 165). Narratives from
literature also attracted his choreographic eye in the same way an ancient fresco of Crete
had caught Shawn’s. Weidman set dances to Beerbohm’s The Happy Hypocrite (1931),
Voltaire’s Candide (1933), and three James Thurber pieces; Fables for Our Time (1947),
The War between Men and Women (1954), and Is Sex Necessary? (1960).
Weidman’s dances also continued Shawn’s abstract directions in Gnossienne by
presenting dance as its own indicator. Like other avant-garde art (Chapter One), dance in
this context appears separate and freed from an assumed link with expressive meanings
so that free associations on the part of audiences could be suggested instead of specific
meaning being dictated by the artist. Weidman experimented early on with dances that
juxtaposed multiple meanings and genders:
. . .the gestures did not have to have a dramatic base. . .they could develop
according to their own movement logic. . . individual movement phrases
might suggest a man taking a shower, a woman sweeping the floor, a nun
telling her beads, and a man tugging at a fishing pole (Anderson: 165).
Graham, through her apprenticeship at Denishawn, benefited from both St. Denis’
(Chapter Two) and Shawn’s experimentations in the new American dance form. She
partnered Shawn as a doomed princess in one of his forays into Native American themes,
Xochitl (1920) and also choreographed her own Gnossienne in 1926 to music by Satie,
suggesting she may have been impressed with Shawn’s male solo. Certainly the feature
of movement isolations, in which different parts of the body move independently of each
other, of Shawn’s Gnossienne suggests that it may have influenced the use of this key
feature in Graham’s technique of expressive dance movement. As de Mille observes:
155
She [Graham] discovered a whole technique of balancing on bent knees,
with her thighs as a hinge and the spine cantilevered and suspended
backwards in counterbalance. She invented turns with a changing and
swinging body axis (57-8).
Shawn’s long-term commitment to the idea of dance as a language also manifests itself in
Graham’s work quite literally: her dance works are narrative dramas, and she describes
the early stages of working on them as “. . .to work on my script” (Leatherman: 54).
“She [Graham] inaugurated several stage techniques. . .symbolic props and set pieces,
speech with dancing, the chorus of commenting dancers as in the Orient” (de Mille: 58).
From Shawn Graham developed an analytical, highly disciplined approach to
teaching and choreography and, like Shawn, Graham preferred to work in isolation,
without outside distractions of any kind. From St. Denis she learned to trust her own
intuition and present herself as the central focus of the dance visually and psychologically
(Chapter Two). Graham emphatically evolved her own tools of movement vocabulary
and presentation in stage space that would help her life-long explorations of essential
motifs, among them tactics of balancing between the feminine of St. Denis and the
masculine of Shawn. Fonteyn observes that, “Shawn provided an ambiance [through
Denishawn] in which America’s real ‘Mother of Modern Dance,’ Martha Graham, was
able to discover her own direction” (Fonteyn: 108)
Many of Graham’s works invoke, as does Gnossienne, impressions of Ancient
Greece. But while Shawn’s goddess is implied, Graham’s feminine power is
emphatically present and central. As did St. Denis in Incense (Chapter Two), Graham
presented the feminine point of view as central to her characterizations of Jocasta,
Clytemnestra, etc. However, it is interesting to note that the agony of that centrality, and
the struggle between the divine and the human in Graham’s Greek works evoke similar
issues raised by Gnossienne.
The costuming for the men in a Graham Greek dance is often eerily evocative of
that worn by Shawn in Gnossienne. In Graham’s Night Journey (1947), for example,
Oedipus wears shorts covered in a ropy design, and similar snake-like ropes drape the
shoulders of Agamemnon in Clytemnestra (1958). And in Alcestis (1960) the men’s
shorts support flaring ropes extended past their hips, while their upper arms are similarly
156
banded. In particular, the heavy-looking rope binding the brow appears in many of her
biblical and Greek works, notably in Seraphic Dialogue (1955), and in particularly heavy
double rows over the brows of the men in Legend of Judith (1962). Graham, as has been
previously noted, also seems to have been in agreement with Shawn’s idea of costumes
being useful to impede, or complicate movement as much as to facilitate or enhance it.
Her [Graham’s] more complex and dramatically more meaningful
costumes are designed against the movement. She has put herself and her
dancers into tubes of cloth like cocoons; in voluminous robes, weighty and
unyielding; in cloaks and capes made of yards of material so intricately
designed, tacked, hook-and-eyed that the dancers forget from one season
to the next how to put them on (Leatherman: 140).
Shawn’s ambition was to meld his ideas of spiritualism, dance, and masculine
performance to the betterment of American society. In order to do this, he set upon a
multi-faceted creative life dedicated to both self-education and the education of the
American public to place the dancing male in a position of respect. The obstacles Shawn
faced to make dance his life’s work were tremendous, and it is difficult today to imagine
them. There was hardly such a thing as an expressive American dancer in the decade
following turn of the century; much less one who was male. Shawn literally had no
models to follow except those of pioneering women such as Duncan, Fuller or St. Denis.
Fortunately, he was able to adapt their methods of negotiation for public acceptance to
his own unique American case.
The avant-garde conditions that had worked for these women artists made it
possible for Shawn to also succeed in his own solo dances. As an example of Early
Modern avant-garde art with an exotic theme, Gnossienne illustrates ways in which
Shawn manipulated social perspectives about gender and dance. Created in the midst of
Shawn’s early Denishawn phase, the dance takes as its exotic point of inspiration an
ancient Cretan fresco of a cup-bearer from the Palace of Knossos. Shawn thematically
developed this image into the character of an arrogant yet obedient priest in the act of
worship directed toward the Snake Goddess. In the process, Shawn also invoked the
image of the “invisible” male dancer in social and art dance whose only purpose in
appearing on stage is to display the charms of his female partner. The idea comments on
the domination of the female in expressive art dance of the time, and on the professional
157
and personal partnership Shawn shared with St. Denis. As a “non-performance”,
Gnossienne expresses distortions of time and space as conventionally constructed in
performance.
The angular, ritualistic movements of Shawn’s dance paired with Satie’s short
piano music made a particularly successful combination of Delsartian naturalism and
social commentary. Originally designed as a Denishawn dance class exercise to
maximize the subjectivity of the student’s dancing body to expressive choreographic
demands, Gnossienne is also an avant-garde work because it reverses the relationship
between artist and art; it is a construction designed to serve the purposes of the artist
instead of the other way around. Instead of choosing an exotic theme and choreographing
the movements around it, Shawn allowed the physical structure of a choreographic
teaching sequence suggest to him a presentational theme that would suit a performance
piece.
Gnossienne was part of a continuing process of self-education for Shawn that
included enlightening others in all phases of dance. These educative goals are reflected
in this dance, for just as the vain priest of Gnossienne must submit fully to his goddess,
so must the student dancer submit his body to the rigors of training in order to achieve an
instrument of precise expressiveness. Just as avant-garde art movements communicated
missions to improve life (Chapter One), so did Shawn’s dances, of which Gnossienne
was an extraordinary example.
The ritualistic qualities of the abrupt movements in the dance Gnossienne
provides audiences with a humorous comment on the ability of art to express more than
one linear construct of time and space. The dance suits the style of Art Deco in its posed
centrality of the dancing figure and abstract ritual. The lines of the body are straight and
direct. Although not overtly stated, Gnossienne represents a response to the pressures of
technology. Even though the ritualistic movements of his priest conform to precise
dictates, the human alienation (i. e. “a ritual no longer having any meaning”, or a joke
shared between priest and goddess, according to Mumaw) in it suggests a similar
alienation of a factory worker from the products he contributes into the making of.
The tools Shawn found early in his crusade for American acceptance of the manly art of
dancing included education, the incorporation of exotic themes, and humor. Gnossienne
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represents an important step in Shawn’s efforts to pioneer expressive dance incorporating
all three qualities. The dance’s ritualistic form, inasmuch as it spoofs exoticism and the
feminine cliché of performing exotic dances, also spoofs the empty shell of ritualistic
gesture—approved and taken for “true” by society—that is also empty of meaning for the
person who performs it. Given Shawn’s early desire to become a minister, this reading of
Gnossienne is especially ironic.
His priest flirts with his own willfulness under the requirement of submission to
the will of his all-powerful Goddess, and he struggles manfully to partner Her through the
hollow gestures of a lost ritual. But Shawn never left his audiences in despair; it wasn’t
his nature to end on a note of pessimism. The battle won in favor of the will of the
Goddess, Shawn’s priest stands to regain his dignity before the audience, and his bows
suggest that he may have lost this battle, but not exactly the war. Human and divine;
profane and sacred; Gnossienne offers a portrait of American danced masculinity at once
“invisible” and palpably present. Thumbing his nose at social and religious hypocrisies,
Shawn’s priest eventually “knows himself” through humor and a ritualized imagery of
masculine force in art. The dance fits well Shawn’s avowed statements on what art
should do and be in modern society:
It [art] can be so challenging and so stimulating that it arouses anger,
making us re-assess all our accepted values. All true beauty has an
element of strangeness in it. . .I believe that dancing is a man’s art form
as much, or more, than it is a woman’s. . .The great choreographic works
yet to come can only be performed by a company with balanced masculine
and feminine choirs (Shawn: Credo85).
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END NOTES CHAPTER THREE
1
The video reconstruction of this dance as performed by Professor Jack Clark of Florida State University
was timed at two minutes long. However, Clark stated in interview (16 September 2003) that this
performance of the music was faster than in the version danced by Shawn himself.
2
In a letter to the author dated 6 September, 2003, Sherman recalled that Mumaw first performed
Gnossienne on the first Men Dancers Program in 1931. In the same letter, Sherman states that the last
reference she could find of Shawn performing this dance was March 27, 1938 in NYC.
3
Former Denishawn student and dancer, Jane Sherman, stated in a letter to the author dated 6 September
2003 that she thought Gnossienne was the longest-running modern dance of the Twentieth Century.
4
Although Incense was franchised out as a Denishawn product, the dance remained closely aligned with St.
Denis’ persona. Several men, and even his sister Bronislava took over the role of the Faun after Nijinsky
could no longer perform.
5
The only primary source mentioning that Shawn had seen Faune available to the author was in a letter
dated May 2, 1923 that Shawn wrote to St. Denis of having seen the Russian ballet in performance. Shawn
was not much impressed, but he did mention that, “Pilcer as the Faune at least tried.” (this letter from
Shawn’s personal files was made available to the author by Norton Owen, Archivist at Jacob’s Pillow).
Although it is improbable that either St. Denis or Shawn saw Nijinsky dance in Faune, it is virtually certain
they would have seen photographs of him in the role. In 1916 both Denishawn and Ballets Russes were on
a tour of the United States (in opposite circuits, but conjoining in Pittsburgh in March). The general run of
American reviewers and audiences of the two companies tended to lump them together—a hazard of the
close connection between exotic themes and early American modern dance (Kendall: 118-9).
6
Shawn did have a brief stint of taking ballet lessons with Pershikoff, from Gertrude Hoffman’s troupe
while in Los Angeles (Kendall: 107).
7
Part of Shawn’s training included the rigor of Delsarte exercises which had, in its American form, a dual
purpose in cultivating healthy bodies through exercise and training the performer in expressive gesture.
8
Sherman was a Denishawn dancer and student from 1921 to 1928 and wrote about her experiences with
Shawn and St. Denis in The Drama of Denishawn and Shawn’s contributions with Shawn’s student Barton
Mumaw in the book, Barton Mumaw, Dancer. At the recommendation of Norton Owen, archivist for
Jacob’s Pillow, the author contacted Sherman regarding details of Gnossienne in particular. I am indebted
to Ms. Sherman for her detailed, lively responses to my correspondence. In addition, the Jacob’s Pillow
archives had preserved a tremendous volume of letters between Sherman and Mumaw regarding the book
project, which Mr. Owen generously made available to the author.
9
Mumaw places the creation of the classroom instruction sequence as taking place in the summer of 1917,
concurrent with Shawn’s experimentations with the relationships between movement and music (Mumaw:
251-3). For the purposes of clarity in this study, this date is considered accurate. However, it is noted that
Shawn’s account of how Gnossienne evolved suggests that the classroom episode took place during the
summer of 1916, which is in accord with Sherman’s account of its origins in a letter to the author 6
September, 2003.
10
In an attempt to attract men to Denishawn school and company, Shawn and St. Denis offered free
scholarships to any young man brave enough to come and study with them. Charles Weidman joined them
in this manner: he had not seen a Denishawn performance, but while working as a junk collector,
Weidman had seen discarded flyers with intriguing photos of Denishawn dances (Anderson: 164).
11
Theatrical Dancing in America: the Development of the Ballet from 1900 (1978).
160
12
A more detailed discussion of this dynamic at work in Faune is undertaken in Chapter Four.
13
Even a superficial viewing of Gnossienne reveals that it included poses from other Shawn dances,
notably his Japanese Spear Dance of 1919. The repetition of these poses indicates experimentation with
gestures that would be unmistakably “read” as “masculine” (that is, suggesting a prop weapon) rather than
feminine.
14
Shawn reports in his autobiographic account, One Thousand and One Night Stands that in 1921 he was
surprised by a backstage visitor, the photographer Dr. Arnold Genthe, who told Shawn that, “It’s very
difficult nowadays to add anything new to the vocabulary of dance but I think you have done it with
Gnossienne. It’s a genuine contribution” (Shawn: 101).
15
American male dancers George Washington Smith (1825-1899: whose sons and two daughters also
became acclaimed dancers), William Henry Lane “Juba” (1825-1852) and John Durang (1767-1822).
Their performances were self-consciously “entertainment” to please audiences, rather than “art” designed
to express the feelings of the artist. The division between art and entertainment coincided with the division
between “natural” and “artificial” performance (Glossary).
16
As remarked in the previous note Shawn was not, strictly speaking, the first American male to make
dance his life work. However, it must be recognized that these previous male American dancers presented
their dances as delightful entertainments, as opposed to dances expressive of deep psychological,
philosophical or serious themes.
17
Shawn was not only a prolific choreographer and dancer but also wrote numerous articles and essays on
dance and authored several books. He lectured on a wide range of topics relating dance, health, and
cultural history of masculine dance and conducted numerous workshops, seminars, and classes on dance,
both for the general public and dance students. When the author met Shawn in 196 7, she found him
enthusiastic in his educative role. Student and companion Barton Mumaw recalls that Shawn also enjoyed
carving wood sculptures of the masculine physical form in dance movement (Barton Mumaw, Dancer, coauthor Jane Sherman: 236)
18
Jacob’s Pillow archival holdings contain a manuscript of Shawn’s play, The Female of the Species which
was performed at his college 2 February 1912.
19
The archetypal runaway boy in American literature was Mark Twain’s Huckleberry Finn; in England J.
M. Barrie’s Peter Pan. Getting out of the house and away from the influence of women was the only way
boys could simultaneously “grow up” into men and “remain boys” who had exciting adventures. Victorian
sentimentality and fuss over the innocence and purity of small children was a genuine threat to masculine
development. The author has a photograph of her grandfather taken around the turn of the century when he
must have been about three years old. He stands on a chair looking into a mirror on the wall, wearing an
extremely fussy “sailor suit” and with his long blonde hair in ringlets.
20
A more complete discussion of the phenomenon of Billy Sunday is undertaken in Chapter Five. Sunday
shot off pistols, threw chairs, shouted with raised fist, and perform other acts of violence to get attention in
his popular sermons. Men flocked to hear him denounce organized “feminized” religion and an
overpowering mercantilism that destroyed the working man. He inspired (white only) men to believe in a
merging of morality and Christian faith with physical masculine strength. Interestingly, like Sandow and
Shawn, Sunday was also a “self-made man” who spent his childhood so physically weak he could hardly
walk (Kimmel: 178-181).
21
One room of Roycroft Inn was named for Socrates; another for Susan B. Anthony (Kendall: 104-5).
Hubbard’s rhetoric included down-home folksy phrases sprinkled with lofty, idealistic statements that
occasionally echoed biblical language and references to Shakespeare. His appeal included notions of
religious fervor, artistic beauty for both men and women, an outcry against the deadening effects of earning
a living in modern life and urban decadence as opposed to pastoral nature. His call for emancipation
161
included women, but emphatically did not include African-Americans or other non-white people; he could
have written copy for the title plates in any W. D. Griffith movie. He traveled extensively and wrote
prolifically about people of color. Hubbard died when the Lustitania was sunk, thereby attaining a kind of
legendary status on a par with his “heroes” (www. ProjectGutenberg: 25 September 2004)
22
It is speculated by the author that Shawn likely encountered the writings of Hubbard around 1910 or
1911. Dates given by Shawn and St. Denis on when things happened are often inconsistent from document
to document. Wherever possible, dates for both St. Denis and Shawn are verified according to the accounts
of Suzanne Sheldon and Elizabeth Kendall.
23
Mrs. Mary Perry King co-authored The Making of a Personality with Carman. Carman’s group at
Triunian School (where Shawn studied briefly in 1914 according to Sheldon’s account) included Mrs.
King, who taught Shawn his first Delsarte exercises, without crediting Delsarte. Also at Triunian was Mr.
Richard Hovey, and Edmund Russell’s estranged wife, Henrietta (Chapter Two) whom Richard Hovey later
married. Shawn met Mrs. Hovey in 1915 after his brief stay at Triunian when Mrs. Hovey attended one of
his dance performances. Her expertise in Delsarte (she had studied directly with Delsarte’s son Gustav and
Mrs. King had been one of her students) and Dalcroze training brought her to teach at Denishawn, and she
remained a life-long friend and teacher to Shawn until her death (Shawn, Every Little Movement: 12).
24
Roosevelt’s own performance of masculinity included not only a bristling moustache but also a carefullyorchestrated outfit combining “foreign” items like a fringed buckskin jacket and a sombrero with
“feminine” details such as a silk neck-scarf. No one would be laughing, however, because the dandiness of
the ensemble was set off with the prop/accessories of both a revolver and a rifle (Kimmell: 446). Shawn
well took the lesson that a weapon for a prop reinforced the manly impression of his dances. Although his
Gnossienne priest carries no prop, gestures in the dance evoke other Shawn dances in which he carried
knives, swords, or spears (Dreier: 43-46).
25
A second wave of “dance mania” hit America later, in the 1920s, with the African-American based jazz
(Tomko, Kendall, et. al.).
26
It should be noted that “full body contact” in the performance of such dances as the tango meant different
things in different venues. While low-class performance may include full frontal suggestion of genital
contact between partners (hence lewd), upper-class, refined performance offered the suggestion without
performing it in fact. Partners in the latter, refined versions of these dances worked off the side of one
another so that actual physical contact occurs (if at all) along the right or left side of each dancing body.
However, the visual effect to viewers of this arrangement is one of a clenched, closed union of movement
between partners.
27
Shawn was sometimes compared to other male dancers such as Paul Swan and even Mordkin. If he
could not exploit the confusion to his advantage, it irked him; as when it was accidentally announced that
Ruth St. Denis had married Paul Swan instead of Ted Shawn (Shawn, One Thousand: 45).
28
Certainly the abandonment to solo dance movement characteristic of a flapper evokes the empowerment
of the character of Salomé (Chapters One, Two, and Five). Even more, the flapper’s exotic-inspired dress
and accessories accentuated her vigorous movements and copied popular Salomé costumes, notably that of
Maude Allen. These features included things that waved and moved in response to the dancer’s
movements; long, swinging ropes of pearls around the neck, headbands with jewels and feathers fitted over
a close-cropped hairdo, and filmy dresses dripping with bead fringes that not only left legs and arms bare to
kick and twist, but also caught dim light and shimmered over the body. With ruby lips clenched around a
long, slim (almost weapon-like) cigarette holder, the flapper exuded an uncontrolled, sexual, youthful
feminine power. And when she danced, she was quite a sight.
29
Kendall qualifies this statement with the idea that the male ballet dancers of the Russian and Gertrude
Hoffman companies were accepted under the exotic aegis of the ballet and perhaps because they were “not
Americans” (Kendall: 111). Shawn also remarked upon this curious bias when he reported an argument he
162
had with a college peer who asserted that men don’t dance. Shawn pointed out that they had enjoyed
attending performances by Russian men together. His friend grudgingly agreed that it was all very well for
aborigines and Russians to dance, but that it was hardly possible for an American man (Shawn, One
Thousand: 11).
30
The exact year Shawn joined Gould in Los Angeles is not verified, but 1911 was also the year he first
saw Ruth St. Denis in Incense (Chapter Two) and Gertrude Hoffman’s take on the Russian ballet. He
evidently left Gould and went east to meet Bliss Carman and Mary Perry King in 1913. In 1914 he went to
New York and joined St. Denis in the fall of that year.
31
It is not quite clear what is meant by this term, “dance originating”, but the author speculates that it may
have been Shawn’s method of applied library research that would help dance students conceive and create
dances based on historical/cultural information. This information would then guide the dance student in all
phases of dance making from narrative and choice of movements to creation of their own costumes. This
approach to dance making was still in force for students attending Jacob’s Pillow (author’s notes).
32
From an unedited manuscript for One Thousand and One Night Stands from Walter Terry in the private
ownership of Norton Owen, director of Jacob’s Pillow Archives, 2003.
33
The Santa Fe circuit was a tour of acts sent out to stations along the old Santa Fe trail to entertain
employees of the railroad and their families. In the 1930s and 1940s, tours were arranged for tourists from
the East to visit Indian reservations in the Southwest, creating a market for craft wares such as basketry,
blankets and pottery. Southwest Native American culture is sometimes referred to as the “American
Orient” (from essays in “At the Contact Zone”).
34
Daughters of the Dawn and Earth Deities were experimental performances in that no music accompanied
the dance/mime movements.
35
The letter made no other reference to the identity of the writer, but he had obviously been a good friend
of Shawn’s from his college years. The author could find no other reference to who “Hugh” was.
36
Henrietta’s first husband, Edmund Russell, contributed to Ruth St. Denis’ development of Incense
(Chapter Two). Henrietta, more serious and analytical than Edmund in her application of Delsarte, had
studied with Delsarte’s son Gustav in France, where Gustav continued his father’s work (Shawn, ELM:
12-3).
37
This letter was found among the voluminous archival material loaned to the author by Owen Norton,
Director of the Jacob’s Pillow Archives.
38
An apsara is a beautiful dancing female often associated with the forces of nature in Hindu mythology.
When sages sought the solitude of the jungles to increase their mystic powers, they were particularly
susceptible to the temptations of apsaras sent by demons to distract them from their spiritual goals.
39
Including the author’s first dance teacher, Ms. Elizabeth Werblosky, a former member of the Chicago
Opera Ballet.
40
As early as the summer of 1915, a few stalwart female students requested dance roles designed for them
by Shawn that were not feminine. Shawn records in his book One Hundred and One Night Stands that one
of his less-willowy female students during the summer of 1916, Mary Caldwell, told him that she was tired
of “skippy dances” and asked him to create for her “a really fierce one”. The resulting solo set to music by
Sousa, became one of Shawn’s most popular dances, Invocation to the Thunderbird and was kept in his
solo repertoire from its first performance in 1918 to the early 1950’s. The New York City Library
Performing Arts Collection Denishawn photo album includes a series of photographs of an unidentified
young woman in aggressive, “unfeminine” poses performing what was called a “Savage Dance”. A dance
of the same title was one of Shawn’s solos in 1912 (Dreier: 43).
163
41
It may be pointed out here that Nijinsky experimented with his new movement vocabulary for Faune by
using his sister’s body as a model (Chapter Four).
42
A fuller account of Satie and his early modernist work is given in Chapter One.
43
Mumaw recalls that one St. Denis rehearsal included her directions to a pair of left over dancers to, “. .
.just go over there, dears, and make an elephant.’” (Mumaw: 27).
44
Many of Shawn’s other Denishawn dances on exotic themes emulated St. Denis’ mystic approach, but
were not nearly as successful or memorable. Ever in her shadow, Shawn sought to break free into his own
artistic arena, but could do so only after the dissolution of both their marriage and Denishawn. His
character dances were lighthearted entertaining, and popular. But they did not satisfy the religious
direction toward which he felt inclined until he began to delve into Native American themes in which St.
Denis—whose focus was on the Orient—had less interest (Dreier, Sheldon).
45
Each still pose of the dance, however brief it may be, presents the dancer as a distinct—and distinctive--,
two-dimensionally readable image. This quality of the dance makes it possible to immediately recognize
postcard photographs of the dance on sale in the Jacob’s Pillow gift shop.
46
According to Jane Sherman in her book, The Drama of Denishawn (34) Barton Mumaw told her that
Shawn had heard this statement from Doris Humphrey. Mumaw took the statement to mean that what
could not be taught was Shawn’s particular nuances of performance. In a letter to the author (6 September
2003 ), Sherman stated that she had seen Shawn perform Gnossienne many times, and that her impression
was that he had a certain physical “weightiness” or “a slower rate” in performance of the dance than did
Mumaw. The dance was evidently further accelerated in the video reconstruction of it by Jack Clark, who
learned the dance from Mumaw. Clark stated in interview (16 September 2003) that the pianist
unexpectedly played the music for this performance faster than originally intended, giving Clark’s
execution a rapid, almost “unbalanced” sense of transition between poses and movements. Clark’s
Gnossienne priest could be described as “nimble” and “agile”; he felt that this speedier rendition was
appropriate to the tastes of audiences current to his 1995 reconstruction.
47
A photograph of Mumaw in Gnossienne appears on page 250 of his book with Jane Sherman, Barton
Mumaw, Dancer and its caption states that Gnossienne is the first solo that Mumaw performed.
48
As of this writing, Jack Clark is a professor in the Florida State University Department of dance teaching
Labanotation, Repertory, and Contemporary Dance for non-Majors. In addition to his personal studies with
Mumaw, he has served as featured soloist with the Denishawn Repertory Dancers, and participated in the
Kennedy Center retrospective of American Contemporary Dance.
49
Every student attending the 1967 summer Jacob’s Pillow dance courses (including the author) was
required to purchase and study Every Little Movement, Shawn’s book on Delsarte.
50
The connection between oratory and dance (expressive gesture) dates from early Renaissance manuals of
comportment. For example, Thoinot Arbeau’s treatise on the art of dance (1589) Orchesography, includes
numerous references to the expressive qualities of courtly dance that support speech and song.
51
It is speculated by the author that the Snake Goddess’ association with the sacred bull, the horns of which
figure prominently in her iconography, would have been well-known by Shawn, who made extensive study
into historical accounts of ancient civilizations. This impression is corroborated by Norton Owen, Director
of the Jacob’s Pillow archives. Owen allowed the author to examine a book from Shawn’s private
collection titled The Dramas and Dramatic Dances of Non-European Races by William Ridgeway (1915).
Shawn later did a Crete dance called The Bull God in 1930 (Dreier).
164
52
The combination of quick changes of direction paralleling changes in the knee bent or knee straight
positions is part of the humor of the piece. However, the character of the priest in Gnossienne manages to
reverse these indicators of meaning; the pull of his will and the pull of the goddess at opposite sides of the
stage are successively responded to with almost equal fervor as his knees straighten in poses characterizing
association with the Cretan frescoes and bend quickly as if in a rushed gesture of obedience; a mumbled
chant to be got over.
53
Shawn’s description of the dance states that the thumb is open and separate from the fingers, but Clark
emphasized that Mumaw specifically directed thumbs were always to be held closed, as is seen in the video
reconstruction. See Chapter Four for a more detailed discussion of these “mitten” hands as used in Faune.
54
The lunging position taken by the Priest is read by Shawn in Delsartian terms as expressing defiance, or
vehement attack (from: Every Little Movement, 45 and 113)
55
It would certainly not have escaped Shawn’s scholarly study that the Snake Goddess of Knossos also
bore symbols of the sacred bull, and that her young devotees danced with bulls in her honor.
56
Both Sherman and Palmer in their discussions of Shawn comment on his determined effort to undermine
conventional middle-class religious hypocrisy, and Gnossienne was only one of numerous explorations on
that topic in Shawn’s dance works.
57
from the diagram, drawing by William Thomas, “The Degrees of Affirmation”, Every Little Movement:
56).
58
Shawn notes that Delsarte “called the elbow (as well as the knee) ‘The Thermometer of the Will. . .The
elbow. . .moves outward, away from the body to express pride, arrogance, assertion of the will’” (41).
Since Gnossienne’s priest has his elbows out, his defiance and pride “sticks out” through his ritual
performance.
59
The author had a semester’s course with Graham student Dr. John Wilson during Master’s degree studies
at the University of Arizona, and found this aspect of physical training extremely difficult to achieve
successfully. It is speculated by the author that it is perhaps from Gnossienne’s use of the torso in
independent movement clearly evident in the dance that Martha Graham may first have perceived its
expressive potential.
60
A publicity photograph of Shawn and St. Denis has her perched literally up on a pedestal with Shawn
standing at her side. This photograph, undated (possibly 1914) appears after page 78 in Sheldon’s book
and is credited as having been taken by Nickolas Muray. The relationship between them of St. Denis’
divinity approached by her loyal servant, and disciple Shawn has been thoroughly discussed in their
biographies (Sheldon, Shawn, et. al.)
61
The characteristic backward thrust of the upper torso, head lifted high in profile, legs spread apart, elbow
and knee joints flexed at near right angles, and details of costume suggest not only the “Cup Bearer” fresco
image (which curiously, is not a single male, but a double image of two males) but also the one known as
“the Prince”.
62
The analogy of riding horses is appropriate here, for a well-trained kinesthetic communion between rider
and horse depends upon pressure signals given by the hand or rein against the horse’s neck, or by pressure
of knee or thigh against the horse’s shoulders. The side on which these signals are given cue the horse to
move in the opposite direction; that is, a pressure on the right side indicates a turn to the left. The same
dynamic applies to dyad dancing as the male signals direction to the female.
63
One of Ginger Roger’s comments on what it was like to dance with Fred Astaire was that the woman has
to learn to dance backwards, leading with the left foot in response to her partner’s forward locomotion
leading with the right. And she has to do it in high heels. Author’s notes on dyad popular dance gratefully
165
acknowledge Dr. Kay Picart’s (FSU) informal discussions on the conventions of ballroom dancing during
the author’s assistantship with her.
64
A publicity photograph of Shawn and St. Denis shows her perched literally up on a pedestal with Shawn
standing by her side. This photograph, undated (possibly 1914) appears after page 78 in Shelton’s book
and is credited as having been taken by Nickloas Muray. The relationship between them of St. Denis’
divinity approached by her loyal servant and disciple Shawn has been thouroughly discussed in their
biographies (Shelton, Shawn, et. al.).
65
Nijinsky did not cast his sister Bronislava as the Nymph because he was adamant that the Nymph be
portrayed by the tallest female dancer he could find (Nijinska: 405).
66
These photographs of Shawn partnering Wallack and Gould appear in his book, One Thousand and One
Night Stands (with Gray Poole). The Wallack/Shawn photo is undated and uncredited; the caption states
that this newspaper shot shocked the Chancellor of Shawn’s college because Wallack’s dress was slit to the
knee (she is wearing tights). The Gould/Shawn photograph is also undated and credited to Rembrandt.
The caption states that Shawn and Gould started the first Tango Teas in Los Angeles in 1912.
67
In his book with Sherman, Barton Mumaw, Dancer, Mumaw discusses Shawn’s resentment later in life
that all his efforts to transform American dance went underappreciated
68
Some of these dances paved the way for Shawn’s Native American and Jazz pieces.
69
Shawn (at twenty) and Satie (at forty-five) undertook formal training in dance and in music composition
relatively late in life, and their previously-established philosophical ideas are supported by their art instead
of the other way around. Non-traditional choreographers who followed this pattern constituted the topic of
the author’s Master’s thesis.
70
Satie was well acquainted with both Claude Debussy and Maurice Ravel.
71
Dissatisfied with his early works, Satie reinstated himself at the age of 45 as a student of music.
72
In the writings by and about Satie it was not clear to the author what the connection was between
“gnoticism” and “Medieval” themes in Satie’s construct. It is speculated that Satie was capable of playing
jokes with his display of himself, and the Medieval cleric connection was his way of satirizing then-popular
séances and trances. Perhaps he did believe that Medieval faith was a Gnostic (i. e. internally self-directed)
spirituality compared to contemporary facades that passed for religion. It would be typical of the avantgarde to look to earlier, simpler (pre-Renaissance) times for “genuine” spirituality.
73
This quality of “all time and no time” inferred by ritual execution supported by music is one that
Gnossienne, Faune, and Incense share.
74
In a letter to the author dated 6 September 2003.
75
Shawn records in his autobiography that when he did perform one dance as a marble statue come to life
(Death of Adonis Plastique in 1923), the extensive time it took to get into and out of the body makeup
meant that those performances including this dance restricted the order of the program.
76
A fillet is a quaint term for a thin band, or ribbon tied tightly around the head to keep hair in straight
alignment under a headdress. The careful arrangement of hair in Gnossienne, Faune, and Incense supports
the ritual “uniform” (i. e. eternally the same unvarying look) of the dances and suggests the precise
rendering of the human form in ancient statues, frescoes, etc. The viewer enjoys references to these
ancient, immobile depictions of the human form come to life again (Chapter Five). It is interesting to note
that fillets, precise cutting, and styling of hair close to the head (often under headdresses) also contributed
to the look of the flapper.
166
77
Stage comedy had a long-standing convention of signaling humor with exaggerations of costume; a
military general with oversized epaulets and medals, for example, gave a visual cue of his arrogance.
78
It seems Denishawn student Martha Graham felt the same about her costumes (Chapter Two).
79
The author was unable to determine what lighting Shawn may have preferred for this dance. It is
possible he might have had a subdued lighting scheme when it was performed on stage to suggest the
cavernous rooms of the ruined palace of Knossos, but this idea is purely speculative. It would be logical to
assume that he would have wanted full-body lighting so that all the movements are clearly visible to the
audience, an effect achieved through a combination of lighting “trees” in the wings and overhead lighting.
However, variable conditions in vaudeville stages imply that he may sometimes have had to adjust to the
equipment at hand, including glaring footlights.
80
The economic tactic of performing at private residences in order to gain the financial support of wealthy
patrons was engaged by virtuoso musicians in the Romantic vein such as Louis Moreau Gottschalk,
Chopin, and List (piano), and Pagnini (violin). In dance, both Duncan and St. Denis found this tactic also
helpful. For her first performance of the Indian dances at the Hudson Theatre in 1906, St. Denis had
exotically-clad “authentic” Indians serving refreshments in the foyer of the theatre, and fragrant incense
burning to set the tone apart from everyday life and entertainment for the performance itself (Shelton). The
practice of performing in a garden or lawn setting for Shawn may have mediated between the sophistication
of dance art and the “manly and healthy” condition of being outdoors “in nature”. Shawn continued this
mediation in the establishment of Jacob’s Pillow; the site is in the scenic Berkshire Hills of Massachusetts
not too far from New York and other Easter cities. Audiences were treated like guests to Shawn’s artistic
“salon”; Jacob’s Pillow student/dancers provided valet parking and served refreshments before changing
into costume and performing (Mumaw).
81
Shawn’s humor and popularizing influences on Denishawn have been discussed thoroughly in the
literature, but as Shelton (et. al.) reminds us, St. Denis had her own “secular” streak (Chapter Two). The
point in this study is to represent the goals of the artist as expressed through one characteristic dance.
Incense, as St. Denis’ “signature” representation, does not contain a sense of humor as do both Faune and
Gnossienne.
82
Both Dervish and O Brother were also reconstructed and danced by Jack Clark. It was the privilege of
the author to have seen the last stage performance of Shawn in O Brother Sun and Sister Moon: A Study of
St. Francis while a student at Jacob's Pillow in the summer of 1967.
83
Palmer notes that Mr. Shawn defined “ballet” as an organization of dancers, and that Shawn was proud of
promoting Denishawn as the first “all American” organization engaged in training and performing dance
(36).
84
As Denishawn was at the time in the process of being divided between St. Denis and Shawn, Humphrey
remained with St. Denis as student and performer. However, it is evident in Humphrey’s system of
choreography that she learned much from Shawn. In choosing artists who have been influenced by the
artists and what they developed in their case dances for this study, a decision was made to continue the line
of male dance (i.e. St. Denis’ influence on Shawn and Shawn’s influence on Weidman) wherever possible
because it is perceived by the author that this aspect of early modern dance is underrepresented in the
literature. Graham is presented as having learned important and different staging tactics from both Shawn
and St. Denis, although she performed more significantly with Shawn.
85
Shawn’s “Credo” (unpublished) was signed by him and given to each Jacob’s Pillow student. The quote
is from the author’s copy.
167
CHAPTER FOUR
Vasalv Nijinsky and L'Après-Midi d'un Faune
Vaslav Nijinsky’s first1 major choreography, L'Après-Midi d'un Faune (also
referred to in this study as Faune) premiered as part of the 1912 Paris season of the
Ballets Russes, and immediately set a pitch of controversy in the world of ballet and the
world of art. Greeted at first with derision then hailed as an astounding break from
traditional ballet, Faune has persevered; both as reconstructed from Nijinsky’s extensive
notation of the dance (i. e. the Joffrey Ballet production of the ballet for PBS in 1980)
and as a point of reference for new ballet creations2. This analysis of Faune includes an
examination of such avant-garde issues as multiple perspectives of time and space, the
sophistication of primitivism in modern art (Glossary), ambiguities of gender and
sexuality, and the position of humanity relative to technology.
The connection Faune made with Modernism in art was quickly noted. In an
interview with Rose Strunsky that appeared in Current Opinion (New York, October
1915: 246-7) hardly three years after its premiere, Ballets Russes designer Léon Bakst
credited Nijinsky’s ballet with establishing a bridge between, “the archaic and the
modern”, and as demonstrating: “This modern strain of mysticism. . .which he [Nijinsky]
showed in the ballet of the ‘Afternoon of a Fawn(sic)’.” Bakst concluded his discussion
with the idea that in Faune, dance took its rightful place with other arts ushering in issues
of the new century.
This view is reinforced with Strunksy’s comment that; “Nijinsky has united in his
principle of choreography the archaic combined with a strong modernism” (Strunsky:
246). Through Incense St. Denis demonstrated a significant change in the relationship
between the performing dance artist and her audience. Gnossienne provided Shawn with
the means to explore multiple goals of education, American masculine expressive dance,
and spiritualism (Chapter Three). Interactions of dance and culture as projects of Early
Modernism and the avant-garde embodied in Faune constitute the discussion in this
chapter.
168
For all the furor of its premiere, this thirteen-minute ballet was deceptively simple
and straightforward. Instead of using exoticism for its lavish, other-worldly fascination,
Nijinsky applied it as a tool to express a profoundly internal and intimate self-expression.
It featured a small cast and a direct, presentational style stripped bare of the balletic
flourishes and spectacle associated with previous Ballets Russes exotica such as
Schéherézade (Fokine: 1910) and Cléopâtre (Fokine: 1909) . Nijinsky bypassed
external showiness3 in Faune to present a complex work combining images of archaic
Greek pottery with starkly modern themes and movements. Instead of seeking to satisfy
audience expectations on the order of previous ballets, Faune defied them, just as the
Early Modern visual arts of Cubism and Futurism rejected the aesthetics of the Academie
(Chapter One). Instead, Faune was designed primarily to serve its creator as a point of
exploration into gender roles, ontological spirituality, and alternative ways of perceiving
space and time. Above all, Faune makes use of an unconventional movement vocabulary
for expressive meaning. It is in this aspect that this ballet bears a closer stylistic and
expressive correlation with both Incense and Gnossienne than it does with other ballets of
its time.
Like St. Denis and Shawn, Nijinsky used the exotic context of his dance to
convey his ideas about the human condition from a fresh, unfamiliar perspective. St.
Denis presented her audiences with a Hindu rather than a middle-class Euro-American
housewife in worship in Incense, and yet the connection between the familiar and the
unfamiliar in the dance made it possible for audiences to participate in her longing for
divine union (Chapter Two). Shawn’s Gnostic Cretan priest in Gnossienne bore little
outward resemblance to a Catholic Christian priest. And yet his struggle to perform his
ritual with genuine submission to the divine (albeit with an all-too-human humor) aligned
him with anyone who both doubts his faith and participates fully in it (Chapter Three).
In a comparable fashion, Nijinsky’s character of the Faun probed a profoundly
internal speculation on the nature of desire for spiritual transformation. However, in this
instance Nijinsky undertook his search through a being neither human nor beast, but one
uneasily, longingly balanced between the two. And this beastly human (or human beast)
was—like Nijinsky himself—wise and foolish; knowing and naïve; a triumph in the
midst of failure.
169
Combinations of exoticism and Western culture, human and inhuman qualities4,
and emotional longings half-realized predominant in Faune were recurrent issues
throughout Nijinsky’s early life, even before he undertook training in the Imperial
Theatre. To begin with, he was born into a Polish theatrical family in 1888. Both his
parents danced on stage and in circus tours throughout Russia, and his father also
produced choreography and taught dancing (Buckles: 10). The fluidity between circus
and stage may seem strange today, but at that time in Russia it was not unusual for
performers to work in both venues in order to maintain steady, year-round employment.
In her notes to Bronislava Nijinska’s memoirs (which provide informed, first-hand details
of Nijinsky’s art), dance critic and historian Anna Kisselgoff states that:
The term Theatre-Circus is particularly apt for the theatrical scope
of the Russian circus. . .The idea that ballet existed only on one
level, at the Imperial Theatres, is belied by the exposure to various dance
idioms . . .as provided by the popular theatres and circuses
(Kisselgoff: 35).
The Nijinsky children Stassik, Vaslav, and Bronislava toured with their parents and
watched everything. As soon as they were old enough, they also performed; as is true of
vaudeville and other popular entertainments, acts in which children behaved as miniature
adults were an attractive draw. The public performance of gender as a construct of
illusion became a part of their lives at a very early age; for example, Bronislava states
that her brothers made their first appearance as dancers when their father taught them the
hopak, a high-kicking Ukranian dance. Vaslav (the younger at five) danced the part of
the girl (Nijinska: 21). Later, Bronislava learned and performed a “Chinese” dance,
taking the part of the boy to partner another girl. Then in the summer of 1896 she and her
brothers also performed circus routines with animals and clowns (Nijinska: 42-3).
While touring with his parents, Nijinsky traveled through much of Russia and
encountered such diverse performers as actors, singers, ballet dancers, gypsies, acrobats,
jugglers, “wild” Indians (from South America), and American tap dancers5. The Russian
circuses featured an equally eclectic variety of dances, elaborate spectacles, and puppet
shows6. The Nijinsky children absorbed everything they encountered, and even the most
exotic presentations were a source of interest, pleasure, and imitation.
170
Vaslav was particularly adventurous and fearless of new experiences. Bronislava
recalls that he took to sneaking away early in the mornings to help the circus stable boy
take the horses down to the river to drink and racing him on horseback. Juggling and
acrobatics were circus skills that particularly attracted his interest, and he also had a
particular fondness for birds, which he tried to train (Nijinska: 39).
It was a tremendously cosmopolitan community in which to live and learn;
however, Nijinsky’s mother wanted a better life. She ceased to perform and settled in St.
Petersburg in 1897 while her husband continued his touring dance career. Then through
her appeal to the influential ballet master Enrico Cecchetti7 (1850-1928) with whom she
was acquainted, both Vaslav (in 1898) and his younger sister Bronislava (in 1900) were
accepted as students in the Imperial Theatre. Their older brother Stassik could not join
them because by then he had suffered a blow to his head and for the rest of his life had to
be institutionalized as insane (Bronislava, Buckles). But for Vaslav and his sister,
acceptance into the school meant they were headed for a secure life as dance artists;
appointment into the Imperial Theatre included steady employment and pensions on a par
with military service.
It was a particularly fertile time for Nijinsky to be a student in the Russian
Imperial School. Classical Russian ballet training and performance conventions
perfected from the French tradition8 in long evolution during the Nineteenth Century
were at their peak at the turn of the century, newly-infused with Italian technical skills as
taught by Cecchetti:
The marriage of Italian strength and Russian style was to be the special
glory of the rising generation of dancers: and of these Nijinsky would be
the brightest star (Buckles: 15).
While this phase of Russian ballet was not locked in a static form, only minor
changes and adaptations were tolerated as long as they didn’t disturb basic, preestablished artistic structures. Unlike Europe or America at the time, Russia was still
ruled by the absolute power of the Czar, his family, and nobles. All matters of life from
political to artistic censorship9 were under control of a nearly-feudal system of patronage.
Imperial ballets performed early in the 1900’s included restagings of older works from
the previous century such as Bayadère (Petipa: 1877), Paquita (Petipa: 1881), The
171
Sleeping Beauty (Petipa: 1890), The Nutcracker (Petipa/Ivanov: 1892), Raymonda
(Petipa: 1898), and The Little Humpbacked Horse (St. Leon: 1864). Due to his
exceptional capabilities manifest in student performances, Nijinsky soon captured the
attention of audiences and professionals of the Imperial Theatre, and quickly passed from
student status to soloist. He danced to acclaim in several of the aforementioned ballets.
In 1909 Nijinsky (who was only twenty-one) joined Diaghilev’s Ballets Russes in Paris.
Although acclaimed for his roles in traditional full-length ballets such as Giselle,
Nijinsky also triumphed in the shorter ballets10 that strongly retained their classical roots
such as Chopiniana11 (Fokine: 1909).
But while Nijinsky was still a student, a more fundamental change was also in the
air. Influenced by Isadora Duncan’s first visit to Russia in 1904 (Buckles: 32), a small
but actively creative group of Russian artists formed an interest in exploring new
directions of artistic expression on a par with the Parisian avant-garde groups discussed
in Chapter One. Duncan’s ideas about naturalism in movement and her evocation of
classical Greek themes stirred an impetus toward individual expression that the
traditional ballet cannon could not reach. This new breath of air stirred qualified
admiration from Nijinsky, among others in the Imperial Theatres:
Taken aback at first, Vaslav [Nijinsky] later came to admire her [Duncan]
greatly. Her most immediate influence, however, was on [Russian
choreographer] Michel Fokine (Buckles: 35).
Fokine was at this time a young, intelligent, and curious12 choreographer who had
served his term as a dancer in the Maryinsky Theatre and taught ballet. Fokine was
determined to preserve the freshness and naturalism of Duncan’s dancing without also
indulging in her “undisciplined” execution that would be out of keeping with classical
ballet training. Eager to try out his ideas13, Fokine created a number of ballets on Greek
themes starting with Acis and Galatea (1905) the first of many works by this
choreographer in which Nijinsky danced. It is interesting to note that in this ballet
experimenting with a naturalism indicated by Duncan, Nijinsky played the part of a faun:
The Fauns looked like animals and, at the end of their dance, tumbled
head over heels. . .[as Fokine said] “well in conformity with the animal
characteristics of the dance” (Nijinksa: 140).
172
It is possible that the expansion of ballet movement vocabulary to include “natural
animal” gestures appropriate to circus acts pleased Nijinsky. The exotic character of a
part human/part animal faun in Fokine’s first Greek ballet may have suggested to
Nijinsky a way to negotiate between his classical ballet training and the fresh vigor of
ambiguous identities from his childhood performances.
Contradictory accounts14 have been given on how Nijinsky got the idea for and
proceeded to develop his first major choreography, L'Après-Midi d'un Faune. Nijinsky
did not leave much in the way of written discussion about his dances, and he notated only
Faune in a way that permitted reconstruction. Given his fame as a dancer, Nijinsky could
have remained content with dancing in the works others devised for him; however:
Nijinsky was not wholly satisfied with his status as the most brilliant star
of Diaghilev’s company: more and more he wanted to choreograph.
Many of the strange, anti-balletic movements devised for the character of
Petrouchka had been his rather than Fokine’s, and this made him all the
more anxious to create a ballet that was his alone
(Freeman and Thorpe: 15).
Although several conflicting reports about Nijinsky and Faune were consulted15, one
authority must serve as the basis for this study of the ballet. Since Nijinsky’s sister acted
in close professional association with Nijinsky while he was in the process of developing
the movements and choreography before anyone else knew of the project, her version
takes precedence here.
The nature of the dance association between Bronislava and her brother Vaslav is
detailed in notes and diary entries of the time in her autobiography, Early Memoirs
(translated and edited by Nijinska’s daughter Irina Nijinska and Jean Rawlinson). From
the very first, Nijinska’s body gave Nijinsky material upon which to experiment. He
modeled each part of Faune, including his own on Nijinska, and she first learned from
him the non-balletic movements he demanded (Nijinska: 315-6). She shared in her
brother’s vision of a new expressive relationship between the artist and his work, and it
was with the idea of training a new generation of dancers capable of meeting Nijinsky’s
choreographic vision that she later created her ecole de mouvement in 1919 (Baer: 18).
173
What is particularly interesting is that Nijinsky created Faune without direct
reference to, or through mentorship by, any established dance choreographer of his day.
While it was almost invariably the case that a novice choreographer worked under the
direction and advice of a more experienced one16, Nijinsky took off on his own in a way
suggesting that his point of authority in movement was as nearly as possible internal and
self-directed. His own body, like Duncan’s body was for her, was a testing ground on
which movement was examined for its effectiveness in expressing his feelings. In this
perspective, Nijinsky was not the tool of his ballet training; instead, his ballet training
was his point of departure; an interpretive construct re-designed for his own goals.
Outside advice and influences could only obscure that direction for him, and this was
probably a point of his personality that led him progressively further away from social
and family connections as he grew older. Joan Acocella makes note of this aspect of
Faune when she says in her introduction to The Diary of Vaslav Nijinsky that:
. . .the experimentalism of his [Nijinsky’s] ballets, his analysis of
movement—and the fact that he began this analysis in his very first
professional ballet, with no preparatory, imitating-his-elders period. . .
may have been connected to some neurological idiocycrasy
(Acocella: xli).
Nijinsky first told his sister about his plans to create his own ballet when he
returned from his performing tour with the Ballets Russes late in 1911. Art impresario
and Ballets Russes producer Serge Diaghilev had, based on the enthusiastic reception the
group received outside Russia, decided to break with the Imperial Ballet in order to
present new works in the more progressive art milieu of Western Europe. As part of the
new dance, Diaghilev commissioned Stravinsky to write the music for Petrouchka, with
choreography by Fokine (1912) for the Paris Ballets Russes season. Nijinsky was to
dance the lead role of the puppet Petrouchka. But Nijinska states that Nijinsky's mind
was not much on the new ballet because he had conceived of doing his own:
“Bronia, what I am going to tell you now no one must know about. . .For
the new season in Paris I am going to mount a ballet. It is going to be
L'Aprés-Midi d'un Faune, to the music of Debussy. . .” Vaslav then began
to share with me his general ideas and outline for this, his first
choreographic composition (Nijinska: 315).
174
The idea apparently came to him when Ballets Russes designer Leon Bakst (18661924) who had just returned from a visit to Crete and Greece with Serov, “. . .delirious
with rapture” (Levin: 321) took Nijinsky to the Louvre to see examples of Greek figure
ceramics. There is no record of what Bakst said or what Nijinsky thought, but Bakst may
have suggested to Nijinsky at the time that he would like to work on a ballet created on
this archaic17 material, rather than the classical Hellenic inspirations upon which Fokine18
had based his new ballets. Whether or not the idea originated with Bakst, Nijinsky
evidently gave it much thought, and told his sister what he wanted to do:
“I want to move away from the classical Greece that Fokine likes to use.
Instead, I want to use the archaic Greece that is less known and, so far,
little used in the theatre. However, this is only to be the source of my
inspiration. I want to render it in my own way. Any sweetly sentimental
line in the form or in the movement will be excluded. More may even be
borrowed from Assyria than Greece. I have already started to work on it
in my own mind. . .” (Nijinska: 315).
Nijinsky’s interest in the movement potential suggested by the Greek archaic
ceramic figures may have been focused by Bakst’s enthusiasm (Levin), but this should
not cast doubt on his claim to the choreography of Faune. The group of artists Diaghilev
attracted often worked in close collaboration and freely traded concepts with one another
whether they were designers, painters, writers or choreographers. And though Nijinsky
allowed himself to be persuaded by the ideas of others when he chose, he was firm in his
adherence to his vision. Nijinsky records in his diary that:
I thought out the whole ballet by myself. I gave the idea for the scenery,
but Lèon Bakst failed to understand me. . . I loved the ballet and therefore
transmitted my love to the public (Nijinsky: 204).
He urged that Fokine, who was working on his own ballets at the time, should not be told
of these plans19, but that Bronislava should first help him work out the movements in
secret. Nijinska draws upon her notes taken at the time to give some idea of the close
conceptual dance relationship she had with her brother as he worked out the preliminary
movements he wanted for the ballet:
175
We are rehearsing in our living room. . . I have brought the triple mirror
from my dressing table and put it on the floor so that we can really see
ourselves. . . Vaslav is creating his Faune by using me as his model. I am
like a piece of clay that he is molding, shaping into each pose and change
of movement. . .It is amazing how Vaslav himself, from the very
beginning, without any preparation, is in complete mastery of the new
technique of his ballet (Nijinska: 316).
When the new dance vocabulary and the choreography was set to the music and
ready for rehearsals, Nijinsky showed Diaghilev and Bakst what he had done (Nijinska:
328). Based upon their encouragement, rehearsals began in January of 1912. Nijinsky
would not compromise his vision even when dancers in rehearsals for Faune were
frustrated with the radical, non-balletic movements and postures he demanded of them;
he insisted on their obedience to his choreography without variation or interpretation.
Mere elements in a design, they were to keep their faces expressionless.
Their bodies were as if “carved out of stone” as the dancers. . . put it. The
choreography seemed to go against all their classical training, although
. . .the precision of Nijinsky’s choreography required such training
(Dunning: 24).
He was equally unmoved when dancers refused to be in the ballet20. Faune is the
only one of Nijinsky’s four ballets to have been notated, by no means a simple task.
Ninety rehearsals of less than an hour each (not counting the pre-rehearsal preparations
worked out beforehand) were required to complete the ballet (Nijinska: 427). Much of
the problem lay in persuading ballet-trained dancers to submit to an entirely alien
movement vocabulary:
The dancers moved back and forth across the stage like cutouts from a
Greek frieze. Ballerinas who had spent years perfecting their turnout
found it difficult to keep their feet parallel (Jonas: 216).
Nijinska recalls that even when Diaghilev asked Nijinsky (who was usually
compliant to Diaghilev’s wishes) to tone down his approach, her brother refused
(Nijinska: 429). Nijinsky was impatient when liberties were taken either by the dancers
or by the musician during these rehearsals. Indeed, for him the alignment of movement
with music, while non-traditional, was exceptionally close, as if both had been derived
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from the same conceptual expressive presence. Nijinska sums up Nijinsky’s concept of
the dance in this way:
. . .he [Nijinsky] conducted his ballet, seeing each choreographic detail in
the same way that the conductor of an orchestra hears each note in a
musical score. . . Each position. . .was mounted according to a strict
plan (Nijinska: 427).
Throughout the process, his sister supported his efforts and was quickest to
comprehend the complex relationships of the poses, movements, and music Nijinsky
required. For the premiere of the piece Nijinska danced among the chorus of nymphs; in
later performances she assumed the role of the Nymph. But her association with Faune
continued long after Nijinsky himself could no longer dance:
His [Nijinsky’s] Jeux and Le Sacre du Printemps were dropped from the
repertory soon after their premieres. L’Après Midi d’un Faune remained,
but was danced with makeshift sets, in solo form, and even with Nijinska
in the title role. . .(Dunning: 34-5).
In 1970 Nijinska demonstrated Faune for the Kirov Ballet in London21.
The basis of this study of Faune is a video reconstruction of the dance by
Elizabeth Schooling and William Chappell for the 1980 PBS production of Nureyev and
the Joffrey Ballet in Tribute to Nijinsky. A detailed word description of this
reconstruction is given in Appendix A. In the course of this analysis of the dance,
Nijinsky’s ideas about presentational constructs of space, time, sexuality, gender, and
spiritual transformation appear related to his impressions of the archaic Greek images he
saw with Bakst. Modern Western ideas about what archaic objects signify in terms of
tradition and naturalism opened the way for Nijinsky to map his unexplored emotional
landscape through dance.
A careful examination of this pottery style reveals a number of Nijinsky’s avantgarde ideas expressed through Faune. It is as if Nijinsky had seen fit to consult a much
older and therefore “more genuine” aesthetic than the art world of his time. If the archaic
Greeks presented the true and authentic nature of humanity unencumbered by the
superficialities of social constructs, then it would be logical to assume that the artwork22
of these Greeks conveyed the same fundamental truth. As Acocella suggests in her
introduction to Nijinsky’s diary, Nijinsky was consistently self-referential and self-
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interpretive, whether sane or insane. And if he mistrusted the words and actions of others
around him23, perhaps he did not mistrust his personal interpretations of the visual images
of the ancients. With that in mind, a discussion of these archaic depictive styles
illuminates discussion of how Nijinsky made use of them in Faune.
Anthropologists John Bordman and Anna Lemos identified in their respective
discussions on the topic a number of consistent conventions in Archaic Greek imagery
depicted on pottery ranging from 700 to 5000BC that speculatively impacted the way
Nijinsky developed Faune. First, it is important to understand that these pre-Hellenic
depictions were strongly influenced by the Ancient Egyptian style, a feature Nijinsky
may have recognized, if only intuitively24. This highly presentational convention
represented interpretive solutions to the challenge of invoking three-dimensional
bodies—human or animal—moving through time and space upon a flat, two-dimensional
surface.
But with pottery another sense of space comes into play because it is rounded, not
flat; in fact, the shape of a pot is made up of variations and widths of curved surfaces,
providing a series of depictive zones, one above the other in uniform bands around the
outside or inside of the vessel. Figures placed in these depictive zones implied a
movement and motif that was unique to each band, a physical feature that artists who
decorated the archaic pottery Nijinsky saw, had learned to exploit. He could easily see
that a Greek vase is divided vertically by thin bands of decorative geometric designs into
separate bands or zones.
Narratively, these zones do not interact or intersect—in fact, they are often in
contrast to one another in terms of activity, although characters from one band may
appear in more than one zone; it is as if a psychological shift in identity takes place in the
personage represented. While an upper band depicts a quiet, joyful banquet scene, the
one just below it shows a violent and bloody battle, not unlike two Egyptian panels, one
of which shows the Pharaoh in a peaceful domestic scene and the other showing him
hunting or at war. Moreover, the two zones can be “read” by turning the ceramic in
different directions: to follow the flow of line around the upper zone one would turn the
vase clockwise, but to follow the flow of the lower zone, the vase would have to be
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turned counterclockwise. The specific way Nijinsky invoked these zones and the logic of
the flow of movement within them in his ballet will be discussed presently.
In consideration of the figurative depiction in this type of pottery, the most
striking feature is the way in which animals, humans, and plant life are rendered in
abstract, decorative constructs while still retaining their organic identities. This feature of
ancient art, which resurfaced in modern context in Art Nouveau and continued to develop
in Art Dec, (Chapter One) brings into discussion how minimizing the visual codes—that
is, abstraction—is both an ancient and modern device. Regardless of how little or much
the figure has been abstracted, it is still recognizable as referring to a living creature. For
humans in these archaic depictions the torso was rendered in a frontal view, with the
extremities of arms, legs, and head in profile. Legs were often at right angles at the
joints; straight legs described triangles with the body at the apex, etc. Arms and legs
were either flexed at angle or straight; a feature Nijinsky exploited almost obsessively in
Faune. The illusions of curves so carefully developed in ballet technique port du bras do
not exist in this “pre-civilized” world of Nijinsky’s Faun. The ballet was marked in every
way possible as removed and alien from the corruptions of modern, urban life with which
conventional ballet art—for all its exotic themes—had become associated.
Furthermore, symbolic abstractions suggesting a spiritual condition are also
common in these archaic renderings, and reflect upon the constantly self-referential,
mystical resonances of Faune. Animals and humans sometimes merge physical
properties and gendered identities, as in two profiles of male and female pressed close
together to show a single front view face25, or a woman’s head on a lion’s body with
birds’ wings as a sphinx. One of the most consistent conventions of the Archaic Greek
figurative style inherited from the Mesopotamian and Egyptian arts is that the female
position is on the left of the observer’s view, and the male side is on the right. Thus,
when a sphinx and a lion appear in the same zone, the sphinx (female/submissive) is
always shown on the left of the (male/dominant) lion as they conflictingly/
complimentarily face one another26.
This order of direction corresponding to gender exists only when the opposing
figure of a lion appears on the same plane as that of a sphinx; if only sphinxes or only
lions appear together; such figures of the same time in a zone face both directions in
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mirror positions to one another. However, it is interesting to note that European heraldic
representations of the rampant lion place it on the right side of its field with its body
(regardless of where the head—always in profile—is turned) facing left. The effect is at
once figurative and abstract; depictive and decorative. And by incorporating it in his
ballet, Nijinsky drew upon pictorial conventions that seem at once “natural” or “familiar”
and constructed in a “strange”, exotic fashion to make comment upon the complexities of
male/female relationships. In other words, the stage space itself has become culturally
gendered in the way it is used. Just as Gnossienne’s priest defines gendered space with
his Snake Goddess based on Shawn’s previous male roles in dyad dancing (Chapter
Three), Nijinsky managed space in a way that reflected his previous partnering of
ballerinas:
. . .he [Nijinsky] observes an exact personal remoteness, he shows clearly
the fact they [male and female] are separate bodies. He makes a drama of
their nearness in space. And in his own choreography—Faun—the space
between the figures becomes a firm body of air, a lucid statement of
relationship, in the way intervening space does in the modern academy of
Cézanne, Seurat, and Picasso (Denby: 2).
Earliest ceramic samples from Chios show humans and animals in the most
abstract terms; a triangle for the torso and head, for example, occupying thin bands
around the vase. Later styles rendered human and animal figures more realistically, and
of the human figures of the later styles the most animated were those of komasts, or male
revelers, who jumped, ran, and gestured extravagantly:
Komasts [male revelers] are always painted in silhouette. . .Heads, hands,
buttocks, and legs are always in profile. The upper part of the torso is
either frontal or there are rare attempts at a three-quarter view. The
posture is that of the dancing man, evident both from the way the legs are
bent in postures of violent movement and from the manner in which the
hands are stretched out in all kinds of extravagant gestures. . .(Lemos:
164).
These komasts, frequent subjects of depiction on the pottery, displayed both male
and female attributes with flowing, rippling hair dressed in the feminine style, beards, and
male genitals (Lemos). They often wore boots with the toes turned up. The fingers of
their hands were closed together, with an opposing thumb as if they were wearing
mittens. The ends of the fingers on these hands also turned up like the toes, suggesting
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that the energy flowing through these extremities somehow re-circulated back to the
center of the body instead of dissipating outward into space, as in Southeast Asian
dances.
The implied movements and positions of these dancing revelers on ancient pottery
displayed at the Louvre suggested dichotomies of vigorous sexuality and closed, trancelike attitudes of internal self-communion in which sexual passion, sensuality, and
spiritual transport conjoined. The exaggerated posturings of the komasts may have
suggested to Nijinsky a way of reversing the traditional separation of mind, spirit, and
body prevalent since Classical times with a primal “whole, integrated human being”
personified in the expressive dancing body. If this was one aspect of his artistic goal,
then Nijinsky is certainly in conceptual accord with St. Denis and Shawn as a participant
of the avant-garde.
In this context, the correlation between a living human body and the implied,
correlative integrity of a body of pottery has other symbolic meanings. Just as there are
zones of depiction on the ceramic body of pottery, so there are zones of movement in the
human body, a feature Nijinsky emphatically utilized in the ballet. This evocative
relationship between a thing made and the human body is one of long standing; even
today a classic coca-cola bottle suggests the curves of a young woman. In addition, the
correlation between a vessel of containment made of clay and a human body is infused
with sacred implications. Just as a pottery bowl is designed to hold and thereby define
something—a fluid, perhaps—so is the human body presumed to have been designed to
hold or contain the soul, or spirit-essence of a person. And in another perspective, the
open, waiting body of the dancer (exemplified strikingly in the climatic gesture St. Denis
made in Incense by lifting her head and opening wide her arms) personifies the spiritual
seeker ready to receive communion with the Divine. This sacred context is certainly one
that applies to dance in its spiritual expressiveness; the physical infused with the spiritual;
the material containing the ethereal.
While it is speculative how much of the conventions of ancient pottery imagery
he consciously incorporated into his ballet, the effect achieved suggests that Nijinsky was
aware at some level of the possibilities offered and the ways he could use them to create a
truly modern ballet based on archaic conventions. In order to better understand how
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Nijinsky arrived at his startling choreography, it is helpful to examine key movement
motifs in several previous works in which he danced. These motifs clearly indicate
points of reference upon which Nijinsky drew to sustain the startling movements and
characterization developed for Faune from another point of view.
Nijinsky’s public persona before Faune was already closely associated with
exotic, alien creatures. His unusual physical features27 and his ability to subsume his
personality into any role made him an ideal interpreter of such “inhuman” beings as the
assexual Kobold in Les Orientales (Fokine: 1910), the “Spirit of the Rose” in Le Spectre
de la Rose (Fokine: 1911) and the sensuously hedonistic Golden Slave of Schéherézade
(Fokine: 1910). Descriptions of Nijinsky on and off stage recall similar descriptions of
the actress Sara Bernhardt (1845-1923) as a “blank” personality upon whom any role
could be applied and convincingly realized on stage (Lieven, Buckles, et. al.).
Nijinsky’s audiences praised his roles in traditional ballets such as Giselle, but he
was most in his element portraying characters with ambiguous attributes inhabiting
uncertain geographies28. It was in this exotic arena that his expressive dancing touched a
transformative, almost spiritual quality:
The audience does not see him [Nijinsky] as a professional dancer. . .He
disappears completely, and instead there is an imaginary being in his
place. . . Looking at him, one is in an imaginary world, entire and very
clear; and one’s emotions are not directed at their material objects, but at
their imaginary satisfactions. As he said himself, he danced with love
(Denby: 5).
In a logical extension from his danced characters to characters in his choreography,
Nijinsky proceeded to explore that same metamorphic territory with Faune. The capacity
of the dancer to transform into the Faun so completely has been remarked upon by
several commentators. Jean Cocteau (1889-1963) in his autobiographical book, The
Difficulty of Being, stated: “We have seen the Faun. Never has his like been seen
before; never has there been an astonishment so instinctive with divinity” (45). In her
analysis of Faune, “A Simple and Logical Means: Nijinsky, the Spirit of the Times, and
Faun,” Claudia Jeschke suggests a further consequence of what she calls, “Nijinsky’s
formidable capacity to identify . . .sense and express the essential” (117). She states that
his talent in mime for these inhuman characters made it possible for Nijinsky to take a
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small step into abstract artistic expression, or to conceive of a ballet entirely independent
of music:
In his choreography, he [Nijinsky] proceeded on the assumption that
movement in and of itself constituted a sufficient and serviceable agent of
content. . .Reinforcing this talent [in mime] was the extraordinary degree
to which he could internalize, inhabit, and communicate a given theme
. . .(Jeschke: 117).
Probably the first indications of Nijinsky’s break with traditional ballet
vocabulary appeared in Fokine’s ballet based on a Russian folk tale, Petroushka (1912)
with music by Stravinsky. Fokine choreographed Petroushka for Ballets Russes with
Nijinsky in the title role. But according to Nijinska (who was first given the role of the
Street Dancer, then later danced the role of the Ballerina), rehearsals for the ballet were
so rushed that Fokine left some of the specifics of gesture and steps up to the dancers
themselves. Given this freedom, Nijinsky undertook to explore the complex personality
of the puppet Petroushka, a being caught between the physical restrictions of a puppet
with all the emotions of a living human being. Nijinsky came up with several striking
positions and gestures29 that went against the grain of the traditional ballet lexicon in an
effort to explore the intrinsic futility and impossibility of such a being (Freeman and
Thorpe: 15).
It is speculated that what Nijinsky learned about expression and movement
through the character of Petrouska provided him with a foundation with which to begin
on Faune because the two roles, created close together, bear some striking resemblances.
Certainly the turned-in standing positions of both puppet and faun suggest a structural
impossibility of the body, because the thighs are held as if the knees had been tied tightly
together. This strange convention in both cases suggests an avant-garde reversal of the
traditional, fundamental “turned out” leg positions of ballet, commenting on the way in
which ballet technique “mechanizes” or “dehumanizes” the body of the dancer to
conform to its visual construct. By reversing this turned out position, Nijinsky seems to
comment on the artificiality, or unnatural condition of a traditional art as Isadora declared
ballet to be. Or, if dancers can be trained to move with legs turned out, isn’t it possible
for them to move from an opposing position?
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At the same time, the position Nijinsky adopted for puppet and faun expressed a
social and emotional awkwardness of youth. He not only turned in the toes of the feet to
make walking difficult, but the knees seem tied together as if by ropes so that the groin
(sexual region) is also paralyzed. The position suggests an incomplete or unrealized
sexuality for both characters that is no less poignant in its impossibility than in the
fervency of its desire. A puppet especially is presumed to have no desire, being as it is an
inanimate object manipulated with the illusion that it is a living being. In a reversal of
identity, then, the character suggests that in the face of technological advances, the
anxiety of modern people is that they are rendered as controlled by the dictates of the
Machine Age as Petrouska was by the all-powerful magician30 puppet-master. Here is
the human body subject to the same streamlined forces suggested in Art Deco and applied
to all objects of commodity; steam ships, locomotives, cigarette lighters and skyscrapers
(Chapter One).
Faune and Petrouska also feature distinctive “mitten hands” in which the fingers
seem glued together with awkwardly opposing thumbs31. Such hands are equally
impractical for subtleties of human expression or for any physical work. Adding to the
awkwardness of these hands, Petrouska thrusts his arms straight out from the shoulders to
embrace the Ballerina Puppet in much the same way the Faun does toward the Nymph. In
both instances, the gesture is futile in containing the feminine; the Nymph in Faune as
easily escapes both the boy-intense desire implicit in the gesture as does the Ballerina in
Petrouska.
Nijinsky played off the puppet animate/inanimate and man/object nature in a way
that probably informed the Faun’s man/beast, dominating/submissive, and male/female
reversals. Specifically, the arms and legs of the mechanically-animated puppet and the
impossibility of movement implied in them have a comparable resonance in Faune both
physically and emotionally. Both characters are beings of intense feelings that can have
no resolution; the puppet for the elusive, fickle Ballerina puppet and the Faun for the
Nymph. Both reflect the great importance Nijinsky gave to feelings, especially in beings
not part of the predominant power structure. This alignment suggests that the power in
feeling is subversive, or a tool of the artist as underdog so championed in the avantgarde. “Nijinsky’s emphasis on perceiving and knowing through feeling is typically
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Russian, typically Romantic, and archetypally feminine” (Gesmer: 31). Considered in
tandem these roles offer a compelling case of an avant-garde upturn of traditional
presentational structures that inform ideas and anxieties posed by the Machine Age.
As has been previously discussed, Nijinsky’s distortion of movement style in the
ballet conforms strictly to the painted figures—animals, humans, plants, abstract
geometric shapes, and fanciful combinations—on the archaic pottery artifacts which
Nijinsky viewed with Bakst. Nijinsky’s visual understanding of the motifs, patterns of
depiction, use of planes on the circular bands of the pottery zones, and the effects of
curved ceramic profiles appear in Faune as both serious and (in a literal application)
faintly comic motifs.
The note of humor in the piece comes in part from the literal way in which Nijinsky
appreciated the suggestion of exaggerated movement these archaic pottery figures
invoked, an aspect reflected in the way poses in the ballet seem arrested at the peak of
some large, kinetic impetus. By calling attention to this arrest, Nijinsky seems to be
asking, “and so, what does this mean?”, just as he could ask the same question standing
before the images on the pottery at the Louvre.
Additionally, the images depicted on these zones may have suggested to Nijinsky
intriguing choreographic tensions between (animal) passion and stylized, “passionless”
abstraction with faintly comic results. The Faun and nymphs move across the stage and
halt in an inorganic fashion, as if they had been transformed into repeating, abstract
designs. Each part of the dancer’s body is in “isolation”, or capable of moving
independently of every other. This returns again to the sense of being controlled by a
force outside the character, like a puppet or, even closer, a ballet dancer in the hands of
the choreographer.
On a physical level, Nijinsky makes a comment through articulations of the
human body and again asking, “what does it mean, if anything?” Or another way of
looking at it could be that just as there are literal zones of depiction on the ceramic body
of pottery, so there are zones of movement in the human body, either one of which may
be articulated for expressive meaning. This outward, mechanical use of the body and
stage as a support to an inward, organic expressiveness is a feature Nijinsky emphatically
utilized in the ballet. Jennifer Dunning describes this effect in her essay on Faune:
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The story [of Faune] takes place along a narrow strip at the front of the
stage, the dancers’ bodies moving with the look of a two-dimensional
frieze, approximating Egyptian and early Greek reliefs. . . They move in a
nearly automatic manner, taking small, abrupt steps with bodies carefully
erect (Dunning: 22).
This is particularly true of the nymphs, who often pose and move as if melded
into a single kinetic unit. Each nymph repeats the movement or pose of the one in front
or behind her. Often they move in blocked unison, or in two “sliding panels” as if they
had been transformed into screens or curtains gliding smoothly across the front of the
stage. In addition, movements and poses are “traded” between the Faun and the nymphs,
as if suggesting a recurrent geometric pattern across a flat surface, or a disruption of time
sequence. It is in this multiple perspective of a flat physical arrangement that Nijinsky
plays on ambiguities to disrupt the audience’s ideas of how presentational art “should” or
“naturally should” go. It is in fact his close, confined handling of time and space in the
dance that gives the work a kind of timelessness.
At the same time, the primary idea conveyed through this abstraction in Faune
was filled with conflicting, partially-acknowledged passions. The being revealed through
the character of the Faun awakens before the gaze of the audience into a confused,
difficult sensuality and not-quite understood sexual desire. As has been said of the
dance: “. . .the subject [of Faune] was sex—adolescent sex.” (Jonas: 215). In Nijinsky’s
vision, the dance reflects the emotional and physical exaggerations of the frozen images
of the pottery komasts and their obvious depiction of gendered ambiguities32. Nijinsky
himself is reputed to have commented on this kind of paradox in saying, “The subject of
a ballet must either be nothing at all or else something familiar or obvious to
everybody.”33
There are no diagonal or curved crossings of the stage in Faune as there were in
Incense or Gnossienne. Instead, the stage scene is transformed into a series of related yet
separate parallel planes that deny a flow of action between them because they operate
using different rules of space and time. Even as they interact in one zone, dancers face
and move either directly stage right or stage left, making the alteration from one direction
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to the other abruptly. They accomplish this either as a single, or as a series of smaller,
stop-action alterations to arrive at a new position from which the dancer moves, as if they
had been captured on film, the frames of which had been projected onto the stage. This is
not merely strange; it is, as Jaschke points out in her analysis of the dance, a
deconstruction of traditional stage illusions of depth borrowed from painting:
By moving his dancers almost exclusively from one side of the stage to
the other, he [Nijinsky] evolved a choreographic structure that allowed for
not only one but also several centers of spatial and theatrical gravity. As a
result, he avoided the illusionism of centralized perspective, an illusionism
that treats space as if it were real space in which quasi-real events unfold
(103-4).
This locomotive flatness is also repeated in the poses and positions of the dancers’
bodies. In a few instances a change of direction is achieved slowly, by having the center
of the dancer's body rotate within a frame provided by the arms and legs; a more
"normal" relationship would have the center move first with arms and legs corresponding
to that impetus. The dancers’ bodies in movement and stillness are presented to the
audience’s view as unchanging; frozen in time rather than as beings made of organic,
living tissue. This effect is achieved through the general stance of both nymphs and Faun
in which legs and head are in profile (often, though not always in the direction in which
they move or intend to move) while the upper torso faces the viewer.
Limited dimensionality34 in the movements and body placements of the dancers in
the stage space is immediately established through a series of poses by the Faun in the
opening moments of the ballet. When the audience first sees him, he is facing stage left,
lounging on his private hillock with his flute to his lips. Through an efficient series of
abrupt (never hurried) transitions between poses, the Faun gradually turns to face the
right, his entire body directly mirroring his first pose.
Such a preponderance of pose makes Faune into a kind of “anti-dance”, a
presentation in which movements—especially the smooth, gliding locomotive
movements carrying the dancer across the stage without any vertical rise or fall—are
rendered immobile. At the same time non-locomotive and still poses convey the
impression of a movement that has just ceased or is just about to happen. This series of
mechanically-urged images cumulatively suggest a perception of the human condition as
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fragmented, dislocated and alienated through the applications of inhuman forces in
modern life. Due in large part to this quality of Faune, the ballet is considered to be the
first modern ballet of the Twentieth Century and “fifty years ahead of its time” (Dunning,
Rambert: 12).
That the element of “sequential stillness” was central to Faune is certain. A
detailed series of photographs of Nijinsky35 in the role of the Faun by Baron de Meyer
emphasizes the way in which the ballet can almost be reduced frame by frame into an
album format. And instead of calling it a ballet, the program notes at its premier stated it
was, “. . .a choreographic tableau by Nijinsky. . .” (Nijinska: 435). How this actually
works in the dance is difficult to explain. Faune could be examined as if it were
composed entirely of sequential still poses which nevertheless contain in them a kind of
“after image” of having moved. In this sense, the dance recalls the “arrested moment”
central to Delsarte statue posing36 (Chapter Two). But the impression of time in this case
also suggests a series of infinitesimally minute bursts of energy instead of a constant,
uninterrupted flow like water37. This effect brings Faune into direct discussion with the
goals of the Futurists (and their forerunners among the Impressionists) who sought to
visually record the transient effects of energy on the mass of an object instead of
depicting a “real” object (Chapter One).
The idea is eerily reminiscent of the effect of celluloid film, comprised of a series
of still frames which, moving at a standardized rate of twenty-four frames per second,
gives the illusion of continuous movement. The effect produces a paradox to the
audience. On the one hand, there is a great psychological distance between the viewer
and the Faun; his frame of reference is out of normal time and space. But on the other,
the viewer is gradually being made aware of the dream-like qualities of the dance and the
sense of deep internalization going on in the character of the Faun:
Nijinsky. . . .felt, conceived, and understood the central function of man in
Greek art thus: whatever really happens, happens within man himself.
The movements of grouped dancers and the utilization of stage space in
Faun resulted not in an illusion of reality but, rather, in a symbol of it—a
reality rendered abstract. Nijinsky sought an illusion that the performance
would evoke within the viewer himself; he did not endeavor to create it for
him on stage (Jeschke: 104).
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A musical counterpart of this effect might be when a composer leaves out certain
expected passages of music, relying on musical traditions familiar to the audience to fill
in the silence. The listener, having been accustomed to hearing specific musical
conventions all his life, responds to the conditions of those conventions even when only
some of them are present in a musical work and others are absent. The “ear” of the
listener supplies the missing (silent; still) components. The listener thereby becomes an
interpretive participant in the creation of the work instead of remaining a passive
receptacle of the artists’ visionary authority.
Another striking feature of the dance is the way in which Nijinsky makes literal,
almost comical implications out of flattened circular planes. It is as if he treats the area
of the stage as one view of a Greek vase, the other side of which may be seen
sequentially but not simultaneously. In some instances the Faun, who inhabits both his
private upper zone and the lower “public” zone with the nymphs shares this limited view;
a psychological intermediary between the modern audience and the archaic world shared
with the nymphs. Unlike the nymphs and the figures on a ceramic vase, however, the
Faun has the capability of transitioning between the upper and lower zones only by
carefully—almost laboriously—realigning his body to accommodate the shift. This
physical adjustment suggests an equally difficult psychological one.
This curious quality of the dance can be read as a comment on the nature of time
from a modern art perspective. Just as Nijinsky, a modern man, can view the archaic
pottery of Greece, he suggests the audience, through his Faun, has the capacity to view
the past from the perspective of the present. The nymphs, however, remain in the past.
They, unlike the Nijinsky/Faun do not have the ability to reciprocate the gaze, just as
people of past ages do not have the luxury of interpreting the future.
At the same time, the Faun does not have the freedom to come and go as do the
nymphs; he is on stage, or trapped in the visual range of the audience from beginning to
end. It is as if the nymphs, lacking a vertical ability to move between upper and lower
levels, have a compensatory horizontal frame in which to flow, a movement quality
suggested in the act of the Nymph of swimming and in their gliding locomotions across
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the stage. So flat are these that the nymphs act almost as if they were mechanized stage
set screens sliding effortlessly back and forth, into and out of view like clouds across the
sky.
This odd management of space adds dimensions of mirror imaging between male
and female attributes with both serious and comic implications. Nijinsky emphasizes
gender images through poses, which by their stillness sequentially impress themselves
upon the memory to comment on the temporal "band" or zone of dance itself. One such
moment occurs when the Nymph and the Faun have both risen to a broad fourth ballet
position38 demipointe. At the same time, they are turned away from one another facing
opposite sides of the stage at positions of stage left (Nymph) and stage right (Faun)39.
It is as if they can see each other only from around the curve of the horizontal
band; the Faun, with straight arms thrust out seems to reach for something he desires.
Initially it might be supposed he is reaching for the nymphs who have just taken their exit
in that direction. But this impression is countered by the Nymph, who emphatically
reestablishes a previous position of startlement occasioned only by the Faun having come
too close. If she is reacting to viewing the Faun from around the curve of horizontal
space, then by implication he could also be reaching for her across the same space.
They are visually connected by the fact that both have straight legs, instead of bent, high
on demipointe. And movements of the Nymph immediately following this striking
(Nijinsky makes sure it is emphasized visually) pose are to crouch as if to slink away and
to reclaim her veil as if she thinks she has been seen. Protectively, she covers her front
with the veil. One arm is laid across her breasts; the other across her hips. She is
evidently unimpressed by his leap and boyish prancing in front of her, and neither
creature seems quite to know what to make of the other.
There follow some physical negotiations between Nymph and Faun to fit together
in dominant and submissive roles. This is indicated not only by kneeling and standing,
but also by changing sides to the view of the audience, according to the previouslymentioned conventions of space relative to gender in the iconography of the pottery.
What is finally puzzling is that the Nymph at last eludes the Faun’s attentions by sliding
out of his straight-armed embrace and gliding off stage right (at no time do any of the
nymphs enter or exit stage left). And yet the Faun remains facing left, as if expecting her
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to come round the circle of the stage/pottery zone and into his embrace once again. This
is a slightly comic effect, but one consistent within the literal context of a ceramic vase
which, as it is turned around, shows its band of “narrative” (i. e. hunting, banqueting,
etc.) ending and beginning at any given point on the band (Lemos).
It seems to take the Faun a while to realize that the Nymph will not reappear, and
he settles for what remains in his field of vision—the veil she has dropped on the ground
before him. The feminine has in this fashion eluded literal idealization and slipped into a
metaphoric existence, represented to the male gaze only by her veil. The use the Faun
makes of this veil and its symbolic significances are discussed in greater detail later in
this chapter.
Costumes and makeup for Nijinsky’s ballet was designed by Bakst; in this study,
only the Faun’s appearance is discussed. A valued and influential member of Diaghilev’s
inner circle of collaborative artists, Bakst designed décor and costumes Ballet Russes
productions, particularly those with exotic themes such as, Les Orientales (Fokine: 1910)
and Schéherézade (Fokine: 1910). As Charles Mayer states in his article, “The Influence
of Leon Bakst on Choreography”, Bakst had, along with Fokine and Nijinsky, been
inspired by Duncan’s new freedom of movement, and he created costumes with the idea
of enhancing the ability of the dancer to move expressively and “naturally”. As
previously noted, Bakst took Nijinsky to the exhibit of Greek artifacts on display at the
Louvre, and he was, as Mayer states; “. . .already considered an expert on the ancient
world.” He was also dedicated to, and a strong force in the development of, “the
symbiosis of music, dance and art. . .in Hellenic forms and sensibilities” according to
Diaghilev’s vision (Mayer: 127). For Faune, Bakst saw fit to particularly accentuate the
animal/man duality of the character and its association with nature. But the expressive
intimacy of the ballet and its “stripped down” minimalism of movement also offered the
designer an excellent opportunity to integrate all aspects of a performance into an
experiential whole:
. . .Bakst indicated an interest in developing the costume as a functional
item in dance. . .capable of extending the range of the body's movement in
space. . .rather than regarding the costume as a kind of disguise, in which
the body was concealed and to which accessories were added as
ornamentation, he used the total costume as a means of adding to the
structure of the movement ( Potter: 155).
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The Faun’s costume and makeup for Rudolf Nureyev (1938-1993) in this video
reconstruction appear very like Nijinsky’s in the De Meyer photographs. He is suited in a
thin unitard mottled in large dark brown spots that fits like a second skin and shows the
human musculature and movements very well. In this feature the Faun costume
resembles the one worn by Nijinsky as the Spirit of the Rose in Fokine’s highly
successful ballet, Le Spectre de la Rose. As for the previous role, Nijinsky’s “second
skin” costume in Faune is festooned with leaves, suggesting the creature’s connection
with nature. But the motley of spots for the Faun costume adds to this inhuman presence
a kind of indeterminate ancestry; a being that is neither one thing nor another and yet
some of both, not unlike the diamond motley of a harlequin clown. In an essay for the
Apollon magazine in 1909, Ballet Russes designer Lèon Bakst explained his thinking in
devising this kind of costume consistent with his later creation for Faune:
The chimeras of the Greeks. . .were fashioned from the strangest
combinations of different species of animals. Yet, some kind of logical
sequence in the anatomical structure of the Greek chimera. . .reconciles
the spectator to the phenomenon of a roebuck and a lion sharing one body.
Even more striking in Greek sculpture are the centaurs and satyrs, where
the astonished eye delights in the artistic combination of a man and a
horse, of a man and a goat (Potter: 181).
This costume is fitted with a short tail at the small of the back. A wig, the curls of
which are sculpted close to the skull to suggest a pair of horns, tops the Faun’s head.
Around his neck and waist are thin gold vines with leaves. He wears flexible sandals that
look like boots on his feet when he turns up his toes. In this reconstruction the Faun
appears to be wearing flesh-toned makeup, but descriptions of Nijinsky’s makeup
indicate that Bakst had the Faun wearing a kind of off-yellow color (Buckles).
“Nijinsky wore a cream-colored body stocking painted with dark brown spots
. . .He lengthened and pointed his ears with molded wax,” (Dunning: 26). Writing of the
time, Diaghilev’s associate Jean Cocteau recalled that Nijinsky experimented with the
details of his costume in a nearly obsessive fashion; “. . . one of a thousand instances of
his perpetual rehearsing that made him sullen and moody” in the days before the premiere
of the ballet; . . . he [Nijinsky] astonished us. . . by moving his head as if he had a stiff
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neck. . . We learned later that he had been training himself to stand the weight of the
horns [for Faune]40.
The music Nijinsky chose41 for his ballet was the tone-poem, Prélude à l'AprèsMidi d'un Faune (1894) composed by the French composer, Claude Debussy (18621918). The ten-minute prelude42 is generally considered to be the first Impressionist
orchestral masterpiece of Western music, making a final break with the conventions of
German Romanticism dominated by Wagner. While Impressionism was certainly
influenced by Wagner’s “shimmering, constantly alternating chords” (Matthews: 535)
and a desire to create fully-integrated works of art, Debussy sought the employment of
sound for its own sake.
The Impressionist composer reached—as did his early modernist counterparts43 in
painting—for a musical construction that invoked a narrative rather than stating it in a
direct and unmistakable fashion. This approach did not precisely tell the audience in a
literal fashion what the piece was about, but instead allowed limited latitude of
interpretation. The opening for this kind of interpretation, as was true of early modernist
works regardless of medium, engaged a removal from dependence upon academic form
through the application of an exotic, non-western aesthetic. Debussy:
. . .created constantly shifting colors and moods through such musical
methods as gliding chords and chromatic scales derived from non-Western
sources. . .[Faune] . . .is a sensuous confection of blurred sounds and
elusive rhythms. . . (Matthews: 536).
Debussy had taken the idea for the composition from a similarly-titled poem
written in 1876 by the symbolist poet, Mallarmé (1842-1898), which describes the
ineffable and transient qualities of beauty44. However much this quality of feeling may
have stirred Debussy, he did not allow a miasmic, undirected flow of sound, or even
sentimental interpretations to influence the underlying structure of his composition.
Instead, he invoked the sensory experience of musical reverie and placed it like a skin
over a very well-constructed, complex tonal and rhythmic skeleton. That way the
internal structure, though hidden, is felt as a solid support to the more obvious realm of
flight, dream, or thought evident in the poem.
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Debussy valued and incorporated a logical musical structure in all his music, and
his Prelude is no exception. By subsuming logic in order to support intuition (when
usually it is thought that intuition should support a logical conclusion in order to be
validated) Debussy supplied the piece with a tension that is both disturbing and
reassuring. But it is also completely consistent with Impressionist works of the time.
Debussy grappled with his transition away from the Wagnarian formula45 approach to
music in terms comparable to Nijinsky’s move away from Fokine’s interpretation of “the
new dance” when he writes that:
Music has a rhythm whose secret force shapes the development. The
rhythm of the soul, however, is quite different—more instinctive, more
general, and controlled by many events. From the incompatibility of these
two rhythms a perpetual conflict arises, for the two do not move at the
same speed. . .Wagner has the honor of being responsible for some of
these. But they are for the most part due to chance, and more often than
not awkward and deceptive. . .the application of symphonic form to
dramatic action succeeds in killing dramatic music rather than saving it
. . .(Grayson: 227-8).
It is speculated that Nijinsky both sensed and analyzed this change of balance
between emotion and music in the Prelude. Buckles states that although Nijinsky never
read Mallarmé’s poem46, his interpretation of Debussy’s score reflecting the poem was
apt. The choreographer found cues for each dynamic of the ballet in the music through a
nearly instinctive interpretation rather than a literal adherence to the sound dynamics
(Buckles: 239). At the same time, Nijinsky was also capable of analyzing the internal
structure of Debussy’s score. It would be a mistake to assume that because Nijinsky was
a dancer, he did not understand music47 or art. Nijinska notes that her brother was
particularly attracted by the paintings of Impressionist Paul Gauguin (1848-1903), and
that he had several prints hanging in his rooms (Nijinska: 442). Certainly the correlation
between Gauguin’s primitives expressing a longing for a simpler, uncorrupted existence
free of confining social strictures and Nijinsky’s ballet is evident:
. . .Nijinsky was determined to distance himself not only from all the
conventions of that traditional ballet whose crowning glory he was, but
also from Fokine’s neoclassicism. His choreography for Faun is a
modulated Cubism or “primitivism” in the manner of Gauguin whom he
greatly admired (Nectoux: 12).
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Both Nijinska and Buckles also state that Nijinsky had had an excellent training in
music and could play the piano quite well, although he evidently did so more by ear than
by reading a score. Buckles further speculates that Diahgilev probably suggested the
score of Debussy’s music to Nijinsky, but that:
Nijinsky’s movement was so little related to the tone-poem, chosen
perhaps after the style of choreography had been invented, that the score
was reduced to background music. A new step had been taken in the
history of the relationship between music and dancing. Suddenly it was
possible to imagine a dance in opposition to music—or without it
(164).
And Nijinska emphasizes in her account of the early stages of choreographic
development that both she and her brother were quite well acquainted with Debussy’s
music. Lacking a pianist for their secret rehearsals, they worked at first in short sections:
. . .to become completely familiar with the music during our rehearsals I
would play two or three bars to Vaslav, and he would then dance or
demonstrate the movements. I would then repeat those steps as best I
could without the music (315).
The process of setting music and movement side by side with long intervals
between connections of the two produced a work densely integrated to itself through
Nijinsky’s evolving understanding of movement beyond the ballet lexicon. Small
wonder that the Ballets Russes dancers later rehearsing in Faune found Nijinsky
demanding and difficult to work with. He not only required them to follow his
instructions precisely for unfamiliar positions and movements, but also demanded a
particular relationship between the music and dance that was equally unfamiliar.
Dunning recounts in her essay about the ballet that one of the dancers, Lydia Sokolova,48
records that Nijinsky told her that she must:
“. . .try to walk between the bars of the music and sense the rhythm which
is implied.” The static movements. . .were unlike anything the Russian
dancers had learned before and were chained in notably long phrases
(Dunning: 24).
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This demanding relationship not only jolted the dancers out of the traditional
presentational form of ballet (Jeschke) but also placed them as an element no less and no
more important than the choreography or the music, all of which were equally subject to
Nijinsky’s vision.
In Nijinsky’s scheme, the dance and the music coincidentally inhabit the same
time/space frame. This established a relationship between them that was as remote as
that between the Faun and the nymphs (male to female), or between the two zones of
stage movement (the upper, internal domain of the Faun and the lower experiential one
he shares with the nymphs). These elements exist side by side to join only briefly
between long intervals, suggesting an almost chthonic bonding only occasionally evident.
In other words, Faun is as much about what is suggestively “absent” in the ballet as what
is physically present. The result is a series of tensions, all of which are related to each
other in ways not always evident, but nevertheless felt. If dance is language, then
Nijinsky’s ballet comments on the ways words do, and do not, convey meaning.
To achieve this effect, Nijinsky’s choreography was strict, precise, and
unbending. To the dancers, this internalized order of form, which Nijinsky could
demonstrate to perfection yet rarely put into words, was initially incomprehensible.
According to Nijinska, her brother was equally impatient with the rehearsal pianist as
with the dancers when liberties were taken with the tempo:
Debussy’s dreamlike music was no help in keeping time, as one dancer
recalled: “[We] walked and moved quite gently to a rhythm that crossed
over the beats given by the conductor. At every entrance—and there were
several—one began to count, taking the count from another dancer who
was coming off. For every lift of the hand or head there was a
corresponding sound in the score.” (Jonas49: 216).
The statements here seem contradictory: the movements and the music are first
described as vague, “dream-like” and “moving quite gently to a rhythm that crossed over
the beats. . .” and in the next sentence, precisely aligned to one another. If Nijinsky had
been working on one level only to match music to dance, or dance to music, then this
result would not make sense. However, if, as has been previously proposed, Nijinsky
desired to bind movement and music closely together according to an internal, hidden
sense of order to support a co-existence of music and dance, each in its own separately
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mystical, lyrical, and emotional realms, he then has the option of choosing when and
where those “joints” may be allowed to show.
Although neither Nijinsky nor Debussy conceived of rhythm as a regular
pulsation or a predetermined form, each had his own idea about rhythm,
Debussy envisioned his prelude as a succession of arabesques, an
undramatic unfolding of variations on a motif. This can also be said of
Nijinsky’s dramaturgy for Faun, which did not move towards any
particular climactic moment (Jaschke: 113).
That Nijinsky was concerned with ideas of internalized order became more
evident after Faune. Designs for choreographic notation became something of an
obsession over time (Guest). His choreographic handling of the score from Stravinsky
for his later ballet, Le Sacre du Printemps (1913) was so complicated that it is reported
Nijinsky had to shout the counts to the dancers over the din of the audience’s jeers at its
premiere, and afterward none of the dancers could agree on its details, making any
accurate reconstruction of the ballet nearly impossible.
Debussy expressed some reservations about how Nijinsky had used his music;
some of his comments about the ballet are oblique and obscure:
. . .Debussy was approached for permission to use his score. The
composer was less than enthusiastic [evidently petulantly asking, “why?”]
about allowing his first symphonic masterpiece to be linked with some
kind of show50. And, according to Stravinsky, he finally consented—
grudgingly—only under the most extreme pressure from Diaghilev
(Nectroux: 20).
Perhaps Debussy was at first unhappy with how the ballet had developed; still, the
composer could not have been completely disgusted. Later, Debussy seemed pleased
with the success of Faune and went on to write the music for Nijinsky's second ballet,
Jeux (1913). The poet Mallarmé (who had admired Löie Fuller) had died before Faune
premiered.
The backdrop and stage setting were designed by Bakst, but the backdrop for
Faune was less well-received than his costumes and makeup, especially by Nijinsky.
Bakst filled this backdrop with vibrant, primal colors suggesting a primitive innocence;
colors that express the sincerity and honesty of expression and the artwork of children
emphasizing bright colors. He justified this approach by drawing a correlation between
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the modern paintings of such artists as Gauguin and the ancient Cretan/Greek civilization
of which he was entranced:
. . .the freshness, the youthful genius that unfolds when a people are in
their infancy, the bright and joyful feeling that radiates from their early
achievements arose naturally and effortlessly out of their culture’s tastes,
and did not violate them (Potter: 188)51.
If Bakst’s design was intended to suggest a forest scene, then it is a chaotically flat one,
for it offers no sense of depth or mitigation of shading. Nijinsky evidently would have
preferred a plain and simple backdrop (Nectroux: 24). For the 1922 Paris revival by
Nijinska, Picasso designed a curtain in shades of gray (Jeschke and Nectroux: 135).
However, if Bakst’s curtain is a work of art in its own right, it was not required to
serve anything but itself in the layered scheme of the stage experience. A reconstruction
of this original backdrop was made for the video version examined in this study.
However, that having been said, it is also true that:
Bakst’s backdrop, albeit magnificent, was neither functionally neutral nor
austerely conceived. If its palette recalled Gauguin, its composition was
much too elaborate to blend with a stage presentation whose keynote was
to be unity and rigor . . .[however] Diaghilev’s point, that the aesthetic of
Nijinsky’s work was akin to Cubism, serves to gauge the extent of these
stylistic cross-purposes (Nectoux: 27).
The ballet takes place on two physical levels—one above the other—
corresponding to the Faun's state of mind. As has been previously discussed, the upper
level, designed as a grassy hillock, is private and internally-reflective to the Faun52 alone,
while the lower one at stage level is shared with the nymphs as a public, experiential
condition. Both areas are navigated entirely from side to side; hardly an eight-foot space
existed between the hillock and the edge of the stage.
This limitation imposed by the set emphasizes the negotiations of pose and
movement commencing from the first moments of the piece. The opening vision is of the
Faun alone in a reclining pose at the upper level. From this location the Faun descends to
interact with the nymphs, and it is to this place he returns to the self-communion
concluding the ballet. The lower stage level acts as a kind of public domain, which the
Faun shares with the nymphs. It is in this zone he encounters the stirrings of his own
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sexuality and separateness from the female creatures, and it is only here that issues of
gender (i. e. self in relation to other, or the feminine) arise.
Nijinsky’s response to the decorative zones on the Greek pottery that inspired the
ballet appears to have been reflected in his arrangement of the stage picture. As has been
previously discussed, Archaic Greek pottery narrative bands on a vase might show the
same hero (such as Achilles) but at different times and in different situations, such as a
banqueting scene above a hunt. The two bands only obliquely refer to each other, and in
some cases, are to be “read” around the vessel in opposite directions: the banquet scene
going clockwise, while the hunting scene below it moving in a counterclockwise
direction (Lemos).
The Faun’s return to his hillock with the veil at the end of the dance emphasizes
this interpretation of how Nijinsky used the set as a circular narrative. In this sense, the
physical presence of the ballet offers a spatial correlation to the Faun’s attempt to
reconcile in his own mind/body the disparate male/female stirrings stimulated by the
nymphs. If the fact that an upper zone and a lower zone have physical/narrative
connotations as do the zones of depictions on pottery, then the upper zone interpretively
designates the Faun’s internal (conceptual/mental) self and the lower one his physical
(sexual) self aroused by the nymphs.
There is a continuation of multiple meanings and mirrored opposites in the use of
the props, all of which are handled by the Faun and put to his mouth, very much as an
infant explores objects. In the beginning of the ballet, the Faun plays his flute in a
lounging position on his hillock facing stage left; later he repeats the identical position
playing the flute facing stage right. He “eats” first a bunch of white grapes, then a bunch
of red ones. The gesture the Faun used to mime eating is to first put the grapes against
his open mouth, then slide them down his throat and chest. This gesture of consumption
is also repeated with each fistful of the two ends of the Nymph’s veil, which serves as a
proxy for the absent Nymph.
Certainly the veil is heavily invested with several contradictory implications, and
no prop in the history of stage presentation has created more controversy53. When it is
used by the Nymph, the veil is first a garment that both hides and reveals her body in
very much the same evocative way St. Denis’ veils do in Incense. As the Nymph
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prepares for a swim, two of her companions hold the veil in front of her, as if it could
function as a modest screen despite its actual transparency. As has been previously
suggested, the Nymph’s veil additionally evokes the properties of flowing water, which,
like the structure of the ballet itself, primarily flows in only one direction. Taken in this
context, the veil becomes an icon of a larger comment being made on the nature of dance
itself, which once performed is retained only in memory. With the veil standing for
flowing water, it adds images of nature and time well in keeping with Mallarmé’s
Symbolist poem. And by extension, the cloth also ties Nijinsky’s piece to previous
manipulations of lengths of fabric and the play of light upon them by which Löie Fuller
summoned images of such forces of nature as fire.
As soon as the veil passes into the hands of the Faun, however, it becomes quite
different as a fetishistic proxy for the absent Nymph. In one moment the Faun playfully
tosses it up in the air, obviously enjoying its physical properties as a veil. Later, with it
bunched close to his body, the Faun jabs at and through its loop in an explicitly sexual
manner. The next moment he holds it out away from his body draped over both arms in
great reverence. Then in six very abrupt and highly-memorable stop-action movements
the Faun draws the veil to his face, again invoking the time pulses of filmed movement
juxtaposed against the conception of a continuous, uninterrupted and smooth flow of
water.
When the Faun ends this sequence by burying his face in it, he does so in a
gesture that could mean he is being smothered by it or that he possesses it utterly. Given
this interpretation of the veil, it is a strange image when the Faun slowly ascends to his
solitary hillock bearing the veil draped over his arms; it is as if he is not only carrying his
impression of the Nymph, but water/time itself. Certainly Nijinsky wanted the audience
to remember this particular sequence, because it takes such a length of time, and
throughout the Faun makes only those movement adjustments necessary to achieve the
task of climbing the hidden stairs; otherwise, his body seems to glide unchanging through
space.
But even more than signifying the Nymph, the way in which the veil is handled
further suggests an absorption, or internalization of its associative feminine qualities. It
is almost as if the sexually-immature Faun seeks to subsume the new, fascinating female
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characteristics he has just encountered by “swallowing” the veil. And the gesture of
eating it is a wry comment on the sexual differences between male and female—a kind of
“eat first before you are eaten” animalistic gesture. Another gesture with layered
implications of absorption and eating is the grimace of the Faun. While this grimace,
repeated several times in the ballet, may be read as a smile of sensual pleasure, the way in
which the Faun tucks his chin against his neck also invokes the pottery depictions of lions
in silent roars, their tongues sometimes out. Here sexuality and the predatory nature of
such beasts are brought together, for if the prey is consumed physically, still it is the
predator who is obsessed with obtaining and consuming the prey. It is as if to say that it
is the flight of the Nymph that stimulates the Faun’s pursuit of her as much as it is his
pursuit that impels her flight.
Probably the most discussed aspect of Nijinsky’s Faune centers around how the
Faun lies on the veil, which shocked audiences and created a succès de scandale. But
beyond this public response, this prop was invested by Nijinsky with his expression of
spiritual transformation and feeling. The longest sequence in the ballet is near its end,
when the Faun slowly, painfully carries the veil draped over his forearms in a
symmetrical U up from the lower to his upper stage level. It seems that Nijinsky wished
to call attention to an extraordinary time proportion; that a transforming experience quick
in physical time is slow, repetitive and meaningful only in its reflective time. And the
veil is the only object—just as the Faun is the only character—movable between the two
stage levels. While the final movements of the Faun on the veil suggest both desire for
the female and the self-gratification of masturbation, it additionally allows (given the
Faun’s previous actions with it) an interpretation of incorporating both genders in one
body, just as the nature of a faun is both man and beast.
The success of Faun encouraged Nijinsky to continue experimentations with
radical movement vocabulary that referred to, or invoked classical ballet without being
slavishly bound to its rules. These ballets, which represented attempts to bring ballet into
alignment with his ideas about feeling and spirituality include Jeux (Debussy: 1913)
credited with being the first ballet on a contemporary sports theme and in modern dress
and Le Sacre du Printemps (also1913, with music by Stravinsky). This latter ballet
invoked primitive Russian rituals of sacrifice to compel the return of spring after winter.
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The fourth and last ballet by Nijinsky, Til Eulenspiegel (Strauss: 1916) premiered during
the American tour, and was an impression of a merry Medieval prankster who thumbs his
nose at society. It did not meet with much success, perhaps because by this time Nijinsky
was showing clear signs of the insanity that eventually overwhelmed him.
Unfortunately, Nijinsky’s performing and choreographic progress was halted by
his irrevocable slip into insanity. He became obsessed with abstract design and an
increasingly interior detailing of movement. His drawings54 and diagrams for dance
ideas became increasingly abstract and undecipherable. Nijinsky didn’t write very much
about his ballets or his ideas about them; and he was noted as being at least socially inept
or “eccentric” (if not outright stupid) because he would hardly talk to anyone at all—
especially to anyone he felt did not understand him (Levine, et. al.). Even in his diary,
begun hours before his last public dance performance and ending just before he was
institutionalized, Nijinsky hardly mentions his ballets at all.
According to Joan Acocella in her introduction to The Diary of Vaslav Nijinsky,
Faune is the only one of Nijinsky’s ballets55 that could be reconstructed from Nijinsky’s
notations of the dance. Although he continued his exploration of dance notation, the
encroachment of his mental condition turned Nijinsky to an obsessive and repetitive
examination of increasing detail that connected less and less with the work as a whole.
Lacking a company of dancers and unable to communicate his ideas in any other way,
Nijinsky turned away from contact with other people and lost himself expressively in
writing and drawings (Acocella).
However, the character of the Faun was one with which Nijinsky closely
identified himself: as he stated in his diary, “I am the Faun.” It is significant that the
complexities of this half-man, half-beast should so completely encompass Nijinsky’s
vision of himself as a gateway to humanity’s salvation from the corruptions of modern
life. The writings in his diary stand as a kind of last, desperate plea for the validity of that
vision. In a recent interview with Daniel Gesmer, Hamburg Ballet choreographer and
Nijinsky admirer John Neumeier suggests:
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The journal documents an erratic and ultimately tragic dance involving
several states of mind or consciousness, including. . .a sincere experience
of spiritual enlightenment. . . particular emphasis on “feeling,” a quasimystical form of intuitive, empathic perception that for Nijinsky was
humanity’s best hope [for] love, unity, happiness, environmental
conservation, socialist economics and a wise use of technology (Los
Angeles Times Calendar, Sunday, February 8, 2004: E-46).
Probably Nijinsky’s most profound influence on another dancer/choreographer
was, as discussed throughout this chapter, on his sister. During her discussion of her
early life and career, Nijinska illuminates every episode with admiration, respect, and
love for her more-famous brother. As his sister and professional cohort, Nijinska placed
her dancing body into Nijinsky’s hands so that he could develop his choreography for
Faune free of any influence other than his own compelling expressive goals. And more
than any other dancer of the time, Nijinska appears to have understood what Nijinsky
needed in order to choreograph. Although she might have been disappointed to have
been passed over for the role of the Nymph in Faune, she seems to have kept this to
herself. In Nijinsky’s second ballet, Sacre du Printemps (1913) she provided him with
her willingness to comply to the complexities of the role of the Chosen Maiden. She says
of their rehearsals in Sacre together that:
. . .I felt that my body must draw into itself, must absorb the fury of the
hurricane. . .This work with my brother proceeded fast and easily.
Perhaps it was because I saw, understood, and executed accurately, each
movement, correctly rendering the inner rhythm (Nijinska: 450).
Nijinska’s later choreography—a logical extension of her own danced interpretations in
Nijinsky’s and Fokine’s ballets—strongly reflects the influence of her brother’s work
amid the cultural and artistic changes of the time. Like others in the Russian artistic
circles at the Imperial theatres, Nijinska recognized the significance of Duncan’s
expressive freedom and what it could mean to a revision of the revered tenets of ballet
tradition. The initial courage to go forward in this direction for Nijinska, however,
appears to have been filtered through her brother’s interpretation, rather than her own:
I too find that after my work with Vaslav on his L’Aprés-Midi d’un Faune,
my own technique in Narcisse has been influenced. I see how much I
have assimilated Vaslav’s Ancient Greek style. . .(Nijinska: 353).
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Following Faune’s success, Nijinska did all she could to support Nijinsky’s new
ballet and carry it forward. Anticipating a partnership with him, Nijinska established her
ecole de movement in 1919 specifically to train dancers’ bodies so that they would be
ready to rehearse and perform in Nijinsky’s new style:
With typical modesty, Nijinska conceived of her school as a training
ground for her brother’s future company. Recalling the fierce resistance
of her former colleagues to Nijinsky’s innovative choreography, she set
out to devise a system of training that would transcend existing theory and
technique, and create “a new type of ballet artist” (Baer: 18).
Like Denishawn, Nijinska’s ecole did not confine admission to aspiring dancers; it was
also open to other performers of opera, film, and stage. Its curriculum included classical
and character dancing, pantomime, and acrobatics. Perhaps modeling the artistic success
of Diaghilev’s collection of collaborative artists in many fields, Nijinska also surrounded
herself with other artists who both taught in her school and created new works with her,
including the painter Alexandra Alexandrovna Exter (1882-1949), who (like Benois and
Bakst for Ballets Russes) designed costumes56 for Nijinska’s Theatre Choréographique.
And like Shawn, Nijinska combined her goals of education, performing, and
choreography, for: “. . .the classroom was the laboratory where Nijinska worked out her
ideas for ballets” (Baer: 20).
Ironically, Nijinsky’s slip into insanity may have freed her choreography as she
tried to step into the void he left. In 1918 Nijinska began writing her theory of
choreography, and she kept detailed notebooks recording her experimentations with
movement and meaning. Among her most notable contributions are Les Noces (1923),
Les Biches (1924) and Hamlet (1934) in which, like Sarah Bernhardt, Bronislava took the
lead role en travestie. Her forays into abstract and psychologically-driven ballet
narratives inspired a new generation of dance artists, among them Anthony Tutor (19081987), Fredrick Ashton (1904-1988), and Anton Dolin (1904-1983)
Of the three dances in this investigation, Faune is the one most clearly identified
with the five points of the avant-garde defined in this investigation. Perhaps the most
obvious point is the way in which Faune distorts conventions of presentational time and
space traditionally accepted within the aesthetic constructs of ballet. Locomotion is
flattened to exist on sliding, parallel planes corresponding to psychological states; one
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above and one below. It has been speculated in this discussion that Nijinsky got the idea
from zones of archaic Greek pottery decoration viewed with Bakst, and was able to invest
space with gendered directions based on what he absorbed. And his distortion of time
from linear to cyclical; from an external dictation to an internal unfolding of selfrealization mark Faune as revolutionary in the truest avant-garde sense.
Exoticism served Nijinsky’s development of Faune as a point of departure from
which he could make the extraordinary “leap” from traditional ballet classicism to a
fundamental archaic authority simultaneously old and new. Like other avant-garde
artworks, the exoticism of Faune provides the piece with a primitivistic quality. In the
way it abstracts the visual components of the piece, the raw, innocent brutality of the
character lends it validity as both spiritual (i. e., driven from within, or “Gnostic”) and
natural (i. e., in opposition to the “artificial” positions and movements associated with the
ballet). Particularly, Nijinsky the dancer was (like Shawn) in himself an “exotic”
experience as an expressive male dancer and a person neither quite Polish, nor Russian,
nor European; a being of ambiguous gender, part-animal and part-human. From this
“expatriate” external condition, Nijinsky found it possible to find his own, internal
landscape that resonated with common experience of the human condition.
Although his choreographic and dancing career was cut frustratingly short,
Nijinsky placed himself in dialogue with both the traditions of classical ballet and the
urgings of new expressive presentational structures indicated in Early Modernism.
Conceptual reversals—not just in the attitudes of the dancer’s body, but in the greater
ballet lexicon of movement and its meaning in culture—occur in Faune as a metaphor for
the avant-garde artist caught between traditions of fading relevance and new revisions
yet to be tested for validity in the Machine Age. Between his roles of Petrouska and the
Faun, Nijinsky explored the consequences of technology on the human body in a way
that most poignantly “bleeds through” with human vulnerability, error, and futility.
Discussions of Nijinsky’s art often ask the question of what he might have
accomplished had mental illness not overcome him so early in his life. His response of
revulsion to the horrors of World War I and the technological advances making the
business of killing ever more efficient added to his expatriate status, and his traumatic
break with Diaghilev and the Ballets Russes no doubt complicated a previously-existing
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unstable mental condition57. Even as mental illness closed in on him, Nijinsky strove to
express his ideas on art, life, God and the offering of the dancer’s being to embody and
bring them into concert. Using his character of the Faun in analogy, Nijinsky
“swallowed” contradictions of emotion and thought in order to synthesize in his own
being a gestalt of personal and artistic expression.
After his education in the Imperial Schools, Nijinsky performed only from 1907
to 191958 in roles ranging from the classical fairytale prince to the sexually-aroused Faun.
And yet, for all the brevity of his dancing years he won high acclaim and continues to
haunt the imaginations of artists even today. Like St. Denis (Chapter Two), Nijinsky was
at the same time on public display and unavailable to possession by the onlooker; locked
into his own deep inner self-communion. But he suggested to his audiences a situation of
humanity in the here and now; caught between memories of an idyllic past and fears of an
uncertain future. Faced with such an impossible condition, humanity in Nijinsky’s vision
must fight a losing, subversive battle with the self to realize the spiritual in the physical;
the innocence in degradation; the natural in artificial construct; the familiar in the
exotic—in short, the expressive capabilities of the dancing body. Prince Peter Lieven
simply states that:
I pity from the depths of my heart all those who did not see him
[Nijinsky]. No words can describe the lasting impression that he produced
. . .he was so unlike anyone else, his manner was so clearly individual and
personal. . .looking at his dance you found it so simple that you felt that
you yourself could have done it (318-9).
As a famed dancer turned to choreography, Nijinsky had a rich source of material
on which to draw. As a member of Diaghilev’s collaborative intellectual and artistic inner
circle and on tour throughout Europe with the Ballets Russes, Nijinsky had access to the
latest conceptual developments of his day. His early life experiences touring circus and
dance venues of great variety with his family combined with the bohemian life of his
adopted European city (Paris) gave him access to a sense of gentle humor and layered
sophistication in his deceptively simple and evidently natural presentation.
Nijinsky thought of choreography as a logical extension of his performing
persona, and set about to systematically realize his expressive goals evoked by Archaic
Greek pottery for his first ballet. And yet, Nijinsky’s four extant ballets give but a
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glimpse of the potential of his choreographic scope. Only three more major ballets were
forthcoming after Faune. Jeux and Le Sacre du Printemps (another succès de scandale
due to Stravinsky’s machine-pounding music) both had fewer than ten performances
each, including their Paris premiers in 1913 (Gesmer). Nijinsky’s last ballet, Till
Eulenspiegel59, was mounted on the members of his ill-fated company during their 191617 tour of the United States and had only twenty-three showings, all in America.
In Faune, Nijinsky achieved his expressive goals in ways comparable to those of
Shawn through Gnossienne or St. Denis in Incense. Although he set about an analytical
procedure of choreography in much the same way as did Shawn (Chapter Three),
Nijinsky required this hidden, inner structure to support an outer “skin” of emotional,
spiritual expression. The arrangement was well in keeping with his choice of Debussy’s
music, for Debussy sought a similar structure in his music in direct line with Mallarmé’s
Symbolist poem. The progression from poem to music to dance in Faune’s theme created
a series of metaphors for the human condition, suggesting qualities of impermanence and
the interpretive fluidity of memory characteristic of the avant-garde.
Furthermore, Nijinsky’s revision of constructed time and space in the ballet
allowed for a wry, humorous comment on those conventions of stage presentation in the
ballet not unlike the effect of Gnossienne. And in his attitudes of internal communion
and use of a veil as an invocation to the elusive qualities of the feminine realm of feeling
and intuition, Nijinsky echoes St. Denis’ exotic, remote persona (Chapter Two) presented
in Incense. For Nijinsky as well as St. Denis and Shawn, his dance was both public and
personal. These dances represented a series of negotiations between internal spiritual
longings and the external need to communicate ineffable experience to others. The ways
in which these dances were packaged and marketed to audiences constitutes the next area
of discussion for this study. In addition, the complex of avant-garde influences on
American Modernism in film and on stage, which tended to follow slightly behind the
ground-breaking events in Paris, is undertaken in greater detail in Chapter Five.
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END NOTES TO CHAPTER FOUR
1
Léon Bakst, in interview with Rose Strunsky for her Current Opinion (October, 1915) article, “Léon
Bakst on the “Revolutionary Aims of the Serge de Diaghilev Ballet” mentions a 1911 ballet by Nijinsky
produced in Paris called Un Jaune Septembre Bakst states predated Faune, and which was “received with
peals of laughter.” This author has encountered no reference to this pre-faun ballet in any other document
accessed for research. In his book, Nijinsky, John Buckles suggests that Nijinsky’s first choreography may
have been to create movements for Bronislava’s role of Papillion in Carnival, 1910 (Buckles: 129-30). It
is otherwise assumed that Nijinsky must also have choreographed informal classroom exercises, sequences,
and short studio works during his student days at the Imperial Theatre.
2
Hamburg Ballet choreographer John Neumeier premiered his Nijinsky in 2000 (originally subtitled
Choreographic Approaches) which incorporated images from Nijinsky’s Faune as part of a tribute for the
50th anniversary of Nijinsky’s death. However, writers also find inspiration in Nijinsky’s life and
identification with the role of the Faun as material for short stories and poetry. The monologue one-act
play, Death of a Faun by David Pownall premiered in 1991 as a study of the dancer’s insanity. The novel
Vaslav by Paul Strathern (Quartet Books, UK: 1975) presents a fictional interpretation of the private life of
the dancer. The stabilizing persona of the character of Vaslav in the play is that of the Faun.
3
The ballet has no magnificent leaps such as those for which Nijinsky had become famous.
4
Nijinsky excelled in unusual character roles such as human to animal (as in Faune), a force of nature (as
in the character of the Kobold in Les Orientales) human to inanimate illusions of life (Petroushka) or exotic
beings such as the Golden Slave in Schéhérazade.
5
Bronislava relates in her memoirs that her first dancing lessons were given to her by Jackson and Johnson,
a pair of black music-hall tap dancers touring Russia at the time (1894) who came to their home as guests
of their father. She says that when he saw how much she was enjoying the tap dance lessons, Nijinsky also
tried it (Early Memoirs: 25).
6
Bronislava notes that when Nijinsky was caught fighting with his brother, their mother called him a
“Petroushka” after the fighting puppet featured in the fairs and circuses; the designation pleased Nijinsky
very much (Early Memoirs: 33).
7
The Italian ballet master Cecchetti taught in the Russian Imperial School from 1890-1902.
8
As part of Peter the Great’s Westernization of his Russian court, a royal academy of dance was
established in St. Petersburg in 1735. The first students were young boys enlisted in the military. During
the reign of Catherine the Great (1762-1796) ballet masters from all over Europe were imported to teach in
the Imperial Schools, and in 1869 the French ballet master Marius Petipa took directorship and produced a
founding canon of classical ballet works that remains popular today.
9
The first scandal of Nijinsky’s professional dancing career occurred during a 1911 performance of Giselle
before the Dowager Empress Maria Fedorovna and several Grand Dukes at the Imperial Theatre. Nijinsky
wore the costume designed for him by Benois in which he had appeared at the Grand Opera in Paris. But
conservative forces of Imperial censorship deemed the costume indecent (even though the Dowager
Empress specifically stated she had not at all been offended) and demanded Nijinsky’s resignation. The
incident compelled him to cast his fortunes with Ballets Russes (despite his mother’s objections) and leave
the Imperial Theatres permanently (Nijinsky, Buckles).
10
The shift in Euro-American concert dance from full-evening extravaganzas popular at the turn of the
century to short, intense, programmatic series of short pieces is discussed in Chapter Five.
11
Fokine later renamed the piece Les Sylphides, and it is considered to be the first abstract classical ballet.
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12
In his account of the Ballets Russes, Prince Peter Lieven emphasizes that unlike most other performing
artists of his time, Fokine was able to grasp the principles of the new art forms of the Twentieth Century
and their application to ballet. Fokine left his Russian choreography mentor Petipa and the Imperial
Theatre to join Diaghliev’s Ballets Russes as its premier choreographer in 1909. When Nijinsky was
promoted as a choreographer by Diaghliev, Fokine left.
13
In 1916 Fokine published a statement, “The New Ballet”, defining ideas he had been developing since
his first meeting with Duncan in 1904 (Buckles). This statement is on the order of an avant-garde art
manifesto describing the goals of his new balletic vision. The choreography he produced for Nijinsky to
perform to realize those goals constituted a bridge between the traditional aesthetics of “beauty” and “the
ideal” of traditional balletic movement and issues of modernism in movement which Nijinsky demonstrated
in Faune.
14
Some sources variously credit the choreographic idea and movement development of Faune to Fokine,
Diaghilev, or Bakst acting behind Nijinsky's name. The accounts of Serge Lifar and Romola (Nijinsky’s
wife) on the development of Faune’s choreography are particularly contradictory; in any case, neither one
of them was present at the time and they may have had ulterior motives behind their statements ( from:
Afternoon of a Faun: Mallarmé, Debussy, Nijinsky) At the same time, it is generally agreed that as the
impresario for Ballets Russes, Diaghilev encouraged collaborative creative efforts among the artists with
whom he associated.
15
Vera Krasovskaya's book, Nijinsky, is honestly prefaced by the author as an "enhanced" non-fiction, or a
reconstruction of her memory. Not all who wrote about what they knew of Nijinsky were as forthright.
16
For example, Shawn had plenty of guidance from both Gould and St. Denis in his first dance creations.
17
Many Archaic Greek pottery figures are of male revelers in exaggerated poses suggesting vigorous
movement and possessing ambiguously-gendered features. At the same time, the positions of these figures,
as well as those of animals, were influenced by those depicted on ancient Egyptian relics.
18
Rather than adapt the Hellenic or Classical Greek images favored by the American dancer Isadora
Duncan who had made such an impression on Fokine (among others) during her 1905 tour of Russia,
Nijinsky found himself more interested in the movement possibilities suggested by the older archaic Greek
figures (Nijinska). Fokine might have been inclined to experiment more radically with movement in his
ballets of the time had not the more conservative influences in Diaghilev’s committee exerted pressure on
him to “tone down” his use of non-balletic poses and movements so that dancers and audiences would more
readily accept them. By contrast, Nijinsky steadfastly ignored these pleadings, and possibly in anticipation
of these objections and mitigating suggestions would not show his work to anyone except his sister until the
choreography was finished (Buckles: 164-5)
19
When, at a 1912 New Years party Diaghilev suggested to Nijinsky that he should do a ballet based on
Debussy’s music titled L’Aprés-Midi d’un Faune, Nijinsky rather diffidently suggested that the material
was more to Fokine’s taste (Krasovskaya, Nijinsky: 193). However, Bronislava’s account makes clear that
Nijinsky had already chosen the music well before 1912. It is speculated that Nijinsky may have affected
disinterest because he was already hard at work on Faune in secret, and would show it to Diaghilev only
when he was ready to set it in rehearsals.
20
Although offered the role of the Nymph in Nijinsky’s ballet, wealthy socialite beauty-turned-dancer, Ida
Rubenstein, refused because it lacked the glamour of her previous appearances in Cléopâtre or
Schéhérazade. Bronislava adds that Rubenstein was also close to Fokine, from whom the rehearsals for the
new ballet were kept secret (405-6).
209
21
Both Leonid Massine (1895-1979) and Serge Lifar (1905-1986)--the latter having been a student of
Nijinska’s school--danced as the Faun for Ballets Russes after it became clear Nijinsky (who last performed
the role in 1917) could no longer function. Neither could match Nijinsky’s interpretation and their
performances were met with lukewarm responses (Buckles). In her choreography Nijinska tried to
continue her brother’s work and seemed to enjoy dancing masculine roles. For one abstract ballet she
created in 1921 she wore his costume from Papillon, and was also photographed (undated) wearing her
brother’s Faun costume in a pose from Faune (Kopelson, The Queer Afterlife of Vaslav Nijinsky). This
was probably from her 1922 revival for Ballets Russes of ten Paris performances of Faune in which she
danced her brother’s part, according to the Jeschke/Nectroux chronology of performances (Afternoon of a
Faun: Mallarmé, Debussy, Nijinsky: 135). These anecdotes reinforce the idea that Nijinska’s body was in
some sense interchangeable with her brother’s in these performances. It is odd that Nijinska’s memoir does
not include this information.
22
It is ironic to note that the utilitarian objects Nijinsky saw in the Louvre are regarded with reverence and
have an aesthetic and intrinsic value far beyond their original purposes. The artisans who decorated these
vessels
23
For example, Nijinsky did not trust his mother-in-law because he says in his diary that she is a good
actress. He refers not only to her work as an actress, but also to her ability to seem one way by artificial,
superficial illusion but in reality to be something quite different. He himself, however, believed that when
he assumed a dance character, he became that character in essence; that this meant he was being “truthful”
from the inside out.
24
Jean Cocteau, an early supporter of the Ballets Russes in Paris, records that Diaghilev told him that
when Bakst met Nijinsky in the Louvre, he found Nijinsky staring as if in a trance at the Egyptian artifacts.
25
This amazing depictive convention is referred variously as a Gorgon (Greek), “the Glory Face” (Hindu
India), or T’ai Chi (China). Evidently expressing the mysticism of a union in which both parts retain
separate attributes such as male and female, animal and human, etc. this facial depiction appears in many
disparate world cultures such as Medieval Europe (as the Gates of Hell) and Olmec stone heads of preColumbian South America.
26
Not only do the Faun and Nymph perform this intense profile to profile “face-off” (once with the Faun in
the weaker, submissive female-designated space to the left of the Nymph towering over him, and once with
them changing sides so that the Faun dominates) but Shawn also presents a “half-face-off” with his
“absent” Snake Goddess (Chapter Three). With these poses, both Faune and Gnossienne evoke the sexual
tensions of a Tango dance.
27
As a ballet student Nijinsky’s slanting eyes and high cheekbones had earned him the nickname, “Little
Jap” (Freeman and Thorpe: 9).
28
Nijinsky’s life was that of an expatriate artist who never quite inhabits either his adopted home (Western
Europe) or returns to his origins (Poland, Russia). For him, life is a double loss of the innocent pleasures of
childhood experienced as nostalgia for the past and a geographic loss of national identity. In other words,
by belonging to the itinerant community of the ballet Nijinsky lost the community of national identity, a
feature which may have impelled him to become deeply attracted to the writings of Tolstoy and
Dostoyevsky. Bronislava records in her memoirs that stirrings of spiritual revolution, in which it was
prophesied that the Russian culture would lead the way to a new utopia of Western Civilization had
influenced her brother very deeply.
29
Exactly what of Petrouska was the invention of Nijinsky and what was Fokine’s is difficult to determine
precisely; however, the common poses between the Faun and the puppet are remarked upon here as
significant in understanding how the Faun was conceptualized.
210
30
The correlation between a scientist debunking superstitious or mysterious phenomena and a magician
stirring them up is a common trope of the time. Examples of this imagery in silent film include the 1926
Metropolis and The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari (1919), to name but a few.
31
See Chapter Three for a brief discussion of Shawn’s fingers and thumbs in Gnossienne.
32
The komasts depicted on Archaric Greek pottery sport both manly beards and hair styles like those of
women; their movements suggest both a careful posing designed to be viewed and an uncontrolled,
unselfconscious enthusiasm of movement; their genitals show they are sexually aroused.
33
This comment was reported in Dunning’s notes as having been given in Musical America, 14 June 1913,
(9).
34
Visual artists and their critics have discussed at length the clensing effects of “limited dimensionality”
leading to its ultimate expression of minimalism in modern art, and it is a topic too vast to broach here.
However, the point at hand is that such limitation invokes a classical substance (simplicity, balance, )
rather than imitations, or Euro-American interpretations of the “Greek ideal” (Kramer).
35
Nijinsky was never filmed by moving camera, but this series of photographs by De Meyer soon after the
premiere of Faune have been invaluable resources for reconstructions of the ballet (Guest) and for detailed
discussions of Nijinsky’s art (Buckles). Later photographs of Nijinsky in the role of the Faun show a
distinct alteration of its original subtleties and the creeping encroachment of insanity upon the artist
(Neagu).
36
The author spent a great deal of time attempting to definitively determine whether or not Nijinsky had
been directly influenced by the work of Delsarte. In an email communication, dance historian Nancy
Reuter expressed her opinion that Nijinsky must have been aware of Delsarte’s ideas at least through
contact with Duncan. Imperial Theatre director Vokonsky
37
This impression eerily calls to mind the theory of physics that asserts the true nature of time as a series of
imperceptible bursts which, to those of us experiencing it as a condition of existence, seem to have no
separation one from another, just as the spaces between the atoms making up all material objects is not
visible.
38
Described as one leg forward, one back with the weight evenly distributed between them. The front of
body faces the direction of the forward leg, and normal logic indicates that that is the direction in which the
dancer will next make a move.
39
This left (female) and right (male) is a recurrent gendered consonance across many cultures, which, for
Hindu India at least, refers to the left and right sides of a bicamerally symmetrical human body in which
both genders are present; one dominant and the other recessive. In terms of energy flow through the
psychic/mystic centers of the body’s charkas, the energy along the left side of the body flows from the head
down, and along the right side of the body it flows upward toward the head. A Hindu temple is analogous
to the human body in that when both men and women are seated in assembly, women occupy the left side
of the hall and the men occupy the right. It is interesting that in St. Denis’ dances she either knew or
inferred this relationship of gendered space by moving first to the left and then to the right side of the stage.
40
Cocteau, Difficulty of Being: 33.
41
The author encountered a baffling array of contradictory accounts explaining who suggest what to
Nijinsky and when regarding the creation of every aspect of this ballet. However, evidence suggests to the
author that the most reliable, unbiased sources of information would be the few words Nijinsky had to say
and the detailed records of his sister, Bronislava. Accounts which support this direct narrative of creation
for the ballet are put forward in this study on the understanding that conflicting statements were also
consulted. It is not the purpose of this study to explain why there are so many different versions.
211
42
The author timed the video reconstruction of the ballet at thirteen minutes duration.
43
Impressionist painters of this time would include Edgar Degas (1834-1917), Cezanne (1839-1906), and
Monet (1840-1926).
44
Early in the poem there is reference to the scent of a rose, a line which refers incidentally to one of
Nijinsky's most famous roles in the Fokine ballet, Le Spectre de la Rose (Berlioz: 1911).
45
It is interesting that Satie (whose first piano Gnossienne was used by Shawn) took the credit for
persuading his friend Debussy to abandon the Wagnerian formula and experiment with different expressive
relationships (Grayson: 227-8).
46
However, Nijinsky’s associates in Ballets Russes were fluent in French, and they translated and
explained the poem to him (Nectroux: 36).
47
An embittered Fokine denounced Nijinsky’s choreography at every turn, and claimed the dancer-turnedchoreographer had no more than an intuitive notion of music (Levin, Nijinska, et. al.).
48
Sokolova was the first English dancer in the Ballets Russes and Nijinsky worked with her on her dance in
Faune through the difficult auspices of an interpreter, Marie Rambert.
49
Jonas does not credit which dancer said this, but from his chapter notes it is estimated that she may have
been Lydia Sokolova, from her book, Dancing for Diaghilev: The Memoirs of Lydia Sokolova, (San
Francisco, Mercury House: 1989).
50
This reluctance is interesting, given that Debussy had gone to Mallarmé to persuade the poet to allow a
musical setting of his poem (Nectoux: 8).
51
Potter quotes Bakst from an essay by Bakst that appeared in the magazine Apollon in 1909.
52
Jaschke suggests that Nijinsky intended the ballet as an inner dialogue of the Faun from Mallarmé’s
poem (117).
53
The Faun invokes an orgasmic spasm against the veil as the last movement in the ballet and in the first
performance stirred cries for censorship. However, it can be argued that the Faun’s last movement (which
Nijinsky evidently modified after the first performance) also suggest psychological, mystical, emotional
implications consistent with the character, and it is quite likely that Nijinsky intended any and all these
meanings in that gesture.
54
Nijinsky’s intensely emotional drawings evoke the works of the Futurists in geometric abstraction and
themes depicting inhuman entities which bear extremes of human emotions. The pencil rendering
“Silence” by Romolo Romani in 1904-5 (from Futurism by Giovanni Lista, 2001 p. 35) bears a particularly
strong resemblance to one of Nijinsky’s crayon drawings of 1919, which he told his wife Romola were
“soldier’s faces. . .It is the war.” (Nijinsky’s Diary)
55
According to Daniel Gesmer in his Los Angeles Times article, “Hommage to a legend” (Dance Calendar,
Sunday, February 8, 2004: E46) the other three ballets (Jeux and, Rite of Spring of 1913, and Till
Eulenspiegel of 1916) were reconstructed by choreographer Millicent Hodson and art historian Kenneth
Archer for the Joffrey Ballet, starting with Rite in 1987 and followed by Jeux in 2000.
56
Unfortunately, Exter’s designs were never executed, due to severe economic restrictions particularly
during the war (Baer).
212
57
Much has been written about Diaghilev’s love affair with Nijinsky and his wrath when Nijinsky married
Romola in 1913. Neither the Ballets Russes run by Diaghilev nor Nijinsky as dancer/choreographer could
quite independently of each other attain the intense creative fervor briefly held in the early years of their
association.
58
Nijinsky’s last public dance was his deeply disturbing solo, Marriage with God at a St. Moritz hotel in
Switzerland. According to witnesses, it ended with an image of the Crucifixion (Gesmer).
59
The ballet represented a continuation of Nijinsky’s desire to expose the greedy hypocrisy of the well-todo in society at the expense of the poor; a result perhaps of his fascination with the writings of Tolstoy.
213
CHAPTER FIVE
Popular Arts and Entertainments: American Developments
The three preceding chapters of this study developed separate analyses of three
dances and the artists who created and performed them. This final chapter returns to the
broad cultural perspective first introduced in Chapter One. However, instead of
concentrating on the avant-garde elements of Early Modernism evolving among
European visual and performing artists following La Belle Epoque, this chapter takes an
overview of comparable considerations in American vaudeville and cinema. Cinema and
vaudeville enjoyed tremendous popularity, and vigorously exchanged influences with the
general American1 culture. Characteristics these venues share with the dances in
question provide points of discussion in this chapter.
While many other entertainments of the time (circus, dime museum stages,
burlesque, music hall and carnivals, to name a few) contributed to the development of
American culture, vaudeville and cinema directed the appeals of these smaller venues
into strings of short, mobile performing units2 easily marketed for wide distribution and
consumption. This chapter discusses how the process of marketing and distribution
favored those units which not only entertained audiences, but also contributed to a
growing consensus on the characteristics of American aesthetics distinctively defined
from European influences. An examination of this process provides another perspective
of avant-garde characteristics shared among the three dances under consideration.
An important link between European and American Modernism is found in the
design styles of Art Nouveau and Art Deco, in which European aesthetics preceded
American variations3. These movements peaked in European popularity just as they were
beginning to be accepted into the American mainstream about a decade after they first
appeared in Europe. At first, American tours of European avant-garde art works were
met with anger or confusion. Gradually, this kind of expression became part of
America’s evolving adaptation to Modernism.
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For all the similarity of avant-garde processes in Europe and the United States,
there were some important differences. European art was preoccupied with redefining a
variety of workable modern revisions vis à vis a long-standing tradition that established
set relationships among the artist, work, and the consumer (Chapter One). However,
American art was caught between emulation of European aesthetics and a countering
redefinition of its own multiculturally-fragmented4 character in the latter half of the
Nineteenth- to the first decades of the Twentieth-Century. Participating in this state of
flux, American culture also became a project of Early Modernism; one that aggressively
expressed itself in display of a public-self consistent with commercial, entertaining and
artistic works. In the process, elements of the avant-garde creative impetus introduced in
the first chapter (spiritualism, natural expression, distortions of time and space, a
response to technology, and ethnic exoticism), resurfaced as an American interpretation.
American expressive dance innovators facilitated this change; as was introduced
in Chapters One and Two, the aesthetic impetus of the avant-garde reflected in the dance
works of Duncan and Fuller first found acceptance in Europe, where evidence of their
influence was reflected in Art Nouveau works featuring their images. Following
Duncan’s and Fuller’s examples, St. Denis’ first tour of Europe made it possible for her
to return to more serious attention in the United States on the strength of her European
acclaim5 (Reuter: 57). This pattern parallels a similar shift in visual art of the time; the
1906 Incense includes elements of both Art Nouveau and Art Deco (Chapter Two), while
the later dances Gnossienne and Faune relate more to the avant-garde features in Art
Deco (Chapters Three and Four).
This chapter centers on American developments; however, American and
European arts remained connected. The extent to which European arts first dominated,
then retained a point of reference for, American artistic experimentations can hardly be
over emphasized. For example, anxieties arising from melding feminine power with
technology were as much in evidence in European works such as the 1870 ballet
Coppélia (music by Delibes/choreography by Saint Léon) and the Offenbach opera The
Tales of Hoffmann (1881) as in Fritz Lang’s 1927 silent film, Metropolis6. And both live
stage and silent film renditions supplied an abundance of interpretations of Salomé as a
metaphor for the New Woman of modern America.
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The flow of influence soon changed direction. Duncan’s “naturalism” based upon
American Delsartism7 had an impressive effect on Russian and European dramatists as
well as upon the Russian ballet choreographers Fokine and Nijinsky. Plays by Henrik
Ibsen (1828-1906) and August Strindberg (1849-1912) and techniques of natural
“realism” in the acting techniques developed by Constantin Stanislavsky (1863-1938)
reflected the experiential immediacy of Duncan’s dances. Their negotiations of reality
and fantasy revised previous stage conventions that didn’t address the concerns of
Modernism. It is important to this discussion to keep in mind that a highly fluid state of
exchange existed across the Atlantic, drawing Nijinsky’s work into perspective with that
of St. Denis and Shawn.
The task of objectively characterizing public performance as either “high” or
“low” art (Glossary) is not the purpose of this investigation. Rather, it serves this study to
briefly outline the reasons these constructed divisions appeared. Spectacular
entertainments with exotic elements were as much in evidence in formal ballets and
operas8 premiering in the cultural centers of Europe as in productions mounted at Niblo’s
Garden in New York9. And reflexive wit, humor, naturalism, and time/space distortions
appeared in streamlined vaudeville acts and the earliest cinema experiments as readily as
in the artwork of the French Impressionists and Cubists. Just as the avant-garde impetus
ridiculed bourgeois sentiments in the unlikely venues of the Parisian cafés, similar avantgarde tactics punctured Victorian mores through American film and vaudeville. Such
“punctures” were accepted through an eclectic format in which a wide range of aesthetics
were juxtaposed; from a brief monologue from Shakespeare for example, to an equallybrief chorus of “talking dogs” in clown hats. This “string” of one short, self-contained
unit of entertainment following another implied that no one unit had a lesser or greater
value than any other.
It is in this frame of reference that tensions separating “refined” and “common”
10
culture in the decades just prior to 1900 and continuing into the 1920s come into
discussion. Just as clear-cut distinctions of gender and class responded to pressures of
urbanization, immigration, and industrialization in the United States, resonant distinctions
in the public performance of culture also polarized concepts of public responses,
spiritualism, entertainment, morality, and art. Certainly it is out of the realm of this
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investigation to characterize every work in every possible venue in terms of its refined or
common appeal. Instead, a few representative examples are discussed here to emphasize
specific issues that artists and works at each end of the spectrum hold in common.
Chapters One and Two presented changes in the relationships of meaning and
power for the female artist (Incense). However, this chapter appropriately expands
discussion of masculine display on stage and screen reflected in Gnossienne and Faune.
Masculine identity in the United States leading up to, and encompassing the time period
in question, frames the cultural revolt against Victorian feminizing of religion,
representations of gender in film and vaudeville, and a turn toward Orientalism in
American spiritual concerns (Kimmel). While these dynamics play into how Incense was
marketed and received by its audiences, they offer a specific comment on issues of
masculine expressive dance—particularly dance with ritualistic, spiritual expression—
such as Gnossienne and Faune.
Simply getting up on a concert stage and performing expressive dances was not
sufficient for American audiences to overcome prejudices against men dancing. Instead,
a carefully-managed mechanism of audience “sell” demonstrated that just about anything
new (such as public masculine spiritual expression) could be put across if it demonstrated
an unmistakable reference to traditional cultural views in the process of defying them. In
other words, if the work could be packaged, advertised, and widely distributed in short,
highly mobile and exchangeable units, then its import had a chance of being not only
accepted, but incorporated into the new American ethos11. The impassioned, self-styled
preacher Billy Sunday (1862-1935), adopted a vaudeville format to put across his highly
successful crusades to re-masculinize Christianity. Sunday’s sensationalistic,
programmatic approach achieved results in a popular entertainment arena. But they also
reflected the direct artistic goals in Shawn’s choreography, and indirect ones in
Nijinsky’s.
As was discussed in Chapter One, collaborations between artists in different
mediums of the avant-garde were common, and this kind of arrangement aided in the
development of the three dances. Bakst and Nijinsky collaborated in the production of
Faune (Chapter Four). St. Denis assisted Shawn in developing Gnossienne from a dance
class exercise into a successful solo (Chapter Three). And St. Denis entered into a
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collaborative relationship with her mother, her friends, and Edmund Russell to produce
Incense (Chapter Two).
Instead of focusing on these kinds of collaborations, however, this chapter
examines how imitation and parody supported American vaudeville and the early (presound12) cinema that followed close on its heels. These venues were at their best in avant
garde reflexive expressions of rapidly-changing social and artistic structures. Everything
from “high art” to “low art” rushed across the boards with broad humor, and didn’t care
to reference its sources. Vaudeville artists freely incorporated images and gestures from
commonly expressed social, political, and artistic images of the day. Anything familiar
to its audiences was subject to imitation and parody. For example, performance artist/
vaudevillian Gertrude Hoffman (1871-1966) produced elaborate impressions of the
Ballets Russes programs several years before the Russians came to the United States, and
she even made an unsuccessful attempt to appropriate St. Denis’ earliest dances13.
Hoffman’s artful “filching” was more the rule than the exception in the rapidlychanging venue of vaudeville. Such parody had a particular sociological function; as an
expression of defiance against Victorian middle-class mores, vaudeville returned the
immediacy of “acting out” culture back to the people after “cultural purists” had purged
amateur performance of Italian opera, art songs, and Shakespeare (Levine and Kimmel).
Vaudeville was perhaps the single most culturally-influential performance art presenting
an American reinterpretation of European “high art” influences in an avant-garde
defiance:
. . .vaudeville was created largely by people from immigrant and workingclass backgrounds who supplied both its talent and audiences. . .and they
challenged and subverted the genteel Victorianism of middle-class, nativeborn Americans. . . (Snyder: 43).
Later, the nascent cinema industry, borrowing heavily from the success
vaudeville14, followed a similar pattern. This exciting technological entertainment first
found new audiences as “film shorts” touring alongside live vaudeville acts. But the
hybrid entertainment of film and vaudeville didn’t last long. Vaudeville tours shut down
as the motion pictures shifted from a presentational to a representational format15 to
become the premiere American entertainment. Still, close associations between film and
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vaudeville remained. Just as vaudeville provided a reflexive view of America’s evolving
social structures, cinema also parodied and commented upon the very elements of
experiential life, altering perceptions of time, space, audience orientation, and narrative
continuity. In effect, moving pictures extended Modernism’s avant-garde dynamics
inherited from vaudeville in new directions on the American scene:
More human beings alive today have received their impressions of social
behavior, moral justice, and poetic expression from the motion picture
than from painting, the theatre, or literature. . .In less than an average lifetime, this monster medium evolved from a peep-show novelty to the
dominant cultural force of the mechanized world. . . unlike the arts of
individual expression, the aim of the film has been to reflect in pictures,
the universal longings of the multitude” (Card: Dryden Theatre Motion
Picture Lecture, 1952).
The relationship of the dances to vaudeville and cinema is, at first glance,
peripheral. Both Gnossienne and Incense were toured on vaudeville circuits, as were
other dances by Shawn and St. Denis, respectively. Sometimes the dance artists toured
their solos alone; at other times, they became part of the Denishawn standard. Faune
remained in the repertoire of the Ballets Russes, which in itself was a type of traveling
ballet “vaudeville”, presenting a series of short, intense works in an evening’s program
with relatively small casts. Several versions of Incense were performed by St. Denis on
film, but neither Gnossienne16 nor Faune were so captured as performed by the artists
who created them. But one connection these dances have with vaudeville and film is that
they all participated in marketing and packaging systems that were compatible with
modular construction and unitization.
The roots of this handy mode of unitization lie in the late Nineteenth-Century in
changing models of architectural design. For example, the architect Louis Henry
Sullivan (1856-1924), urged the construction of new city buildings called skyscrapers
after the injunction that “form follows function”. His buildings, such as the 1890
Wainright Building in St. Louis, suggested that there need be no limit of dimensions
(height, width, depth) or mass to a modular construction. This tactic of mutual
legitimization of form and function enhanced mass production and marketing of
commodities that could be assembled in modular units. If buildings could be made by
modular construction, then so could the self-made person, or the self-made artist. By
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extension, self-improvement systems generally throughout American culture latched onto
the idea that an equally unlimited potential for individual enhancement was also possible.
This concept is entirely compatible with ideas of progressive positivism (Glossary),
which implied that human progress in all areas (given direction) has no limitation of
development.
Packaging and marketing strategies for the dances as modular units are discussed
in this chapter by way of understanding how the dances constitute a response to modern
American life. All three dances shared with vaudeville and cinema a mobile form of
modular construction, which made for easy transport and marketing. The system
provides for maximum flexibility and adaptability to variable performing conditions
across the United States. Each “module” (in this case, a single dance work) carried an
implied reference to a larger, less mobile entity. This kind of relationship established
itself in even the earliest American performances. The effect was one of mutual
validation between the large construction and the modules of which it was composed, a
response to Modernism that is a uniquely American innovation at all levels of
consideration:
. . .technologies of [American] identity engineering do not treat the body
as an organic whole. . .[instead] it is viewed as an assemblage of modules,
each of which can be remade to suit the desires of the individual. . .a
configurable entity (Shore: 150).
This is an important consideration because modular construction facilitates the
commercial sale of both concrete (a book or a painting, for example) and discrete
(experiential, performing) commodities. Modular construction of the dances as set by
their respective companies fits into this frame. The Ballets Russes provided the base
from which Nijinksy’s Faune could be advertised and distributed, both in Europe and in
the United States. In a comparable fashion, the entity of Denishawn provided a similar
base from which both Incense and Gnossienne could also be marketed to many audiences
(St. Denis, Shawn, et. al.).
However, in addition to presenting these dances on stage, Denishawn also
developed a system of franchise in which selected dances (including Incense but not
Gnossienne) were licensed to be learned and performed by certified students. The
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package up for sale included careful coaching in the movements, construction of
costumes, setting, and the right to use the music17. Revenues acquired in this way
supported both school and performing company and provided mass duplication of the
dance (previously created and performed only by a single artist) for distribution to many
more audiences simultaneously:
Recognizing the immense commercial and missionary impact of national
distribution of their dances. . .concurrently with their vaudeville tours, St.
Denis and Shawn expanded their operation. . .before Denishawn ended in
1931, it had become a franchising endeavor (Cohen : 2).
This approach paralleled systems of packaging, marketing, and distribution of vaudeville
programs and cinema shows. And it is in the context of minimalization that modular
construction intersects with the attributes of Art Deco, for which a streamlined, simplified
appearance facilitates quick “brand name recognition” and maximum flexibility in the
number of adaptive combinations marketable:
The functionally distinct units could be conceived as distinct organizations
of a few basic design elements. Thus, the logic of modularization
encourages a homogenization of component units, a kind of “minimalism”
in design . . .The fewer the design elements and the greater their
combinatorial potential, the more elegant the design concept (Shore: 151)
Given the success of this tactic on the American stage, performing arts and
entertainments became most marketable as a series of separate units strung together by
the common thread of audience and physical location. Small wonder, then, that the most
flexible and ubiquitous example of this kind of performance was vaudeville.
If ever there was an American venue for the performance of the cultural self in
relation to spiritualism, exoticism, response to technology, naturalism, and
fragmentations of space and time it was, at the turn of the century, to be found in
vaudeville. Culture is a multi-faceted conversation, and nowhere in turn-of-the-century
America were the voices more complex, contradictory, and concentrated than in
vaudeville (Snyder: Introduction, xvi). It is difficult to state precisely when and how
vaudeville began in the United States. The venue of a series of short acts by independent
artists in solo or small-group configurations evolved from a wide variety of popular
entertainments of the time, especially minstrel shows18. In any case, vaudeville was in
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place and running to full houses all across the country by 1890. Although its popularity
was abruptly undercut by its wayward “child”, silent movies, and vaudeville for all
intents and purposes vanished19 in the 1920s, its highly adaptable format based on
modular unitization made it particularly flexible to touring demands. Although it didn’t
last long, vaudeville was the most successful venue of popular entertainment in the
United States between 189020 and 1920:
In 1910 there were some 2,000 small-time hinterland theaters. . .Of course,
the fans had their favorites. They could rattle off catchlines and bits of
stage business, and many could repeat entire acts themselves (Sobel: 49).
Vaudeville was also the most fluid of presentational formats, having grown out of a wide
variety of American entertainments and:
. . .inspired probably by visiting English performers, took root early here
. . .borrowing liberally from the varied native American variety
entertainment as exemplified in minstrel or medicine show, circus concert,
dime museum, town hall entertainment, beer hall or honky-tonk, even, in
later years from the legitimate stage, concert hall, grand opera, ballet,
musical comedy and pantomime (Sobel: 22).
Acts crossed vaudeville stages in series—some returning to regular engagements while
others vanished entirely—in a perpetual effort to please a broad, multicultural,
multilingual urban audience. The search for novelty acts in small21, economic packages
produced routines that could be constantly copied, parodied, combined, broken down into
segments, and re-combined. Each segmented unit carried the stamp of its original; a
standard of expectation that functioned like an instantly-recognizable trademark.
Vaudeville was, in essence a venue in which Americans culturally worked out
among themselves what their ethos was going to be like separate from the European
ethos, so that by the time cinema got underway that milieu of interlocking American
qualities had coalesced into a unified image. Vaudeville bills adhered to the modular
construction pattern because they were comprised of a series of acts presented one after
another. It tended to offer the performer for a brief time in a central position of focus; the
same kind of focus integral to Gnossienne, Incense, and Faune.
Vaudeville served to partially fill the expressive void of popular entertainments
shortly after Shakespeare, “serious” orchestral music, and opera had been removed from
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the popular domain and placed in elite restraints22. It is as if these venues constituted for
the American public a return to the needs of internalizing individual and collective
expressive culture through performance that was lost in the 1800s when Shakespeare and
Italian opera songs were no longer heard in the homes of ordinary Americans. Perhaps in
these venues, the removal of culture by professional performers was returned through this
vicarious dynamic. While a complete accounting of the vast offerings and impact of
vaudeville and cinema on American popular culture is not possible here, it is important to
this discussion to highlight specific features pertaining to the avant-garde impetus in
Modernism that appear in these closely-related venues.
Given its roots in circus, beer hall acts, dime museum shows, burlesque, and
minstrelsy, vaudeville took the place of a lost expressive mechanism in which:
The theater in the first half of the nineteenth century played the role that
movies played in the first half of the twentieth: it was a kaleidoscopic,
democratic institution presenting a widely varying bill of fare to all classes
and socioeconomic groups (Levine: 21).
Vaudeville’s appeal was immediate, depending less on verbal acuity than visual
communication in order to reach audiences that didn’t share a common language. In
many ways vaudeville became a mechanism by which Americans could perform for
themselves. Anyone who had an idea for an act (the stranger the better23) could audition
it to the promoter/managers of the theatres and likely get a chance to try it out on an
audience. Moreover, early vaudeville audiences, mostly men, were as quick and
vehement in their opinions of the acts as had been the case for the frontier-touring
Shakespeareans; free to express displeasure by throwing rotten produce at performers,
whistling, fighting, spitting, and shouting repartee in a wild celebration of egalitarianism:
At virtually every step. . .vaudevillians chose a mass
audience over a local audience, a multiethnic audience over their own
group, an interclass audience over an audience of one class (Snyder: 43).
The adaptable survivors of this rough sell quickly learned from precedents in beer
halls, saloons, music halls, and side-show entertainments to encourage this lively
interaction. It was the savvy singer who encouraged the audience to sing along in songs
with which they were most familiar, thus putting them in a mellow, nostalgic mood. And
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it was the comedian with a sharp, ready, and spontaneous wit to redirect hecklers by
having the first laugh on himself, who lived to present again.
Self-creation for display was a prime feature of vaudeville. Audiences delighted
in warps of time, space, and identity; vaudeville supplied an amazing variety of
anomalies to satisfy both the side-show appetite for the weird and the freedom of
expression expected in a being of ambiguous origins. Anything oddly impossible could
be turned into an act; all it took was a little imagination and some practice to pull it off.
Crossings of race, class, gender, age, or species were spectacularly common; for
example, an Italian-American could convincingly impersonate a Chinese playing a
Hawiian ukelele, and share the bill with double-jointed contortionists, tap-dancing
violinists, and comedian Bert Williams dressed up in a chicken suit.
Gender impersonation was a particularly vigorous mainstay of vaudeville, more
even than it had been in minstrel shows24. Not only did men impersonate women (such
as Gale as Sarah Bernhardt, for example, or Wilde, who made it a point to pose in exotic
tableaux highly evocative of Denishawn productions), but women also impersonated men
(Janis as Will Rogers, or Loftus as Caruso). The first big time star of vaudeville, Eva
Tanguay (1878-1947) was as outrageously defiant of middle-class social norms as any
avant-garde artist who frequented the Paris cafés. She could—and did—do anything, say
anything, or be anything she pleased and both men and women in her audiences loved it.
Tanguay dashed about the vaudeville stage like a wild woman free of any constraint of
modesty, delicacy, or etiquette of any sort. Hair flying about her head25, she shouted at
the audience, sang bawdy songs and continued her temperamental, spontaneous
performance of constantly irritating rigid social mores and generating scandal off-stage as
well as on:
Middle-class women experimented with alternatives to the chafing
restraints of Victorianism when they watched the cyclonic singing and
dancing of Eva Tanguay (Snyder: Introduction, xvi).
If Tanguey was the self-made woman of vaudeville, her counterpart across the
gender divide was the definitive self-made body builder and strongman, Eugene Sandow
(1867-1925). The top draw, highest paid performer of all time in vaudeville, Sandow26
was also one of the first performers featured in an Edison film short. Sandow neither
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sang nor danced; in fact, he didn’t say much at all, allowing his body to speak for him as
he posed nearly nude and demonstrated feats of strength on the vaudeville stage very
much as he had previously in Zigfield’s show. Audiences loved him; the archetypal
image of the self-made man, an individual who had successfully reconstructed his body
and, by association, his very self. Finally in Sandow we find permission for men to
display physical manliness on stage. In a kind of reversal of the usual order of stage
gender display in which men watch women’s bodies to enjoy fantasizing about them and
women watch women with the idea of emulation, Sandow’s admiring female audiences
enjoyed the secret pleasure of fantasizing about him, while his male audience watched
with the idea of emulation:
Eugene Sandow. . . also attracted women. . .That women flocking to
vaudeville houses might seek both the prim and the prurient was a
phenomenon that would have lasting and increasing significance for
vaudeville (Snyder: 33).
Like Shawn, Sandow had been the victim of a childhood disease that left him physically
weak, and he turned to physical fitness and a regimen of good health in a mind-overmatter program of regeneration. The testimony of his success inspired men of the late
1800s and early 1900s to undertake similar “make-overs” in a cultural connection
between the physical, and mental and moral strength. Sandow’s example suggested that
it was possible for anyone—a city clerk, a business man, or a grocer—to remake himself
into an image attractive to women and gain the respect of other men. These validations
of self-worth were important to men of the latter 1800s in a way that had not been
necessary in the earlier part, and Sandow’s success of masculine display demonstrates the
pervasiveness of that sociological need:
. . .many men—working- and middle-class. . .developed various strategies
to insure that others would continue to see them as manly. . .the health
craze was vital to the perpetuation of a virile nation; unlike the street
corner or the pub, it was as morally purifying as it was physically
imposing. . .This preoccupation with physicality meant that men’s bodies
carried a different sort of weight than earlier. The body did not contain
the man, expressing the man within; now, that body was the man
(Kimmel: 126-7).
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It is this perception of masculinity that Shawn trades on in Gnossienne and all his
other solos. it was also a way of presenting the appearance of a constructed masculinity
in very much the same way women performed their femininity. Sandow’s low-key
persona (especially in comparison to Tanguay’s flamboyance) served as the reassuring
image of a healthy-looking man in support of his own social structure. In this sense, a
mutual validation comes into effect:
Cultural analysts have long understood that health reform was a
simultaneous abandonment of hope for any larger-scale social and
political transformation, as though changing the body could somehow
compensate for failure to change the body social (Kimmel: 414).
While vaudeville gave ample voice to the people in disrupting the normal order of
daily life, or provided inspiring examples of the self-made man, it didn’t give much range
to religious sentiments. An occasional “preacher-man” spoof appeared now and then, but
serious evangelism did not take hold in this venue that favored the light-hearted and
irreverent. Even the novelty of child evangelists did not gain a firm foothold in
vaudeville. Instead of religion coming to vaudeville, vaudeville came to religion.
Just as Shakespeare and opera had been removed from the voices of ordinary
Americans, so too had religious speech. It took a trained professional spiritual leader to
properly interpret God’s word and accurately speak it from a pulpit. But in the process of
investing an official minister with the authority to speak for all, interest in religious
matters slacked off. This was particularly true for men as Victorian virtues slowly
transformed Christian expression into a means to control the vices of men (i. e. drinking,
gambling, and prostitution) that threatened the stability of home and family. In the
process, the figure of Christ as compassionate and loving evolved into a delicate, almost
effeminate androgyny whose sentimental concern was for the weak, the lost, and the
timid:
Women constrained manhood—through temperance, Christian piety,
sober responsibility, sexual fidelity. . .Part of the struggle was simply to
get out of the middle-class house, now a virtual feminine theme park
. . .Women were not only domestic, they were domesticators, expected to
turn their sons into virtuous Christian gentlemen—dutiful, well-mannered,
and feminized. . . (Kimmel: 59-60).
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One preacher in particular, Billy Sunday, saw the need for religion in America to
take back its masculine image as a struggle on the order of a prize fight and coalesced the
appealing methods of several small-time itinerant preachers before him. Sometime
around 1910 Sunday kicked his campaign into full gear, tearing around the Midwest
United States like a dynamo. Armed with a vaudevillian’s sense of active rather than
passive audience engagement, Sunday launched a war against sissified religion.
More than a match for Tanguey’s fast and furious vaudeville style, Sunday’s
physically impassioned, violent delivery galvanized men27 into finding themselves as
moral Christians purged of Victorian feminism. But Sunday’s turn did not include any
respect for dance. Perhaps perceiving in her a rival for spiritual reawakening in America,
Billy Sunday was particularly vehement in his denunciation of Isadora Duncan, whom he
characterized as a potentially dangerous, alien Bolshevik, immoral, and perhaps worst of
all, too powerful as a woman (Clarke and Crisp: 216).
Nevertheless, the physical component of masculine display was one Sunday
vigorously manipulated. Like Sandow (and Shawn), Sunday was a self-made man who
had physically recreated himself out of a childhood of weakness through the sport of
baseball28. His example and preaching style were openly contemptuous of feminized
versions of religion, and he vigorously “performed himself” in a way that implied that if
he could make a moral, religious masculinity out of himself, then any man could. Above
all, Sunday was physical. He shouted and punched the air during his diatribe in a way
that thrilled and inspired men to stand up from their seats in the lecture halls, shout their
defiance and punch the air right back. He railed against the mechanisms of
industrialization and capitalization that dehumanized the laborer and at the same time
invoked the power of the machine:
Men are feeding their muscle and bone and sinew into the commercial mill
that grinds out the dividends. . .Jesus Christ could go like a six cylinder
engine. . .I’d like to put my fist on the nose of the man who hasn’t got grit
enough to be a Christian ( from the sermon, “The Fighting Saint”, cited in
McLaughlin, Billy Sunday Was His Real Name, 177).
This trend of using entertainment techniques to carry a spiritual message included
exoticism as a means to code a “genuine” or “natural” expression because it was, like the
persona of the vaudevillian Eva Tanguey, presented outside artificially-controlled
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conditions. If traditional religious leaders and their churches were fixed institutions of
the cities, non-traditional evangelists (such as Sunday) had no fixed geography, traveling
throughout the countryside. For example, the evangelist Roger Smith, who toured the
United States starting in 1889, found that much of his success in attracting audiences for
his message lay in the fact that he billed himself as a gypsy. Sometimes his daughter
Zillah sang dressed in “native” dress as part of the religious address. The point here is
that both vaudevillians and these evangelists worked outside the expected parameters of
traditional entertainment and religion, respectively. It is interesting that an avant-garde
approach to religion, and an avant-garde approach to entertainment should support yet a
third avant-garde expression of spiritualism in the dances of Nijinsky, St. Denis and
Shawn.
What is interesting about Smith’s example is that the exotic associations of his
daughter authenticated the religious message as “genuine” in much the same way the
presence of a “real” Indian validated the claims of the snake-oil salesman29. During the
Second Great Awakening of spiritual fervor in the United States, camp revival meetings
held outside urban centers were tremendously popular. In these intense sessions, the
validity of speech conveyed by non-conventional messengers such as women, minorities,
and even children30 was accepted as true because they came directly from a natural,
“pure” source beyond the corrupting influences of urban, industrialized life.
. . .more frankly entertaining, even folksy. . .the revivalist was now
competing with other specialists in mass persuasion. The audience was no
longer his by right or default. He had to win it over (Weisberger: 230).
The eclectic inclusion of Orientalism in American spiritual development was also
reflected in the attitudes of camp revivals. Formally, the appearance and speeches of
Swami Vivekananda (Chapter Two) first at the 1893 World Parliament of Religions in
Chicago, and later around the United States, introduced not only Hindu religion as a faith
of tolerance, but a highly moral way of secular life based on religious rituals. Informally,
these ideas of the individual self as an active centerpiece between an ancestral past and a
descendant future functioned in American spiritualism in a way that emphasized
individual responsibility for individual health and well-being:
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In general, by the late nineteenth century, Americans appropriated Asian
ideas to fit their own optimistic, pragmatic, and eclectic understanding of
inner experience (Taylor: 189).
It is pertinent at this point to explore the fusions of exoticism, spiritualism and
naturalism in “legitimate” (Glossary) stage renditions so that these same dynamics can be
applied to the dances in this study. Influenced by a visit to Russia by Isadora Duncan
(Chapter Four), there formed a small but very creatively active group of performing
artists interested in exploring innovative movement expression inspired by Duncan. In
his discussion of this artistic revolution in the first decades of Twentieth Century Russia,
Michael Potter states that; “Isadora’s performances in Russia stimulated a dialogue
among critics, artists [including Bakst], historians, and dancers” (Potter: 158). Potter
continues, describing changes in costumes created by Bakst’s (who very much admired
Duncan) assertion that it was important to; “. . .develop the costume as a functional item
in dance. . .capable of extending the range of the body’s movement in space. . .” (Potter:
155).
The search for naturalism in legitimate stage venues in Europe (urged by the
Russian impetus) fused the elements of spiritualism and exoticism. What is interesting
about this fusion is that the exotic attraction of fantasy should be the vehicle by which
spiritualism and a natural expression of feelings should be carried. A few instances of
how this dynamic played out in Russian and European legitimate stage venues serve as a
springboard into understanding how it carried over into American film.
To begin with, Duncan’s ideas about classical Greek dancing appear to have
thematically influenced the 1911 Paris performances of Fokine’s Narcisse, in which
Nijinsky danced the part of Narcisse. But descriptions of the development of this ballet,
which closely preceded Nijinsky’s Faune31 suggest that the break needed to answer
Duncan’s approach to “natural” movement in a ballet framework was at first partial and
incomplete. In her memoirs, Nijinska expresses disappointment in the music by
Tcherepnine (which she felt borrowed too heavily from Wagner and Tchaikovsky) and
the lack of development offered in the theme to explore a multiple self in an exotic frame;
in this case, between a classical and a primitive concert of being:
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In the figure of Narcisse created by Nijinsky there was something
reminiscent of the calm and massive strength of Michelangelo’s David,
and there was the swiftess of the laughing faun. His body of the youth in
love with his own image emanated health and the athletic prowess of the
ancient Greek Games (Nijinska: 366-7).
The Russian ballet was not the only performing art influenced by Duncan’s
declaration of physical and emotional “realism”. Russian dramatist Stanislavsky (18631938), who, through his teaching and directing fostered a Russian avant-garde dramatic
approach, was influenced in part by his meeting with Isadora Duncan during her visits to
Russia commencing in 1905. In her autobiography, Duncan records Stanislavsky’s
opinion by way of emphasizing what she believed was a universal yearning toward
naturalism (and therefore truthfulness) in art opposed to the artificial:
. . .I never missed a single one of the Duncan concerts. The necessity to
see her often was dictated from within me by an artistic feeling that was
closely related to her art. . .various people in various spheres sought in art
for the same naturally born creative principles. . .we [Duncan and I]
understood each other almost before we had said a single word. . .it
became clear to me that we were looking for one and the same thing in
different branches of art (Duncan: 168).
Stanislavsky’s response was to incorporate the ideas of Delsarte, whom Duncan
very much admired32, into his methods by which actors should train, prepare a role, and
perform. The main injunction in his written instructions to the novice actor required
constant attention—on stage and off—to a conscious habit of self-examination. The
student’s concern must center always on the correlation of a state of mind to physical
expression:
. . .day by day to cultivate the most delicate and precise ways of rendering
all the subtle intricacies of human thoughts and feelings, visual
observations and emotional impressions (Stanislavsky: 252).
But the Russian performing arts of the ballet and theatre weren’t the only ones in
search of naturalism. Significant changes in balances of fantasy, realism and naturalism
in European theatre arts comparable to those espoused by Stanislavsky were reflected in
the dramaturgy of the Norwegian playwright Ibsen. Ibsen’s most well-known plays set a
distinctly modern tone based on socio- and psychological pressures in contemporary
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family relationships that profoundly influenced the development of American drama in
the 1920s (Brecht and O’Neill) and 1930s (Odets, Wilder, and Saroyan). The period of
his exile33 was marked with verse dramas (such as Peer Gynt in 1867), followed by
realistic and controversial social-issues plays like Ghosts (1881), The Doll’s House
(1879) and Hedda Gabler (1891) Ibsen’s last plays (When We Dead Awaken in 1899)
were more symbolic; however, his most surreal narratives contain a good measure of
contemporary practicality (Peer Gynt), and his most realistic, modern, psychological
plays are not devoid of fantasy and exoticism (Ghosts).
Two other European dramatists of the time produced plays that transformed
everyday conditions into symbolic statements of the human condition. Strindberg
produced The Dream Play, which had its premiere in 1902; a rambling evocation of
consciousness of the self as a mythic being confined by modern concerns. For
Strindberg, the real is strange and the strange real: his 1887 play, The Father, turns what
appears on the surface to be a simple, and “realistic” domestic drama into a gothic horror,
not unlike the plausibly bizarre tale, Metamorphosis (Frantz Kafka, 1915).
A dream-like stillness of remote, vague, and impressionable feelings of doom also
permeate the plays of Symbolist playwright Maurice Maeterlink (1862-1949). His
Pèlleas et Mélisande is characterized as a poetic drama of tragic love set in a fantasy
evocative of a medieval tapestry. The play proved particularly popular and caught the
eye of the composer Claude Debussy. Debussy adapted the play into an opera with the
intent of preserving its symbolist format with careful attention to all aspects of
presentation. Lighting, costumes, set, music, libretto and even the performers were
deliberately chosen to enhance the ephemeral mood of the piece in a unified experiential
whole.
The format of this work is light-weight in terms of a small cast, short duration,
and focus on the impressions and images occurring to Mélisande, rather than making of
the heroine an exhibition for male appreciation. The opera expresses both Debussy’s
fascination with—and rejection of—the dramatic goals of Wagner, as was briefly
discussed in Chapter Four. In particular, both the opera and the play upon which it was
based exemplify a melding of spiritualism and fascination with nature that produced an
effect of iconographic imagery:
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In his Symbolist plays Maeterlinck uses. . .ritual to create symbolic images
to exteriorize his protagonists’ moods and dilemmas. . .[his works] are
remarkable blends of mysticism, occultism, and interest in the world of
nature. They represent the common Symbolist reaction against
materialism, science, and mechanization and are concerned with such
questions as the immortality of the soul, the nature of death, and the
attainment of wisdom (http://www.nobel-winners.com/Literature/
maurice_maeterlink.html: 18 July 2004).
The posed stillness characteristic of Incense, Gnossienne, and Faune evokes this kind of
ritual out of which a supposedly genuine spiritual expression is displayed in the
ambiguous territory of time and space provided through an exotic theme. Jamake
Highwater, in his book, Dance: Rituals of Experience, remarks upon how ritual
transposes experience from one (real, ordinary) frame of reference into another (unreal,
extraordinary). He says that ritual reveals:
. . .the ineffable, structured into an event—that which is called ritual
. . .you do not see what is physically before you [but] an interaction of
forces by which something else arises. . .a virtual image. It is real, for
when we are confronted by it, it really does exist, but it is not actually
there. . .made experiential (Highwater: 33).
This ritual-like stillness “stands for”, or “represents” an ineffable realness in all
three dances, a quality that could be effectively recorded and reproduced for mass visual
consumption through the medium of still photography34. The accuracy of representation
in still film development had a profound effect on all visual arts35 and how reality could
be perceived in the context of Modernism. However, this point must be glossed over in
this study in favor of the radical technological advance of vaudeville’s outgrown “child”,
the silent film.
It is ironic that ritualized stillness in live dancing should provide a bridge into the
single-frame sequencing of photography which, in a running series, re-animates
movement in film. This trait suggests film as the ultimate expression of modular
construction and the medium of its most flexible packaging and marketing capabilities.
Modular construction worked just as well in the cinema as in is parent entertainment,
vaudeville. Even today trailers of upcoming attractions feature the same movie actors, or
films in the same genre as the one currently showing in order to build audience
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anticipation from one film to the next. The film industry packaged and marketed its
product to those anticipations by shortening time and abbreviating space. In an elliptical
editing procedure that condensed sequences within the confines of the camera’s vision
and shortened duration into a kind of derivative essence, film evoked experience in a
repeating, product that could be viewed simultaneously by many audiences in separate
locations:
Photography and the motion picture introduce—and institutionalize—a
new, modern conception of time. Time could not only be caught but also
replayed. It becomes, in a sense, a commodity. . .objectified. . .marketed
. . .infinitely re-experienced (Belton: 6).
The visual immediacy of still photography was quickly overtaken by the
representation of movement on film36, bringing distortions of time and space for
expressive purposes in dance into the realm of experiential commodity for anyone
viewing film. Nevertheless, it is interesting to note that the iconographic force of still
photography and pose in dance also carried over into early film narratives37 Film
historian and critic John Belton makes this comparison between still and moving film in
his book, American Cinema/American Culture:
Photographs. . .record events instantaneously. . .Thus the present and the
past are rescued from the passage of time, lifted out of its continuous
ongoing process, and frozen for all to see. Motion pictures record and
reproduce the flow of time in a way that had previously been impossible
. . . (Belton: 6).
Dance and film seem, at first glance, compatible partners. The appeal of human
movement and the possibility of rendering it stylistically on film must have been
intriguing; it is something of a mystery why more early films did not experiment with the
expressive, visual potential offered in dance. Part of the answer may have to do with
technological limitations of film without a sound track or color. For example, the
colorful light display38 that was an important element of Fuller’s stage works could not be
duplicated in the early black and white films. And without sound, the artist dancing in a
film had no control over the music played at each showing39.
But one reason film and dance did not meld into an expressive form may be that
early film makers seemed to assume that the presentational mode of filming dance was
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exciting enough, long after dramas had moved into the representational40. Perhaps if the
person was moving, then the camera didn’t have to move. For example, one of the
earliest 1896 Edison shorts titled “Little Egypt” was little more than a documented
carnival hoochi-koochi dance rendered respectable in bloomers, hose, and heeled shoes.
In this short, as in others, the camera remains in one place the way a seated member of
the audience would, viewing the movements of the dancer as if she were on a live stage.
Still, experimentation in the expressive potential of this exciting new medium got
underway almost as soon as the equipment could be devised. Löie Fuller (Chapter One)
was fascinated with images in light, dark, mist, and shadows. Fuller was an organizer of
effects with herself at their center; the archetypal and familiar human body connecting
the fantasy of those effects to the audience. But dance was only one medium in which
she experimented; Fuller was also one of several women engaged in making films41.
The same impetus toward abstraction of the human form enveloped in yards of
lighted silk drapery also led her into film-making ventures. These experiments with film
did not, as might be expected, concern dance so much as fantasy and gothic mood themes
of fairies and witches in eerie night time or twilight wooded landscapes. At the height of
her stage career, Fuller held an array of lighting patents to discourage imitators, and
traveled with a company of personally-trained electricians that was larger than her
company of dancers. The electrical manipulations of her theatre plunged its audiences
into total darkness to reveal a series of carefully controlled dream-like images in a
fantastic series of illuminations, to finish in a total absence of light. Such absolute
control of an illusory vision could not have been imagined without the availability of
electrical lighting, a fact that Fuller herself enthusiastically acknowledged.
Every type of story imaginable was set in silent film. Even operas and
Shakespeare’s plays were adapted to the moving pictures; something of a self-defeating
avant-garde project for silent film-makers to undertake since both operas and
Shakespeare depend upon the voice, language, and music. Nevertheless, stories familiar
to audiences did fairly well in the movies; some of them little more than broad-humored
spoofs that had played live on vaudeville. Lois Weber produced The Merchant of Venice
in 1914 and the stories of three of Shakespeare’s most popular plays in America—Romeo
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and Juliet, Hamlet, and Richard III—collectively had been made into eighteen different
silent movies between 1900 and 1924.
Opera stories also managed to take the leap from the legitimate live stage onto the
silent screen. No less than six versions (more or less connected to Berlioz) of Faust were
made between 1903 (the first by Méliès) and 1915. The spectacular and exotic visual
appeal of Aida and Madame Butterfly (in one version titled “Geisha hari-kari”, which
places it rather ghoulishly alongside such Edison exhibition shorts as “The Electrocution
of an Elephant”) prompted several silent film versions. Familiar and sensational
devotional stories with options for trick photography such as The Ten Commandments (de
Mille: 1923), or dozens of Samson-and-Delilah and life-of-Christ films were also
produced in the hope of attracting audiences through familiar, sensationalistic, and
uplifting themes.
By far the most popular silent film story between opera and biblical narratives
was Salomé; a total of twenty-three silent films on this theme were made between 1918
and 1923, beating by far those on the Egyptian queen Cleopatra, at only nine.
Taking its cue from stage success, film took advantage of Salomé’s appeal of
those seven veils barely covering a lithe, attractive young female body in the transports of
dancing (Chapter Three). The exotic character of Salomé (and Allen’s version
especially) offered an image of young womanhood as both beguilingly seductive draped
in translucent veils, and terrifyingly depraved in demanding the head of John the Baptist.
The combination of a young, nubile and physically healthy woman with uncontrollable
passions echoed fears of the new, modern woman capable of taking charge of her life and
making demands (Chapters One and Three). Such display on stage and screen mitigated:
. . .fears of feminization—that we have lost our ability to claim our
manhood in a world without fathers, without frontiers, without manly
creative work—have haunted men for a century. And nowhere have these
fears been played out more fully for the past hundred years than in
literature, film, and television (Kimmel: 321).
A less obvious connection between dance and film is that these dances reflect a
visual connection with filmic “elliptical editing”. A kind of “shorthand” for real
“time/real space” continuum in performance, elliptical editing refers to qualities already
familiar to the audience, and in so doing makes a comment on them42. All three dances
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in this study are short, varying from two minutes for Gnossienne to thirteen for Faune.
Both Gnossienne and Incense reflect an abbreviated unitization so that either could be
inserted into, or withdrawn from, other Denishawn programs at a moment’s notice, a
practice of modular construction of an evening’s program.
Following Debussy’s short but intense internalization of musical construction,
Nijinsky utilized the Prelude as a means to unfold a transient, intense evocation of
nostalgia for a pastoral scene. As was discussed in each of the three previous chapters,
all three dances used their short format to heighten an immediate experiential mind/body
sense of spiritual transport. Like film, these dances referred to “real” space and time43.
This quality of a derivative action consistent with Early Modernism avant-garde (Chapter
One) is also characteristic of the vaudeville format; any act, live or on film, did well if it
presented its story in three minutes or less44. It made shuffling a dance program for
variety, and adaptability to changing conditions much easier, and marketing a matter of
reorganizing surface images in a variety of configurations (Glossary: Modular
Construction):
. . .the new communication technologies. . .helped give birth to mass
culture and the era of mass consumption. . .by transforming time into a
product that can be reproduced and sold. . .(Belton: 7)
Trying to keep up with the rapid technological advances in film and photography
around this period of time is nearly futile, but a few examples serve to illustrate the
balances between reality and fantasy which both dance and film explored. Although the
French45 were quick to pick up on the opportunities celluloid film presented, the Edison
shorts of 1895 provide some interesting examples of “trick” movie making that explore
fantastic visual effects and psychological narratives. In The Pie Eating Contest the black
and white contrast of the image is so extreme that all one sees is two disembodied, faces
of men plunging into pies and eating them46. The entire footage of “The Pumpkin
Escape” is run backwards to make it look like a truck-load of pumpkins have been
maliciously animated to terrorize a city neighborhood.
Edwin Porter47(1869-1941) presented a frantic imagination of gastric suffering in
his 1906 fantasy, Dreams of a Rarebit Fiend. Not only must the glutton of the story
endure miniature demons leaping out of a giant tureen to give him a headache, but objects
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in his room jump from place to place. Then his bed (with him in it) executes a dazzling
spin, jerks through the room, and sails out the window for a midnight ride above the city
skyline; all accomplished as tricks of the camera that delight audiences even today48.
Porter was also the first to use crosscutting sequences between two scenes separated by
space and time, yet connected by narrative thread. The resulting illusion of simultaneous
thoughts and actions is a cinematographic technique in use to the present day.
In Porter’s 1903 The Life of an American Fireman, time is condensed into
simultaneous action, as the eye of the camera shifts rapidly back and forth between the
outside of a burning building where firemen49 struggle to fix a rescue ladder, and the
inside of the building where the ubiquitous mother and infant are desperately crying for
help. The urgency of the situation is punctuated with noble resolve; Porter further refines
the heroic sentiments of the fireman by setting up a dream sequence to precede the
dramatic and climatic conclusion of the film:
The fire chief is dreaming, and the vision of his dream appears in a
circular portrait upon the wall. It is a mother putting her baby to bed, and
the inference is that he dreams of his own wife and child (Pratt: from
Edison Films, Supplement 168, Edison Manufacturing Company, Orange,
New Jersey, February 1903, pp. 2-3).
The dream sequence in the movie is rendered as an internal mental activity
through which the audience understands the fireman’s motivations; that even in his
dreams he cherishes the lives of women and children as precious and to be protected from
all dangers. The movie audience experiences an intimacy with the fire chief by being
privy to his dream. In this way the dream sequence intensifies the narrative of the
fireman’s story when he is later called upon to rescue a woman and her baby from a
burning building. We know how quickly and willingly he would risk his own life to save
them because his noble character was first revealed in his dream.
This kind of experience is accepted vicariously as “real”. Although audiences
know they are sitting in a darkened theatre, the agreement of “willing suspension of
disbelief” allows the film-maker to transport them into fresh interpretations of the
experiential world close to the mechanisms of memory. It is difficult to imagine, for
example, that anyone viewing the conclusion of Porter’s hugely popular 1903 The Great
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Train Robbery (in which an outlaw fires a gun directly at the camera) can even today,
resist an involuntary impulse to flinch as if shot.
Many of these kinds of films were promoted as historically instructive as well as
inspiring, and in order to fix that perception, dance was included. To distinguish
themselves from sheer entertainments, films with loftier educational messages for their
audiences were called “Photoplays”50 instead of “movies”. An enthusiastic and prolific
film-maker in this line of photoplays was D. W. Griffith (1875-1948), who covered his
questionable authoritative claims by lavishly quoting both the Bible and Shakespeare51 in
his opening dialogue titles (Brewster and Jacobs). Griffith was quick to recognize the
visual impact of dance movement in his historical constructs. One of the highlights of his
meandering epic of world history and social justice, Intolerance (1916) featured a lavish
Babylon set with twenty members of the Denishawn Company dancing on the steps
leading up to the palace/temple52.
Evidently perceiving dance as a conservative, rather than innovative element in
his film, Griffith chose to shoot the scene head-on with long- to medium-shots as if it had
been part of an opera on a proscenium stage. Shawn and St. Denis wisely choreographed
the dance with strong posed images invoking ancient bas relief sculptures. The fact that
there was very little continuous movement between them allowed the highly-stylized
dance to stand up to the break-neck pace53of the editing by conveying to the audience an
immediately- recognizable iconographic image.
Although this dance sequence is very brief, repetitive, and constantly broken into
by other scenes in the rather frantic story-telling pace Griffith established in the film, it
represents an interesting case of mutual verification between the Griffith’s fiction and
Denishawn. By 1916 Denishawn was known for its high, uncompromising artistic
standards and good taste in dance education and performance. In turn, the movie showed
members of Denishawn dancing to a widely dispersed audience in an uplifting, thrilling
“historical” narrative linking ancient struggles for freedom with a modern story of social
and judicial justice.
This capacity of film—especially silent films—to show hidden features of a
character’s psyche rather than using words to describe them places it in a close
conceptual immediacy between narrative and audience. In other words, the audiences of
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these kinds of films vicariously experience an internalized kinesthetic response to the
way in which images are meticulously designed and edited to unfold the tale as if it were
happening to the viewer; even more so than live on stage. Films revealed this trait in the
process of shifting from a presentational to representational format (Belton), so that it
becomes not only the what of the physical experience, but the how and why of an equallyvalid emotional/psychological one. Interpretation, then, becomes the means to reveal an
emotional/psychological veracity that the physical alone cannot communicate. This
dynamic, which Stanislavsky recognized in his technique for training actors in naturalism
is one that is also exploited in film:
The more immediate, spontaneous, vivid, precise the reflection you
produce from inner to outer form, the better, broader, fuller will be your
public’s sense of the inner life of the character you are portraying on stage
(An Actor’s Handbook, 274).
While Intolerance gave visibility to Denishawn in a way not possible even
through exhaustive touring, the Denishawn school in turn trained film performers
alongside its dancers. Silent film performers who flocked to Denishawn included Lillian
Gish, Roszila Dolly, Leonire Ullrich, Ruth Chatterton, Ina Claire, Mabel Normand,
Blanche Sweet, Louise Glaum, Margaret Loomis, and Carol Dempster. There they
received systematic training in Delsarte and Dalcroze expressive movement, polished
through Shawn’s and St. Denis’ meticulous coaching in the “posed, iconic visual
moment” which had been pioneered in Gnossienne (Chapter Three) and Incense (Chapter
Two).
Students of Ted Shawn at Jacob's Pillow as late as 1967 were required to purchase
and study his Delsarte textbook, Every Little Movement, which Shawn first published in
1910 (M. Witmark & Sons). Although this analysis of gesture is tedious and somewhat
outdated54, it must be remembered that Delsarte’s work influenced Hollywood
stereotypical codes from its earliest beginnings, and remnants of such coding persisted in
most films made in the 20th century:
. . .Delsarte’s acting system, which was based on the teaching of poses,
was still being taught. . .in the first decade of the twentieth century, and
the evidence from films. . .shows that these traditions were still alive a
decade later. . .(Brewster and Jacobs: 82).
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The response of the first audiences to each of the three dances examined in this
study provides a logical starting point from which to begin discussing them in terms of
how they were packaged and distributed. While Incense both pleased and confused its
audiences by presenting a vision at once sensual and chaste, it has over time come to be
accepted as a landmark example of American modern dance innovation. As a radical
departure from traditional ballet presentational form (Chapter Four), Faune elicited
strong reactions among its first audiences who either vigorously supported its shocking
expression or attacked it. Impresario Diaghilev manipulated advertising to capitalize on
Faune’s shock value so that he could promote its continuation for Nijinsky. Gnossienne
continues to puzzle audiences, and functions as a bridge between studio instructional
demonstration and dance performance. Despite Shawn’s efforts to bring expressive,
spiritual dance into the realm of legitimate American male activities, dances on the order
of Gnossienne are still doubtfully accepted by most Americans.
The Parisian critical response to Faune is well documented because it was
extreme: the ballet was either violently attacked as an insufferable affront to good taste55
or praised as heralding the entry of ballet into the Twentieth Century.
It was this final scene of L’Après-midi d’un Faune (1912) that so outraged
the editor of Le Figaro, [Calmette, in opposition to his own dance critic,
Robert Brussel] who used the words “filthy”, “bestial”, “crude”, and
“loathsome” and suggested that “decent people will never accept such
animal realism” (Parker: 127).
As was discussed in Chapter Four, Nijinsky evidently recognized that his idea for the
ballet would meet with resistance, and he conducted his initial choreography in secret
with his sister Nijinska. Even in its first rehearsals Faune presented conceptual and
kinesthetic problems for dancers and musicians (Chapter Four), presaging its general
reception in performance. Together with the Parisian critic and presenter of modern art,
Astruc, and early Ballets Russes supporter Jean Cocteau, Diaghilev carefully orchestrated
the way in which Nijinsky’s first choreography would be viewed. The ballet was
announced as part of the new season of Ballets Russes and had its premiere in Paris at the
Théâtre du Châtelet. Also presented with Faune in the same evening were several triedand-true favorites: Firebird, Spectre de la Rose, Prince Igor, and Le Dieu Bleu.
Fokine’s upcoming Greek production, Daphnis et Chloe, (music by Ravel) was
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completely overshadowed by Faune, and Diaghilev’s support of Nijinsky as a
choreographer prompted the eventual departure of Fokine from the Ballets Russes.
The audience was, according to all accounts, engulfed in stunned silence during
the public premiere of Faune. At its conclusion, a confused cacophony of boos and
cheers filled the theatre. Alarmed by this expression of shock, the producers did what
they could to encourage acceptance of the piece as a completely new kind of ballet work:
Diaghilev spared no trouble or expense to create a favorable climate of
opinion for Nijinsky's first ballet. Following the répétition générale—
which, according to Fokine, was so silently received that after a hurried
backstage conference Astruc appeared in front of the curtain to announce
that since “such a new exhibition could not be understood in a single
viewing, the ballet would be repeated” —champagne and caviar were
served to critics and supporters in the foyer (Buckles: 237).
Faune's erotic, primitive affront to the anticipated nostalgia of a pleasant
pastorale usually associated with a ballet on a Greek theme was jarring, especially
juxtaposed with Debussy’s dream-like evocations in the music. The seemingly
incomprehensible combination of sophistication and raw expression took some
persuasion to put across, even among the Parisian intellectuals. Gaston Calmette, writing
for Le Figaro, vehemently opposed the piece; the artist Odilon Rédon opined that the
poet Mallarmé would have been delighted with Nijinsky’s interpretation. Sculptor
August Rodin’s remarks published in a rival Parisian paper, Le Matin, particularly:
. . .paid a striking tribute to Nijinsky’s extraordinary success in portraying
the wildness of a faun—apart from which he possessed the distinct
advantage of physical perfection, with the beauty of an antique fresco or
statue; he was the ideal model for whom every painter and sculptor had
longed (Parker: 125).
These heated opinions added to the success de scandale propelling both company and
Faune into public awareness; everyone wanted to see for themselves what the row was all
about, and the resulting full houses ensured Faune’s continuing success.
While Nijinsky’s Faune had the support of Diaghilev and the Ballets Russes,
Gnossienne and Incense depended upon the agency of the Denishawn school and
company as a mechanism of distribution and acceptance. This agency represented
harmonic unions: the name “Denishawn” married not only the private but also the public
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personas of both artists. Even the logo for Denishawn (designed by Rose O’Neill)
expressed a human median between genders. The design featured a kneeling man and
woman surrounded by what appears to be a length of fabric in the figure eight symbol for
eternity56.
Denishawn also provided an American model based upon the ballet format of a
combined school and company with the practical purpose of training dancers in the
evolving needs of a distinctly American performing company, as well as generating
funding for new productions. In the process, Denishawn altered audience perceptions to
accommodate later progressions of experimental dance as valid artistic and cultural
expressions. While St. Denis presided as the reigning dance goddess, Shawn was a steady
guide to students in the initial stages of finding their own modern dance expressions. In
both functions of Denishawn, St. Denis and Shawn took complimentary roles. St. Denis’
influence on students was inspirational, while Shawn’s filled the more practical one of
teaching. In addition, Shawn managed the company tours, effected negotiations with
theatre managers, and kept the finances:
. . .he [Shawn] had a flair for mixing art and business in the right
proportions, cleverly devising programs that allowed St. Denis her mystic
vein but ended with a dash of ragtime jazz. The public loved it (Fonteyn:
108).
Despite their incorporation into the performing repertoire of the company,
reactions to Incense and Gnossienne were different. While Gnossienne started out as an
expression of the dual educative and artistic goals of Denishawn, Incense had been
created and toured in the United States and Europe by St. Denis several years prior.
Acceptance of Incense varied, depending on the perception of the speaker, and ranged
from dismissive, to sensationalistic, to reverent. In the American art scene of 1906 few
professional dancers attempted such a radical revision of the audience/performer
relationships as did St. Denis with her initial series of Hindu dances, of which Incense
was the first (Chapter Two). But even St. Denis could never quite escape the entrenched
attraction of an alluring female on stage for the male gaze. In discussing the art of St.
Denis, Shawn57 presents the attitude of those producers who decided which performances
were put up on stage based entirely on monetary return:
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. . .we find, “. . .there are two ways to succeed with dancers. If they have a
sensational acrobatic novelty that has never been seen before that will
make money. Otherwise you’ve got to take their clothes off if you want
anybody to look at ‘em. . .” (Shawn: 26).
Given this entrenched attitude, St. Denis was forced, especially in the beginning, to
compromise with producers. Based largely upon her youthful appeal and possibly also
upon the filmy drape (with the ever-present possibility it might undrape at any moment)
of her sari costume58 St. Denis’ first engagement with Incense was at the “Saturday
Smoker” special attended primarily by men at the Proctor Theater. Reactions were
mixed; many in that kind of audience were unruly and crude; others were confused,
because the figure she presented was simultaneously titillating and remote (Chapter
Two). Gradually a few responded to the vision St. Denis presented, and word of her
unfamiliar tensions of “sensual chasteness” spread:
At least one critic found in St. Denis’ dancing “a universal rhythm beneath
the broken chaos of our modern industrial world which shall infuse new
joy and rhythmic harmony into our common life.” (Shelton: 55).
A landmark opportunity to perform Incense under her own controlled conditions
came to St. Denis through the stalwart socialite and art patron Mrs. Rouland. Together
with an invited audience of well-educated upper-class women only, Mrs. Rouland
engaged the Hudson Theater. St. Denis flooded the foyer with the scent of incense and
populated it with a group of quiet, exotically-attired “Indians” (some of whom were not
actually from India) as ushers. In her autobiography St. Denis reports the audience
response to Incense was one of stunned silence followed by enthusiastic applause. But
such engagements were few and far between; until the establishment of Denishawn,
Incense—along with her other Hindu59dances—were tucked into vaudeville tours
between displays of “pickled calves” and clown acts (St. Denis: 69). The modular
construction that Shawn engineered around her dances through Denishawn likely
prolonged the inclusion of Incense in Denishawn programs:
. . .the Denishawn repertory under Shawn contained none of that luxurious
spread out time and resonant charm of St. Denis; Shawn had subdivided
her art into a collection of small numbers. He copied the Russians; he
borrowed their themes and their policy of mixed programs (Kendall: 120).
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As discussed in Chapter Two, St. Denis generated stability in this fluctuating
condition by fusing her name and artistic persona with the noble aspirations expressed in
this dance. St. Denis the dancer became fused with the character of her portrayal,
especially since early press notices asserted that she was a mysteriously aristocratic
Eurasian trained from childhood in the esoteric dance arts of India. However, this frame
of validation later gave way to commercial support through the Denishawn school.
Incense was also offered, among other solos, to be taught to serious dance students by St.
Denis herself:
An announcement was included in the promotional pamphlet: “Miss
Denis’ famous dances are taught only in their entirety, at special prices
which includes the music and supervision of costumes. . . (Cohen: 2).
In this context, St. Denis the dancer and the Hindu woman she represented combined as
an authentically alien import in more than one sense; she became known geographically,
spiritually, and by commercial venue a rare and beautiful vision amid curiosities.
Professor Jack Clark, who made the reconstruction examined in this study in
200160, indicated that members of a contemporary audience for a recent performance of
Incense remarked on its subtlety, its simple and straightforward sense of transcendence,
and its “indulgence”, which Clark explained as “how far the dancer was willing to go; the
depth of engagement into the self-material before a self-consciousness kicks in.” Finally,
Incense is a representation of a different period and style of dance performance
(Interviews 16 November 2003 and 16 April 2003). And although St. Denis presented
herself in Incense as remotely spiritual, the dance was only one of several facets of her
performing range; the adaptability of her reach to ordinary audiences supported her exotic
transports:
She [St. Denis] appealed to the little man. . .in sum, for twenty-five years
she was never off the stage, both popular and cultural. Her very
ubiquitousness and multi-social level appeal cause the hang-up that this
historian and other dance writers admittedly have about her place
(Schlundt: 3).
At its premiere, Gnossienne did not receive enthusiastic response by most
audiences, but Shawn noted in his autobiography that there were a few exceptions to this
reserved confusion on the part of viewers as he performed it over the years:
244
No backstage visitor surprised me more than Dr. Arnold Genthe. . .I had
known the eminent photographer only as hypercritical. . .[he said] “It’s
very difficult nowadays to add anything really new to the vocabulary of
the dance but I think you have done it with Gnossienne. It’s a genuine
contribution.” (Shawn61: 101).
Neither the acceptance of Incense nor the shock of Faune greeted this dance, and
it seems to fall into a category of curious oddities for most audiences past and present. Its
flattened movement certainly evoke Nijinsky’s earlier piece, and yet because the dancer
moves along constantly changing perpendicular planes, Gnossienne also suggests a
different relationship to the visual perspective of an audience. Like Incense, Gnossienne
was designed as an insertable solo to fit varying conditions of vaudeville circuits and
concert touring. Clark mentioned that audience response to Gnossienne was interested
and curious but not particularly enthusiastic. People described it as quirky, quizzical, and
odd, and while watching it, they tried to suppress a nervous tendency to laugh. As
discussed in Chapter Three, Shawn encouraged a humorous response to the dance by
affecting haughty manners in his bows. Despite its humorous overtones, audiences find it
difficult to laugh at something that also has a religious demeanor. The same response of
confusion was observed by the author when Gnossienne was shown to a class of
undergraduate humanities students at Florida State University, Fall Semester, 2003.
Although Incense was offered in Denishawn brochures to be taught by St. Denis
for a fee and licensed to a student to perform in her own program, Gnossienne was not
among those offered by Shawn. The reasons for this are obscure; a drawing of Shawn in
this dance appeared in the border decoration of Denishawn brochures. Perhaps it was not
included among those franchised because Gnossienne was not an easy dance to learn in
only a few lessons except by an expert student. Shawn continued to both perform it as a
dance and use it as a class demonstration/exercise illustrating isolated physical control
required of the accomplished dancer (Chapter Three). And although the choreography
for it was set, Shawn continued to tinker with the rhythmic potential Gnossienne had
opened. By the time simpler, less complex dances were being offered to generate
revenues for new productions of Denishawn, Shawn had evidently taken some of the
movement to music approaches pioneered in Gnossienne to apply in subsequent pieces:
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. . .The reactions of the body in planal opposition creates the sustained
poses. The dynamic structure of the work was uniquely innovative for
Shawn, playing with the tension created by the 9/8 and 7/8 measures
forcing against the expectations of common time (Cohen: 8).
As has been discussed in their respective chapters, St. Denis’ Incense and
Shawn’s Gnossienne fit into the short-piece programmatic format of vaudeville, a feature
that served the touring needs of Denishawn. Such dances were short, modularly-flexible,
and central to the individual performer. Incense and Gnossienne were expressions of
spiritualism through gendered responses to ritual, and they conveyed a sense of natural
expressive movement, not the least in the fact that in both dances the dancers are
barefoot62. These dances are also capable of lifting their audiences out of the ordinary
into an exotic reference. They engage a performative suspension of ordinary time and
space, and a stylized reference to technological advancements.
Because they were short and adaptable to a wide variety of staging conditions, all
three dances proved to be ideal modular units, capable of being assembled with other,
similar dances in a variety of ways63 depending upon need. This kind of versatility made
it possible for Diaghilev’s Ballets Russes to tour Europe and the United States in a
streamlined fashion, with a minimum of sets and smaller company of dancers. Both St.
Denis and Shawn toured their dances throughout the United States, Europe, and Asia as
part of their dance programs that, for all their artfulness, effectively offered a little of
everything to please everyone on the same order as vaudeville. Following the
programmatic format of music in the process of escaping Wagnerianism64, these dances
represent a similar break from the conventions of the full-evening ballet on a grand scale;
from a complex whole to streamlined units making up the whole; from external display to
internal transformation; from an exhibition of exotic elements to an evocation of a deeply
personal experience.
This kind of change is as much a feature of the avant-garde as of the general trend
of performance in the United States. The trend appeared early, undoubtedly influenced
by the logistics of travel needed to reach far-flung audiences. Imports from Europe
constituted the greatest proportion of performing art across the Atlantic; “home-grown”
productions relied heavily upon European traditions of aesthetics and performance
246
conventions. Still, American artists began appearing in operas, plays, and balletpantomimes based on American narratives just twenty years after independence from
England. The 1794 opera Tammany, or the Indian Chief was tremendously popular as
one of the very first operas written in the United States with an American theme65. Given
music composed by the violinist James Hewitt, and the story by Mrs. Anne Julia Hatton,
it told the tragic tale of a noble but doomed Indian hero in his struggles against Spanish
conquest66 and featured the dancing of the American John Durang (1768-1822). “It is
interesting that the first opera-ballet given in this country should have been an American
Indian dance!” (Moore: 26).
1794 was further marked in American performing arts history with the premiere
in Philadelphia of the first serious American ballet-pantomime, La Forêt Noire67.
American ballet-pantomimes in spectaculars were popular, not the least for the
opportunity it gave audiences to view plenty of female charm exhibited by phalanxes of
winsome young women in skimpy outfits. For example, the Black Crook that ran from
1866 to 1868 at Niblo’s Garden68 (followed closely by its imitator, The White Fawn in
1868)popularized fantasy as an excuse to show off plenty of female leg. Through
vaudeville, this feature of combining fantasy and feminine allure still had not lost its
appeal69 by the time George Méliès premiered the early silent cinema science fiction
fantasy, A Trip to the Moon in 1902.
Durang shared the dancing in Tammany with a Mr. Miller who, Moore speculates,
probably had been working at the Vauxhall70 as a rope dancer and gymnast. Taking
advantage of Tammany’s popularity, Durang later extrapolated his dancing role in it into
his own ballet pantomime called The Huntress, or Tammany’s Frolics, astonishing his
audience by dancing on a slack rope. The project was perhaps one of his earliest attempts
at choreography (Moore: 27). More to the point of this discussion, however, is the fact
that Durang inventively reworked his dance from the spectacle in which it initially
appeared and presented it as an autonomous unit that could be toured in a way the
original spectacle could not.
A later American ballet-pantomime, The Abduction of Nina71 (1848)
choreographed by an Italian student of Carlo Blasis, Gaetano Neri featured the American
dancer George Washington Smith (1820?-1899) (Moore: 160). Neri, Smith, and a
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bewitching ballerina, Giovanna Ciocca, followed their success in The Abduction of Nina
with a series of divertissements, or short, one-scene solo or pas de deux dances that had
the versatility of being inserted or withdrawn on quick notice from a wide variety of stage
venues, including one from Rossini’s opera, William Tell72 (1827) which was inserted
after an abbreviated derivation performance of Shakespeare’s Richard III. Neri and
Ciocca quickly adapted to this American rough and tumble mixing of performance works
to please the audiences; they had previously left Smith without a job for a few weeks
while they danced at the Park between the acts of Hamlet, just as Smith had done a few
years earlier. “Evidently Shakespeare, without a little dancing to lighten the evening, was
not to be considered! (Moore: 161).
This marketing approach for shows of all kinds employed a kind of mutual
verification of a standard of excellence in order to persuade paying audiences to attend.
For example, in 1849 an American equestrian drama called Eagle Eye, for which Smith
choreographed a series of American Indian war dances gained popularity in eastern US
cities (Moore: 161). Smith cleverly took advantage of the popularity of the drama to
enhance his own dance reputation. He extrapolated the dances and presented them as
part and parcel of the original. And in so doing, not only did Smith enhance his own
name recognition by association with the original production of Eagle Eye, he also
enhanced the original spectacle through the fame of his own name.
American performers in the United States weren’t the only ones able to adapt
their appeal in this way. One of three European artists who performed to acclaim in the
United States from 1840 to 1842 was the Viennese ballerina Fanny Essler (1810-1884).
Part of her great popularity derived from her ability to maintain a classical ballet
presentation of popular folk themes like Scottish or Spanish dances. As a touring soloist
depending upon the dubious training of local dancers, uncertain performing conditions,
and a rugged touring schedule, it made sense for Essler—as for the Norwegian violinist
Ole Bull and the Swedish soprano Jenny Lind who followed her—to present programs
consisting of a series of short, quick, and highly-flexible solo works of as wide a range as
possible instead of trying to mount large, full-length ballets.
The pattern of starting with a large, spectacular work to gain broad public
recognition and then later cutting it down into smaller, quick-touring units demonstrated
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in Durang’s adaptation of his role in Tammany proved useful in spreading other works
from large Eastern urban centers into the diffuse western regions of the United States.
This tactic also paid off for American dancers featured in large, elaborate spectaculars in
the big Eastern cities who subsequently capitalized on name recognition by taking a
selection of dances from the larger work on tour. It was also a quick and easy way to
tailor a program with maximum flexibility to suit any given condition, and to make
audiences believe it has been tailored to their demanding tastes when all that has really
happened is that the same pre-designed modules have been shuffled into a different
configuration. In this type of construct, appearance is everything:
The analogy between individual development and cultural development
holds—and at no time more clearly than the turn of the century. . .In the
culture of consumption, identity was based. . .upon how one appeared and
lived. . .other-directed men scanned a mental radar screen for fluctuations
in public opinion. . .having a good personality was the way to win friends
and influence people (Kimmel: 119).
The transition from vaudeville to film was one of marketing as much as a
fascination with the possibilities of the new medium. Film was the ideal experiential
venue for mass marketing because it could reach so many more audiences in different
locations. Certainly it is a good deal cheaper to send cans of films across the country
than a troupe of live performers; the same film can be mass produced and shown
simultaneously in movie houses all over the country, and it promoted trademark
recognition of other products. In other words, if the movie pleased—so went
advertising—then the toothpaste, soda, and even upcoming movie attractions displayed
with it would also please:
The cinema emerges as the perfect consumer product in that it not only
gives audiences an experience to consume but it also functions as a
“display window” for other mass-produced goods (Belton: 7).
In the rush to stimulate an appetite for the “new and innovative”, both the popular
entertainments of vaudeville and film participated with “legitimate” stage venues of
drama, opera, and the ballet in the five elements of the avant-garde. Exotic themes such
as Salomé in all performing mediums provided a conceptual bridge from full-evening
spectaculars featuring the feminine exotic to abbreviated, internally-intense expressions
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of the “New Woman” (Chapter Three) exemplified by Tanguey. Although St. Denis
maintained an air of sanctified dignity in Incense, she nevertheless benefited from
Tanguey’s audacious control of the vaudeville stage for her own—rather than her
audience’s—expressive purposes; barefoot, free of corsets, and potentially dangerous to
the masculine identity for all her fascination. In a comparable fashion, the exotic display
of the masculine “self-made” man such as Sandow paved the way for acceptance of
Shawn’s Gnossienne.
In this perspective, it is possible to place Nijinsky as an acclaimed (European
ballet) dancer somewhere between the male and female performing exotic, especially
with his ambiguously-gendered Faune. The fluidity of identity for the “self-made”
performer as person, persona, and character fused into a commodified icon in vaudeville
and its technologically-enhanced child, cinema, presented audiences with an experience
beyond the everyday based in part on a continued fascination with exoticism. The
scandal of Faune, for example, and the furor of passionate opinions arguing for and
against the piece was just the reaction such avant-garde artists as the Futurists desired.
This kind of publicity put the names of Diaghilev and the Ballets Russes in the category
of modernism in ballet. And Nijinsky as the Faun embodied humanity caught between
nostalgia for a simpler past and anxieties over an uncertain technological future.
Modular construction as a format for experiential commodities favored art and
entertainment works that were short, intense, and derivative as independent interlocking
units that could be recombined in any order to suit various performing conditions. All
three dances in this study come into this category, presenting the density of their
communications in two to thirteen minutes. While both Gnossienne and Incense were
presented on vaudeville stages as referents to the larger institution of Denishawn, Faune
referred not only to the European successes of the Ballets Russes, but also to the
traditions of the non-mobile Imperial Theatres and School, of which Nijinsky was a
product. The splintering of a single “act” from a larger piece to which it refers was a
practice arising shortly after the establishment of the United States; as was previously
discussed, Durang successfully toured his dances from Tammany around the country.
Incense, Faune and Gnossienne also were successfully toured throughout Europe and the
United States.
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Instead of external showiness, these programmatic dances also invoked deeply
transformative spiritual messages because they were interally-directed from the soloist’s
point of view. Audiences quickly identified themselves in the longing for divine
communion expressed in Incense, and Americans responded to its Oriental mysticism,
which had become a part of its own spiritual ethos. Gnossienne and Faune invoked
comparable transformations through ritualized movements in which the body, in
geometric configurations, projected ephemeral emotions. Gnossienne’s priest is
humbled, but not completely; the Faun reverently bears the Nymph’s veil as if it were a
holy relic up into his private realm of memory, perhaps to puzzle its feminine mystery.
Cinema explored similar, psychologically transformative territory in moving from a
presentational to a representational format; it was not enough to document a building on
fire, for example, in Porter’s Life of a Fireman; the moral character of the fireman was
revealed to the audience in dream, thus engaging it in the urgency of the rescue.
The search for naturalism in performance continued in the teachings of
Stanislavsky and challenged audiences in the plays of Ibsen and Strindberg. Delsarte’s
principles of movement and speech to reveal the true nature of the individual permeated
both stage and cinema dramas. Dance artists, along with film actors and stage actors
studied Delsarte posing as a means of perfecting their expressive range. The
incorporation of flowing garments (Incense) and the human (male) body revealed to
view, distanced the performer/character from associations with sophisticated, hence
artificial and false everyday interactions. Dance as a medium of expression in this
context was ideal, because the body did not deceive as did words; a child-like simplicity
was implied in bare feet, and pedestrian movements like walking, running and bending
featured in these dances.
Finally, the reflexive qualities of cinema and vaudeville also enhanced their
facility in distortions of time and space. Two vaudeville acts, each lasting only a few
minutes juxtaposed next to each other transported audiences from a modern-day city
street scene to Ancient Egypt almost as quickly as today’s TV remote control changes the
channel. The eye of the camera (first in photography, and then the silent film) was
selective in what it allowed the audience to see, and not to see. Film scenes juxtaposed
next to each other implied a condensed sequencing of events that has developed into a
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kind of “shorthand” for real time and space. And the audience was invited to vicariously
participate in an acceleration of time in the depiction of exciting scenes that last only a
few moments, but invoke much longer periods of time. The arrangement required a
significant alteration of the time/space relationship between the experiential commodity
of performance and its audiences. In his article, “Photo Synthesis” (Los Angeles Times
Calendar, Sunday, 7 March 2004,) Times staff writer Christopher Knight states that:
Before the camera revolutionized the image world in the mid-19th Century,
pictures were found mostly in rarified places of institutional authority—
especially palaces and places of worship—or they were appended to texts
in books or pamphlets. Usually a picture didn’t come to you—you went to
the picture (E-1-40-41).
This shift constitutes an even greater alteration in meaning and visual interpretation of
images with which in posed, still moments the dances come into context with modern
issues of representation. And, as Knight suggests, the connective tissue in this dynamic
alteration of images in the modern framework—whether dance, visual arts, or advertising
design—refers to both the exotic (“rarified places of institutional authority” like
museums, etc.) and the spiritual (“places of worship”). The particularly close
combination of these avant-garde components in Gnossienne, Faune, and Incense
maintained their connections with expressive art while at the same time opening them to
unitized marketing practices effective in commodifying popular entertainments.
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END NOTES TO CHAPTER FIVE
1
Despite outstanding innovations in early film by French and German artists, cinema is considered here as a
primarily American development.
2
See Glossary for a more detailed discussion of modular construction and its significance in marketing
both concrete objects and discrete experiential commodities.
3
An on-line chronological chart mapping the years of influence for Art Nouveau and Art Deco from the last
decade of the Nineteenth Century to the first two decades of the Twentieth show a remarkable consistency
of ten years between introduction in Europe to introduction in the United States. This strongly supports the
perception that if innovative art and artists gained initial acceptance in Europe, acceptance in the United
States would follow. Not only did Fuller, Duncan, and St. Denis recognize how this dynamic could help
them gain acceptance in the US, but so did Nijinsky and Shawn, among others.
4
Both Kimmel (Masculinity in America) and Levine (High Brow, Low Brow) discuss the dramatic effect
successive waves of immigrants into the United States had on American culture. A unifying, monolithic
perception of the “true” American male was challenged by the arrival of non-Europeans and pressure from
women for equal rights. The idea that a single, conjoined cultural, political, and gender unity (or
consensual agreement, if preferred) of identity must be dominant at the expense of all others demonstrates a
hierarchal structure particularly characteristic of American society and its public performance.
5
While Fuller kept a low profile of her sexual preferences, Duncan’s flagrant love affairs and performances
in which she showed considerable flesh for the time always interested the American public a good deal
more than did her dances. St. Denis carefully avoided public scandal, striving always to support moral
behavior and equally high artistic standards in her students and company. American uneasiness over any
“non-productive” physical activity (sports being productive of healthy young bodies) made it all too easy to
criticize dance as immoral.
6
This movie, commonly cited as an example of German expressionism in American film innovation,
served as the prototype of most science fiction movies to follow, including the reflexive imagery in the
recent Minority Report (Spielberg: 2002). The evolving film genre of science fiction is marked with a
distinct link between science and magic, a common motif in the earliest films; Méliès’ 1902 A Trip to the
Moon features scientists who build the space ship wearing pointed hats and capes like a magician’s.
7
It is interesting to note that both American spiritualism discussed by Taylor in his book, Shadow Culture
and American Delsartism (Zorn, John. The Essential Delsarte ) remark upon the differences from the
European versions of these concepts in similar terms. Taylor presents American spiritualism as being
highly eclectic, individualistic, and requiring an understanding of the mind-body link in which good health
of the body infers a healthy spiritual orientation. In practice, American Delsartism also stressed the health
of the body, and the idea that the correct state of mind will automatically produce a “pure, natural, and
genuine” physical expression reflective of a spiritually-guided person.
8
Of these operas, the fabulous and elaborate productions of Aida (Verdi: 1871) serve as an example. The
setting of the opera is an outrageously fantasized concoction of Ancient Egypt in which exotic live animals
were brought on stage. It is to be understood that although stage venues of all kinds are listed in this study
at the point of their premieres in the late Nineteenth Century, their popularity and frequency of
performances in the United States and Europe continued well into the early decades of the Twentieth unless
otherwise noted. Even to the present time, lavish productions of the classical ballet The Nutcracker, which
first premiered in the Imperial Theatres of Russia in 1892 are so popular in the United States as a Christmas
tradition that around sixty percent of regional ballet companies’ annual income comes from performances
of this ballet (Dance Magazine).
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9
The most elaborate American musical presented at Niblo’s—The Black Crook—opened in 1866 and
enjoyed forty years of continuous popularity and a Hoboken revival in 1929 (Moore: 65).
10
The development of cultural hierarchy in American performing art is admirably discussed in Lawrence
Levine’s book, Highbrow, Lowbrow: the Emergence of Cultural Hierarchy in America. “high art” and
“low art” are briefly characterized in the Glossary according to Levine’s discussion.
11
Shawn’s Midwestern competitor, Paul Swan, discovered to his great humility (Chapter Three) that a full
evening performance of expressive male dancing could not be put across to audiences of that time. Even
though he offered a program of a series of short pieces in modular construction format, his dances were all
of a kind. It is speculated that although St. Denis and Shawn disliked having their earliest serious artistic
works blended in with “cheap entertainment” appealing to the lowest common denominator in vaudeville
audiences, they nevertheless were aware that acceptance of their esoteric expressions may have been
facilitated by proximity in the same evening with what was commonly comfortable and entertaining.
12
The term “silent” movie is misleading; live performance of music to accompany early cinema was almost
immediately arranged with the first public showings. Nearly all vaudeville theatres in which films were
first shown already had a piano or organ. Experiments with sound tracks to carry voice and sound with
film proved largely unsatisfactory until 1927 with the release of The Jazz Singer. But around 1918-19 a
German sound system called the Tri-Ergon recorded sound with film, and in 1923 the American Lee De
Forest Phonofilm system was demonstrated (Cohen: 7).
13
In a letter to St. Denis, Shawn states he had been to see the “Ballets Russes” and remained unimpressed
by them compared to her performances. Since the date of the letter precedes the first appearance of the
Ballets Russes in the United States by about a year, it is speculated by the author that what Shawn actually
saw was Hoffmann’s parody. Fortunately for St. Denis, her dance was copyrighted and Hoffmann was
legally barred from adopting it.
14
Instances in which early American cinema “borrowed” vaudeville format wholesale are too numerous to
list here. Many vaudeville acts showed up on screen, and many vaudevillians found work in the movies. It
could be argued that the basic vaudeville format never quite died out, for even in television one of the most
popular entertainments was The Ed Sullivan Show (1948 to 1971), which offered; “. . .no pandering to the
lowest common denominator here, there was grand opera and the latest rock stars, classical ballet and leggy
Broadway showgirls, slapstick comedy and recitations from great dramatic writings, often juxtaposed on a
single telecast” (http://www.timvp.com/sullivan.html, 31 October 2004).
15
This shift in cinema signals its potential as an art form instead of a “craft-full recording” of an event. A
presentational film would be one of a train pulling into a station shot by a single, stationary camera. A
representational film has a narration, space and time construct that could exist nowhere except on film.
One example is Porter’s Life of a Fireman (1903).
16
A cursory search of Jacob’s Pillow archives showed that St. Denis performed Incense on film in 1950,
(Reel 4.6 untitled), 1958 (Reel 25.9, Five Solos by Ruth St. Denis), 1958 (Reel 29, Ruth St. Denis and Ted
Shawn), and 1964 (Reel 30, Fifty Years of the Dance). Gnossienne did not appear in the listings; if it was
filmed either with Shawn or Mumaw performing it as a class demonstration, it was not mentioned.
17
According to Cohen (“The Franchising of Denishawn”), the prospective student who had adequately
learned a dance from Shawn or St. Denis could also purchase a recording of the music in the form of an
Ampico or Welte-Mignon piano roll, two companies that went into competition to produce marketable
music for recorded dance lessons and directions. They supplied these music packages not only for
Denishawn dances, but also for popular and ballet dance instruction (Cohen: 5).
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18
Minstrel shows featured touring troupes of white male performers in blackface telling jokes, singing,
playing music, dancing, and haranguing the (largely all-male) audience, which vigorously responded in
kind. The two-man comedy routine still popular today got its start from minstrelsy. Other venues
contributing to the format of vaudeville include circus, music hall, dime museums, sideshows, and the
burlesque revue.
19
The last vaudeville performance as such took place January 7, 1933 at the Palace, the last to close its
doors on this form of live entertainment.
20
Sobel states that the first vaudeville house opened its doors in New York in the late 1840’s.
21
Vaudeville acts were varied, and each one had to put its point across extremely quickly.
22
This is not to imply that short scenes from Shakespeare’s plays and opera songs did not play on
vaudeville; quite the opposite. Performers who had made names for themselves on the legitimate stages of
Europe were no strangers to American vaudeville, and often commanded top billing. An uplifting draw,
these offerings on vaudeville programs served to quell worries of propriety on the part of local officials
who, as like as not, censored risqué material and ran daring vaudevillians out of town. In addition, parodies
of serious stage works in theatre, dance, and music released class tensions by making fun of the elite
powers of refinement that had removed them from the popular domain (Levine: 85-168). Deliberate
anachronistic skits in which (for example) Hamlet smokes a cigar while delivering his heavily-punned
soliloquy, or a similar treatment in which the opera La Sonambula had been transformed into an Ethiopian
opera, Lo Sam am de Beauties in pre-vaudeville venues were common fare.
23
One early vaudeville act captured on film featured three young girls in white pajamas throwing a white
handkerchief up into the air between them, and periodically freezing in statue-like poses. Exact
connotations of this bizarre act and its possible appeal to audiences are lost in the past, but it speculatively
might have been a spoof on the popularity of Delsarte statue-posing among women of the upper classes of
the time.
24
One member (usually the star) of the minstrel show would put on a skirt or even just a crinoline hoop
over his male clothing in symbolic assumption of the feminine for at least one act; vaudeville reproduced
much of the minstrel show format (Sobel: 33).
25
Tanguay’s display of broad social disruption on vaudeville stages brings to mind the anarchistic appeal of
a later “wild woman” performer, Janis Joplin (1943-1970).
26
An article about a female Sandow from Australia was published in The Dancing Master.
27
Sunday’s definition of a man was exclusively the white Euro-American male model purged of blacks and
other minorities. He aggressively urged minorities to go back where they came from if they didn’t like it
here (Kimmel: 178). Blacks and women inconsistently were framed as both child-like and needing the
protection of “real” men and also a dire threat to “the natural order of things as God intended”. Like the
filmmaker D. W. Griffith, Sunday provided a homogeneous definition of the American Male responding to
the increasing pressures of immigration and civil rights. The more the performance of masculinity was
required, the more vigorous the attempt was made to deny its constructedness and assert essential
properties. Linking masculinity with religion and morality with racism soothed fears that what is made can
as easily be unmade.
28
According to Kimmel’s discussion of the appeal of Billy Sunday, Sunday had been a professional
baseball player for Chicago and Pittsburg before turning to preaching (Kimmel: 179).
29
Or “real” Hindus present for St. Denis’ evening programs.
255
30
Camp revival meetings worked by taking the devotional group out of the cities and towns and into the
natural, healthful countryside. There, blacks, children, and women spoke to the group out of a faith that
was considered more directly the word of the spirit than anything a male preacher in a church could convey
(Weisberger and Eslinger).
31
Both the Greek theme of Narcisse and its posed statuary quality likely influenced Nijinsky’s conception
of his own ballet in terms of what would be considered “natural”, or non-balletic gesture (Chapter Four).
32
There is no conclusive evidence Duncan formally studied Delsarte exercises (Reuter). She did, however,
evidently pick up some of the basic concepts from her mother and incorporated them into her dancing.
Upon reaching Paris she was disappointed that she could not study directly with Delsarte himself because
he had died (Duncan: My Life).
33
Opposition to Ibsen’s 1862 satire Love’s Comedy drove him into exile from 1864 to 1891. The period of
his exile was marked with verse dramas (such as Peer Gynt in 1867), followed by realistic and
controversial social-issues plays like Ghosts (1881), The Doll’s House (1879) and Hedda Gabler (1891)
Ibsen’s last plays (When We Dead Awaken in 1899) were more symbolic; however is noted that Ibsen’s
most fabulous narratives contain a good measure of contemporary practicality (Peer Gynt), and his most
realistic, modern, psychological plays are not devoid of fantasy and exoticism (Ghosts).
34
As has been previously noted in this study, Faune, in particular was recorded through the remarkable
series of photographs Nijinsky commissioned of the photographer De Meyer, and this photographic record
was crucial to the authenticity of restoration of the dance. Both Gnossienne and Incense were also
photographed in a way that reinforced instant public recognition of both artist and work. Denishawn
student Charles Weidman recalls that his interest in dance was sparked by photographs of St. Denis, Shawn
and Duncan displayed on discarded programs which Weidman picked up in his job as a junk man
(Anderson: 164 ). The evocative power of photography and film to convey the allure of dance exercised a
potent influence on many aspiring dancers, including the author, who could not attend live dance
performances during childhood. The concept of dance was first formed almost entirely from a few dance
films, TV showings, and photographs of dancers in books, brochures, and stage performance programs.
35
The effect still film had on the visual arts of representation is generally recognized as one that released
painting and sculpture from the need of realistic depiction so that the artist could spend his attention and
creativity in the direction of expressing emotional states.
36
Faune was not recorded on film; however, reflections of its impact nevertheless appear in that medium.
Silent film star Charlie Chaplin (1889-1977) met Nijinsky during the latter’s tour of the United States, and
Nijinsky visited Chaplin’s Lone Star Studio in 1916. According to Gesmer (“Hommage to Nijinsky”) the
first pose of the Faun is lightheartedly mimicked in Chaplin’s 1919 film, Sunnyside. Other iconic poses
identified with Nijinsky appear in the 1940 The Great Dictator (the final movements of Faune), and in the
1916 Easy Street (the collapse of the puppet Petroushka) (Gesmer: E-46).
37
An excellent discussion on the link between Delsartian pose in live performance and still photography
with early silent film is provided in Brewster and Jacobs’ book, Theatre to Cinema.
38
Early silent film was only in black and white; attempts at colorization were made by painstakingly
applying color to each separate film frame (Belton).
39
Imagine Shawn’s dismay if Gnossienne had been filmed and shown in a small-town movie theatre to the
strains of Mendelssohn’s Springtime vigorously and badly played on the organ by a local musician. . .
40
The question of why film and dance didn’t meld into a new expressive format earlier is a topic too
extensive to investigate in this study. The author speculates that the conservative perception of dance and
its connection to live stage conditions may have been a factor.
256
41
Despite traditional histories of film exclusively listing men as film-makers and innovators, Ally Acker’s
book, Reel Women, describes at least five women who collectively made a total of one hundred and
seventy-six silent films, ranging from the fantastic to domestic issues to adaptations of Shakespeare’s
dramas. Alice Guy Blaché is credited in Acker’s book with having been the first to come up with a
narrative film, The Cabbage Fairy in 1896. However, this film did not survive (Aker: 7). And even after
film production had been taken over as an American industry dominated by male directors and producers,
women such as Germaine Dulac (1882-1942) created independent films at the service of surrealist or
symbolist expression (i. e. Les Soeurs Ennemies in 1915).
42
For example, a kind of narrative editing was employed by Charlie Chaplin in his movie, The Great
Dictator (1940) as the title character parodied the iconographic poses of Faune to suggest a carefree, naïve
state of mind. The topic of how easily audiences accept elliptical editing in cinema due to comparable,
derivative experiences in painting, literature, and drama is well worth more investigation than can be
devoted to it here.
43
An adequate discussion of the experience of “real space and time” vis a vis an artistic reference to that
experience is more vast than can be adequately explored in this study. The point the author wishes to make
here is that film further condensed artistic reference to the interrelated experience of time and space from
its already abbreviated form in live performances. That is, in the same dynamic as the theme of Faune
moved from poem to music to dance (Chapter Four), the experience of time and space moved from directly
living it, to stage, to film. Each phase condenses referentially qualities of the previous experience, until (as
is true of avant-garde work) the quality of time and space being referred to achieves a kind of culturallysignificant “shorthand”.
44
Vaudeville theatre managers were notorious for sticking to the rule that any act should not exceed its
time limits to facilitate the hustling of one audience group out so that the next could be hustled into its seats
and the program could start over from the beginning on (cyclical instead of linear) time. Some vaudeville
shows ran six times a day. If an act ran over its time, or if a performer tried to sneak in that extra bow, the
manager would reach a shepherd’s hook from one side of the stage, snag the offending actor, and yank him
(or her) off the stage.
45
The first kinetocope parlors opened in 1894, soon after the public announcement by Edison that both the
machines and the cylinders that would run on them could be purchased and/or rented through his company.
Edison’s big chance to corner the market on celluloid film and portable projectors as pioneered by the
French Lumière brothers slipped through his hands when he determined that he could make more money
renting out his kinetoscopes. However, so powerful were the images of the Lumières’ projector that when
they first showed a reel of an on-coming train on the wall of a Paris café in 1985 some patrons fled their
seats in terror.
46
It is plausible that the film-maker did not intend this surreal effect; the result of excessive overexposure
(The Great Primitives).
47
Porter worked in the Edison studio 1900-1909. By then Edison had abandoned his kinetoscope idea in
favor of the projector. Porter’s early training had included traveling throughout the West Indies and South
America with his projector for several months in 1897. Although he helped Edison set up transition from
kinetoscope to projector format, Porter was quickly moved into the position of a combined cameraman and
producer, in which capacity he served Edison until he left.
48
College students were not so jaded that these early silent films failed to charm them when presented in a
film class in 2002.
49
Pratt’s description of the film includes the note that over three hundred New York firemen were engaged
as extras for the thrilling fire scene.
257
50
The term “Photoplays” fell into disuse after 1910.
51
Griffith used an unusual number of inserts in the form of dialogue titles at the beginning of his
controversial Birth of a Nation (1915) to claim an authenticity of historical fact to support his fictional idea
of heroism of the Clansmen by quoting from both the Bible and Shakespeare. While his racism is
deplorable by today’s standards, his heroic themes were ambitious.
52
This description of Intolerance is somewhat misleading; the film itself is very long and rambling as it
tries (rather unsuccessfully) to weave together five different narratives from five different time periods into
a whole, sweepingly universal statement of the human condition. What makes it frantic is that the editing
of the film in the cut/crosscut department created a very choppy experience for the viewer.
53
Although the restored footage of these films runs slightly faster now than they did prior to the
standardized projection rate of 24 frames per second, each cut sequence lasts less than 10 seconds, adding
to the sense of urgency, or excitement. The acceleration of image imprint to the viewer’s eye for instant
recognition has increased over time; trailers for movies at the present time flicker scenes at the rate of one
per half-second.
54
The author continues to be astounded that Delsarte’s ideas on expression and movement are conveyed
through word descriptions, static diagrams, and illustrations. The struggle to make sense of the detailed
analysis offered suggests the need for actual instruction by a teacher in a studio instead of trying to learn
from the book alone.
55
Nijinsky’s final gesture in the dance suggesting masturbation seems to have been the source of criticism
in an audience known to be blasé in the extreme.
56
It is interesting to note that O’Neill’s design adheres to the consistency of gendered space, placing the
female figure on the left side of the design and the male figure facing her on the right. The same comment
of partnered space for Gnossienne places the ostensibly female Snake Goddess off stage left (Chapter
Three). Faune also comments on the gendering of space, in which the “smaller” Faun dominates the taller
Nymph from his “correct” position to her right. The gender of the deity addressed in Incense remains
ambiguous; in any case, that deity is situated in the position of the audience.
57
58
Ruth St. Denis: Pioneer and Prophet.
Not to mention the skimpiness of the Radha costume.
59
St. Denis noted that she had to use the word Hindu or Hindoo for American audiences expecting to see
Native American dances.
60
Although it is not the purpose of this study to discuss how Gnossienne and Incense were received by
Asian audiences, it is interesting to note that Gnossienne generally did not elicit much of a response except
in Japan, where it was much admired and remarked upon. However, another solo by Shawn, Death of
Adonis (with its Butoh-like whitewash body paint) was reported to have been particularly appreciated.
61
One Thousand and One Night Stands
62
Once modern dance became known as “modern dance”, its artists worked hard to set themselves apart
from the “other concert dance” form, ballet. One of the ways they did this was to perform without shoes in
direct opposition to ballet slippers. While Shawn and St. Denis performed barefoot, Nijinsky wore flexible
slippers in Faune, as did the nymphs.
63
In Chapter Two, the usefulness of Incense as one of a cluster of similarly-themed, short solos for St.
Denis was presented as one reason why she kept it in her repertoire, especially when she toured vaudeville.
258
64
As was briefly discussed in Chapter Four, French Impressionist composers, including Debussy, were in
revolt against the full- and even multiple-evening performances of opera (such as Wagner’s four-part 1876
Der Ring des Nebleungen cycle) that were lavish spectacles popular with middle- and upper-class
audiences. The transition into short, intimate and intense “symphonic poems” constitutes a break with the
Wagnerian formula that is comparable to a similar break by the Ballets Russes from the Imperial Ballets.
65
Tammany is not, however, recognized as an American opera from the standpoint that its libretto and
music were created by Europeans.
66
The libretto for this opera has not survived.
67
Titles in French signaled potential audiences that the production was a high-class, European-style affair
with quality artists. The convention of titling ballets in French was an affectation of American ballets well
into the 1930s. Somehow Russian titles for ballets never caught on in the same way, but American and
English ballet dancers sometimes “Russianized” their stage names in order to underline the strict classical
orientation of their performances; a convention wildly lampooned by Les Ballets Trockaderos (i. e.
Ballerina “Maya Thickenthighya”). The invocation of the Trockadero in a tradition of comedic parody
recalls a vaudeville theatre by that name which opened in 1870 in Philadelphia. Now housing cinema and
fine arts, the Trockadero Theatre is the only 19th Century Victorian theatre still operating in the US
(http://www.philadex,com/philadelphia/concerts/trocadero.asp 21 September 2004).
68
The stories of the Black Crook and the White Fawn were mediocre at best, and the popularity of these
spectaculars rested squarely with the dancing by women in tights. The first cast of the Black Crook was
performed by a troupe of European dancers stranded by a theatre fire. Derivative productions of the piece
continued to entertain audiences for forty years even after Niblo’s original run (Moore: 65-6).
69
The film features a fetching troupe of ladies in boots and tights to help the scientists into their rocket, and
once they arrive on the moon an equally fetching troupe of female moon natives in boots and tights
(probably the same group of girls in slightly altered costumes) greet them (from: The Great Primitives).
70
The Vauxhall Gardens of London was a popular entertainment venue opening in 1660 and closing in
1859; a Vauxhall Gardens opened in New York around 1800 but it burned down in 1808.
71
For once, according to Lillian Moore, this was not an American adaptation of the 1813 Italian opera Nina
ou la Folle par Amour (Milon) but rather an original production that speculatively attracted its audiences
through ready name-recognition of the Milon work.
72
Although written in French and premiered in Paris, Rossini’s William Tell was more often performed in
Italian.
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CONCLUSION
Avant-garde components appropriate to Incense, Gnossienne and Faune have
constituted the basis of discussing these dances as examples of experimental Early
Modernism. These components of exoticism, distortions of time and space, naturalism of
expression, spiritual transformation, and responses to the challenges of technology
present a common basis of discussion between art and entertainment. And the ways in
which these components interact offer opportunities to encompass both the age and
culture in which the avant-garde gained a foothold of such creative vitality. In light of
these developments in Early Modernism of Euro-American culture the creators of
Gnossienne, Faune, and Incense express their respective dances.
Perhaps the most immediately obvious agreement between the three dances in this
study is the employment of exotic themes. While Incense suggests contemporary Hindu
India, Gnossienne summons visions of the Snake Goddess worship celebrated in frescoes
from the Palace of Knossos in Ancient Crete. And Faune recalls a bucolic innocence and
primal power inspired by Archaic Greece, in a time before the formalities of Greek
classicism had presumably overpowered more immediate connections between emotion
and action.
At the same time, each artist was so intimately connected to his or her work that
the spiritual message in the dance is the message from the artist to the audience. In an
indirect assault upon a singularity of authority presented in the exotic themes of earlier
dance works, these dances demonstrate how their creators made an effort to embody that
authority. In other words, St. Denis, Shawn and Nijinsky as individuals became the
recognized persona of the character in their respective dances.
In all, Nijinsky’s first major choreography sought to bring together disparate
aspects of his spiritual longing, ideas of presentational constructs of time and space, and
ambiguities of exotic identity. He managed in Faune to seamlessly combine elements of
nature and the innocence of youth in sexual awakening with a movement vocabulary
invoking the dehumanizing effects of the Machine Age. The combination of all these
issues in his ballet bring Nijinsky’s conception of his life in art well in keeping with the
aspirations of the avant-garde milieu of which he was an integral part. As was discussed
260
in Chapter One, Nijinsky’s first choreographed role of the Faun was an ideal subject for
artists in all mediums working in the Art Deco style.
Exoticism was not a new feature of the avant-garde; as has been discussed,
traditional arts and entertainments in both Europe and the United States drew heavily
upon exotica to transport audiences out of the ordinary and everyday tedium of modern
life. However, in the process of being filtered through defiance of the status quo, images
of exoticism in the avant-garde served to comment upon its own constructed nature. In
other words, exoticism in revolutionary innovations (regardless of medium) provided the
“hook” by which audiences were attracted to view modern art long enough to grasp its
radically-altered message.
Incense was conceived as the first of a cluster of dances on Hindu religious
themes as conceived and understood by St. Denis. Although her impetus to design solos
for herself began with a poster advertisement for Egyptian cigarettes, St. Denis saw an
overriding thread of spiritual connection between the image of the goddess Isis and her
devout Hindu housewife in search of communion with the divine. This was more
important to her than the specific differences of exotic locale between Ancient Egypt and
contemporary Hindu India.
Since a man dancing with sincere expressiveness on a par with poetry was so rare,
Ted Shawn was an intrinsically exotic phenomenon, and he was not slow to realize the
potential of “the never-when, never-where” remoteness of distant lands and cultures that
had become a staple of St. Denis’ work. By incorporating the element of surprise in
humor for Gnossienne, Shawn recognized that laughter promoted audience receptivity to
the new concept of an expressive American male dancer. The exotic theme of
Gnossienne allowed him the power to step out of either having to partner and thereby
“show off” a female partner (which had been his job dancing with Wallack, Gould, and
St. Denis), or to present a virtuoso show of manly physical prowess. Although
Gnossienne’s priest is indeed a “show-off”, he does so under the strictures of formal
ritual worship.
Nijinsky could easily have gone down in ballet history as a phenomenal dancer
who brought to his romantic hero roles a fine musical sensibility and generous support to
the finest ballerinas of his day. But although he had been carefully trained in the Imperial
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Russian schools, the air of change brought to Russia by Duncan touched Nijinsky’s early
childhood circus experiences. Even the radical changes in the traditional structure of the
ballet which Fokine and Diaghilev promoted in the early years of the Ballets Russes did
not satisfy Nijinsky’s vision. With his sister’s aid, Nijinsky developed the choreography
of Faune to conform to the images on Archaic Greek vases, and literally translated onto
the stage a new visual structure based on zones of representation he found in them. The
result was not only an exotic theme, but a texture of movement and a reshaping of
performing space that bound Ancient images and Modern interpretation into a unique
expressive experience.
An authority of “authentic” representation assumed in exotic representations of
classical long-standing conveniently transferred to the avant-garde. To begin with, all
three artists grappled with issues of physical and spiritual harmony raised by the act of
dancing; they, in common with other artists of the avant-garde worked through the
process of making works of art starting with a concept of the self as art so that all art that
comes out of that self is true to that conception1. While a complete discussion of
spiritualism in art is not possible in this study, it is helpful to bring out the subject relative
to its opposition in scientific and technological advances. Each new development in
technology, designed to bring about mastery of the physical forces of nature, provided
fresh opportunities for theatre artists to startle their audiences on an emotional level and
alter perceptions of nature in relation to visions of the supernatural.
Each artist incorporated the prevailing nature expressed in their respective dances
into a performing persona, an attribute of the avant-garde in which the artist was as much
an icon of audience recognition as the character exhibited in the work of art. Nijinsky
declared that the character of the half-man half-beast Faun was himself (Jonas: 216).
Although he portrayed both human and inhuman characters in the Ballets Russes
repertoire created for him by Fokine, Nijinsky’s own creation represented a statement of
his independent ideas on art and dance. St. Denis remained consistent with the goals
expressed in Incense throughout her choreographic and performing career. Many of her
subsequent solos particularly invoked the purity and simplicity of contemplative solitude
characteristic of her first Hindu dance. Gnossienne opened an opportunity for the former
divinity student Shawn to explore an integration of manly and spiritual dance
262
expressions. Its quirky humor acknowledges and comments on a public masculine
display in the service of a religious rite.
All three dances present various negotiations with music in keeping with these
alterations of expressive movement. St. Denis first conceptualized the idea of her dance
and then went in search of appropriate music for it. Shawn choreographed the
movements of his dance first, then found the suggestion of an appropriate narrative and
Cretan theme in the title of the piano work by Satie. Both Shawn and St. Denis
incorporated the dynamics of their respective music choices closely to their expressive
gestures. But Nijinsky’s abrupt, angular and flat choreography only subtly refers to the
languid, dream-like dynamics of Debussy’s music. Movement and music in Faune
cohabit the same temporal frame with key connections to one another, instead of match
each other in a close parallel between visual and audible elements. Nijinsky had the idea
for the ballet, a conception of its characteristic movements, and had chosen its music well
before beginning to choreograph (Nijinska).
Along these considerations the three dances also made use of posed iconographic
images. In so doing, each dance artist encouraged audience receptivity to altered
relationships between expression and the forms in which that expression is carried. The
upset of traditional representational order is mitigated, however, through the employment
of a form of ritual. Consequently, each dance explores a ritual enacted through the body
as a means to convey that self-conscious construction along with the structure of
authority to do so:
. . .at each stage of knowledge, the general agreement of what the universe
is supposed to be takes the form of a shorthand code which is shared by
everyone. . .These forms primarily take the shape of rituals. Involvement
in them implies that the participants are not maverick. They conform by
acting out the ritual. Each participant has a specific role to play, and one
that is not invented or elaborated but laid down prior to the event
(Burke: 11-2).
Through the employment of ritual, then, the dance artist presents him or herself as
an experienced guide into unfamiliar territory supported by an external formality of
ritual. While Incense retains a slight acknowledgement of the audience in this journey,
this presence is mitigated by the instructive element of the dance. Because it is
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“Oriental” and therefore new, or unfamiliar, the presence of an audience expecting to be
informed as well as entertained is assumed. Above all, Incense, as a transition between
entertainment and spiritual expression demonstrated an awareness of staged aesthetics in
the service of what St. Denis called “truth and beauty”. This translated for her into a
careful balancing of visual compositional elements for every moment with long, flowing
lines, circular and spiral directions, and an uncomplicated narrative, regardless of theme.
In this regard, Incense is very much in keeping with both Art Nouveau and Art Deco
aesthetics: the sinuous lines of her undulating arms and flowing sari recall the organic
asymmetry of nature combined with feminine grace characteristic of Art Nouveau, and
the repetitions of triangular shapes in her central position between two incense burners
suggests the stability of Art Deco design.
Gnossienne and Faune, by contrast have more in common with elements of Art
Deco, which followed Art Nouveau both in Europe and the United States. Efficiency of
line and speed suggested in rounded edges contrasted with flat, visually-straight lines and
symmetrical geometry characteristic with Art Deco also predominated the stylistic
features of Gnossienne and Faune. The constructed image of masculinity incorporated a
play of surfaces in both dances, which nevertheless revealed complex considerations of
gender. While Shawn’s priest danced a dyad form by himself in a hollow ritual
shadowed by the gigantic persona of the feminine power in expressive dance (St. Denis),
Nijinsky’s Faun failed to capture the elusive body of the Nymph, and instead pressed to
his body and “consumed” her dropped veil by proxy.
Furthermore, gendered space in Gnossienne and Faune was expressed through
left (female) and right (male) sides of the stage, a pictorial convention the origins of
which have been lost in antiquity (Lemos). In commenting upon this convention, which
even today dictates where people sit in segregated congregations2 and the placement of
male (lions) and female (sphinx) on iconographic fields of heraldry.
The idea of containing within one body the powers of both male and female
attributes was an inheritance of Early Modernism from the previous movement of
Romanticism, and in its avant-garde manifestation, took advantage of both spiritual and
exotic contexts. But ambiguity of gender was not the preserve of European arts alone;
even American popular entertainments of vaudeville and cinema participated in
264
restructurings of gender representation. St. Denis presented in Incense an unavailable
feminine form and an androgynous being absorbed in [her] own self-completion. Shawn
was well aware of the strongly feminine connotations associated with any dancing body3
regardless of gender and strategically infused Gnossienne with humor in a way that
would allow the audience to see him as a dancer first, and as a man who is dancing on
stage as a secondary condition in the performance of the piece. Furthermore, Gnossienne
suggested a reversal of power in gender with the idea of a physically-domineering
goddess demanding submission of her all-too-humanly frail priest as he goes through the
movements of partnering her as a solo dance.
Nijinsky’s negotiations of gender and creation of the spiritual self in Faune were
quite different from St. Denis’ or Shawn’s. Gender in Faune was less a negotiation
designed around audience perceptions and more around the internal psychological
structure of the dancing body as an androgyny; that is, in its literal, dictionary definition
as: “[An] androgynous person [is] somebody who gives the impression of having both a
male and a female sexual identity”4 The movements made by the character of Nijinsky’s
Faune indicated this being was attracted to, and confused by, the nymphs who trespassed
upon his domain; physically and psychologically. His gestures suggest he made an
attempt to encompass their qualities into his own body; first by unsuccessfully attempting
to embrace the Nymph, who easily slipped away. In the end he “consumed” the veil she
has dropped, thereby attempting (in an infantile oral way) to obtain the feminine powers
with which the veil had been symbolically endowed.
Nijinsky’s Faun repeatedly struggled to reconcile dichotomies of identity such as
masculine/feminine, human/divine, knowing/ignorance, singular/plural and
intellect/feeling. Unresolved, he returned to these mystical considerations in his diary
entries by expressing an obsessive permutation of possibilities of multiple identity and
role constructs as if they were something like “psychological” costumes; a condition
often attributed to the Modern man5. For example, Nijinsky states in his diary that he is
both “husband and wife”, and that:
I am God in Bull. I am Apis. I am an Egyptian. I am an Indian. I am a
Red Indian. I am a Negro. I am a Chinese. I am a Japanese. I am a
foreigner and a stranger. I am a sea bird. I am a land bird (44).
265
Nijinsky also states that he is “. . .one man in a million. I am not alone. I am a million,
for I feel more than a million” (45). Perhaps he was in the process of succumbing to
insanity6 while writing his diary, it was not unusual for Nijinsky to contradict himself in a
single sentence. The translator’s notes for one of his poems in the diary indicate that his
use of Church Slavonic Russian grammar had more to do with rhythmic and rhyme
schemes than literal religious meaning. He also shifted between masculine and feminine
second person modifiers, “. . .and from singular to plural and back again for no
discernable reason”(Kyril Fitzlyon: 69).
It is interesting furthermore in the context of gender and artistic creation that these
artists worked in male/female pairs. As presented in Chapter Two, Incense was St.
Denis’ first solo she made for herself as a dancer before she formed any artistic
associations with other art dancers. Based upon a contemporary Hindu ritual of worship
St. Denis’ image of a sari-clad woman wreathed in the smoke of incense offered her
audiences a compelling image of exoticism rendered as both universal and personal truth.
Certainly the examples of Stebbins, Duncan, and Fuller were well in mind, and the
opinions of her mother influenced her greatly. But in the act of referring to them, St.
Denis was also careful to simultaneously distinguish herself from these predecessors in
dance art as well as from burlesque entertainments that relied heavily on exotic themes.
St. Denis sought first the advice of men to establish he authenticity of her exotic
theme for her first serious dance solo. She had performed on vaudeville and in the
Belasco productions, observing how men dictated and organized theatrical productions.
And she had as a model of staged exotic authority the example of Edmund Russell, who
gave dramatic and well-received public readings of The Light of Asia. Not only did
Russell encourage and assist St. Denis in her 1906 Indian dances, but he also gave several
joint salon performances with her. St. Denis also consulted with East Indian merchants
on the specifics of Hindu rituals and daily life. If, as Shelton has noted in her biography
of St. Denis, Incense is fundamentally a Delsarte exercise (57), then its corresponding
oratorical “brother” is to be found in Russell’s Delsarte-inspired presentations.
While St. Denis gained validation for her earliest Oriental dances from men,
Shawn’s Gnossienne grew out of a class exercise from the Denishawn school, which had
been created as an extension of the artistic partnership between Shawn and St. Denis. By
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that time, Shawn had worked with St. Denis as her partner and co-choreographer for at
least seven years. It is evident that the more experienced and well-known St. Denis had a
major role in guiding the development of Shawn’s creative output, and she
enthusiastically advised him on all aspects of his work. Shawn's conversion to dance
came about during an attack of diphtheria while he was in training to become a minister
at the University of Denver. An overdose of serum left him paralyzed below the hips,
and rehabilitation included ballet lessons. Shawn did not like ballet particularly, but he
discovered he did like to dance. His decision to incorporate his evangelical zeal to
bringing men to dance with dignity was met with horror by his academic advisor, and he
left his studies to pursue his vision. In this gesture of reconstruction as “a self-made
man”, Shawn calls to mind both the successful vaudeville strongman Sandow and the
evangelical preacher Billy Sunday7.
Shawn first saw St. Denis in 1911 performing Incense and her spiritual rendition
of East Indian exoticism further inspired his purpose. After joining with several partners
(notably Norma Gould) for tea dance performances, Shawn answered a call in 1914 from
St. Denis who was looking for a partner. As her partner, Shawn was guided and advised
by St. Denis in his early choreography very much in the way St. Denis had been guided
and advised by her mother. St. Denis was intrigued with Shawn’s ideas, and perceived in
him the same impetus toward a utopic idealism realized through dance. Joseph Mazo
describes Shawn audition for St. Denis in his book, Prime Movers:
. . . [Shawn] danced for her [St. Denis]; he performed an Aztec dagger
dance which St. Denis later described as “. . .one of those rather crude and
simple rhythmic dances which in after years one looks back upon with a
kind of loving tolerance” (92).
Shawn’s professional and personal partnership with St. Denis was unusual; as it has been
argued in this study the overwhelming dominance of women generally, and St. Denis’
fame specifically, in expressive dance colored some interpretations of Gnossienne.
While she was called “Miss Ruth” and preserved the distant if benign persona of the
goddess even with her most intimate students, Ted Shawn was simply called “Ted”8. St.
Denis was the dominant performing artist and more publicly recognized, but Shawn was
certainly the more methodical in directing and teaching students, dealing with
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performance tech support, and devising choreography. Their performing company and
school, Denishawn, was established after they were married and ended with marital
separation in 1925, though remnants of Denishawn continued with Shawn until 1931.
Despite their separate talents, it was St. Denis who had the greater fame;
Ted Shawn. . .had a flair for mixing art and business in the right
proportions, cleverly devising programs that allowed St. Denis her mystic
vein but ended with a dash of ragtime jazz. . . . it was he who realized they
should open a school. . .shrewdly making sure that Denishawn was
synonymous in the public mind with art and good taste. . .(Fontyen: 108)
Nijinsky also formed an artistic partnership with his sister Nijinska. Together,
they worked in secret to develop the movement vocabulary of Faune, and upon Ida
Rubenstein’s refusal to take the part of the first nymph, Bronislava took her place. In
1914 Bronislava also performed Nijinsky’s role of the Faun, suggesting the
interchangeability of her dancing body for that of her brother. The influence of Nijinsky’s
ideas on Nijinska’s later choreography is pronounced. And when, in 1919 she
established her Ecole de Mouvement, she did so with the idea that Nijinsky would
eventually join in teaching and choreographic partnership with her. Together she hoped
they would create new ballets referential to, but not dominated by, traditional ballet
aesthetics. In order to achieve this goal, Bronislava recognized the need for an ensemble
of dancers trained to handle non-traditional choreographic demands; a project close in
concept to the principles of Denishawn. In 1915 Shawn stated that:
“The art of the Dance is too big to be encompassed by any one system.
On the contrary, the Dance includes all systems or schools of dance.
Every way that any human being of any race or nationality, at any period
of human history has moved rhythmically to express himself, belongs to
Dance. We endeavour to recognize and use all contributions of the past to
the Dance and will continue to use all new contributions in the future”
(Guest: 74).
And Nijinska comments in her 1919 notebooks that:
“The contemporary school must broaden itself, must enlarge its technique,
to the same degree that contemporary choreography has by departing from
the old classical ballets” (Baer: 86).
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The three dances are staged with related yet different orientations of audience and
dancer. St. Denis’ Incense places the audience in the privileged position of the deity
being worshipped, and yet the dancer is also the entity on display in an acknowledgement
of the traditional performing arrangement of the female dancer on display to the male
gaze. Given her position in the cultural development of the United States of the time, St.
Denis’ negotiation of this familiar relationship empowered her to both accommodate and
defy these expectations in a way not unlike Manet’s Olympia, who returns the masculine
gaze from a position at least equal to that of the viewer.
But Shawn and Nijinsky present the gendering space in different context than that
of Incense. The feminine dominance of expressive dance provided Shawn with an
opportunity to explore gendered power in Gnossienne. His dance places the (absent
feminine) Snake Goddess off-stage right, directly opposite his priest’s stage-left location
of (masculine) willful pride. Faune’s nymphs (both present and absent) enter and exit
exclusively on and off stage-right. While not actual deities, these nymphs generally (and
the Nymph in particular) are the focus of the Faun’s interest and transformation
analogous to the deities implied in Incense and Gnossienne.
St. Denis and Shawn performed their respective dances throughout their long
performing careers, but Nijinsky performed as the Faun only from its premiere in 1912
until the collapse of his ill-fated Saison Nijinsky in 1914. Faune and Incense represented
the first formal choreographic works for public performance by their creators, but
Gnossienne was created after Shawn had choreographed and performed many of his own
solos. And while Gnossienne and Faune certainly had some landmark influences on
subsequent works by Shawn and Nijinsky, respectively, Incense can be more accurately
considered as the first in a close series of five solos for St. Denis, all designed after
variations on East Indian motifs and often performed in sequence during the same
production.
All three artists had some prior performing experience in the works of others, and
had achieved fame as dancers from which the authority to choreograph was derived. St.
Denis and Nijinsky had their career focus on being dancers, a fact reflected in their
subsequent dances. But Shawn’s Gnossienne presents a different relationship between
the acts of performance and choreography because it grew out of a classroom exercise
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Shawn had devised for his students. Gnossienne retained a dual purpose in that it was
performed both as a dance and as a class exercise in Shawn’s lecture tours. The dance
also passed from Shawn to Mumaw, then from Mumaw to Clark in this dual role of
performance and education. Thus, Gnossienne was part of a continuing process of selfeducation that included educating others in all phases of dance. The evolution of
choreography for Shawn grew in conjunction with, as opposed to arising as a result of,
his development as a dancer.
While the early art movements in Europe starting with the Futurists altered the
relationship between viewer and art, as for artist and audience just before the turn of the
century, immediately following in the first years of the 1900s cinema, taking its format
cue from the success of its parent, vaudeville in the United States made of time and space
an experiential commodity (Chapter Five). All three dances depend upon the posed stage
picture by which the dance artist and the work created fuse into an iconic moment. As
was true of both Gnossienne and Incense, Faune was composed out of a series of
positions and a flow of transitions between them designed to present the
dancer/choreographer as the central figure with whom the audience would most clearly
relate. The stillness of these key positions suggests their emotional/conceptual
importance; they were worked out in meticulous detail. Because the audience is
prompted to focus on the single dancing body, and because that body poses in certain
positions, the visual consequence is that these poses contain important messages.
The sense of ritual formality in all three dances also paradoxically refers to
natural movements designed to convey truth as opposed to artifice. In the execution of
her worship, St. Denis employed walking, kneeling, rocking, and standing in a way that
suggested that even non-dancers could perform these same movements. At the same
time, however, her carefully-presented picture of the body to the audience’s view, for all
the air of solitude, suggested an unacknowledged awareness of being observed,
ostensibly by the deity. This tension of solitary task posed for the benefit of a (divine)
audience is both flattering and demanding; the audience is welcome to join her in vision
but not physically in fact. It was only a very short step for St. Denis to move from the
position of worshipper to that of the deity being worshipped, as in Radha (Terry, St.
Denis, et. al.). By merging these identities, St. Denis implies a seamless relationship
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between exotic ritual formality and the naturalness of a (very beautiful young woman)
performing them gracefully in a timelessly-eternal frame of temporal continuity.
As was discussed in Chapter Five, both popular entertainments and “legitimate”,
serious dramas of the directly or indirectly to the movement/emotion correlations were
analyzed in minute detail by Delsarte. Perhaps in part due to the fact that the Delsarte
system of exercises designed to improve the health and poise of middle- and upper-class
women were popular at the time, its expressive melding of spiritual orientation with the
methodical analysis of scientific inquiry made it read as “natural”. While both Shawn
and St. Denis studied Delsarte’s methods and incorporated them into both their
choreography and Denishawn’s curriculum, it is speculated that Nijinsky probably
encountered Delsarte’s (American version) ideas of natural expressiveness through
Duncan (Reuter). Delsarte’s Law of Correspondence cited by Shawn in his book, Every
Little Movement states that: “To each spiritual function responds a function of the body;
to each grand function of the body corresponds a spiritual act” (22). Therefore, if the
body moved in accord with the inner dictates of its spirit, those movements would be
recognized as both true and beautiful.
With his ballets generally and Petrouska directly, Fokine had taken to heart the
challenge offered by Duncan’s natural approach to expressive movement, and conceived
a new approach to ballet that would suit emerging artistic goals of the nascent Twentieth
Century. In this effort, his choreography for Ballets Russes was exceptionally fruitful.
But although he shifted exotic themes into a new arena of expression that propelled the
Ballets Russes into the Parisian limelight, Fokine did not go quite so far as to reflect upon
the construction of ballet as a convention of presentational assumptions.
Nijinsky’s Faune, however, went beyond Fokine’s conception (Dunning,
Jeschke). For the first time in a ballet, the choreographer severely flattened all movement
into a two-dimensional plane and patterned the stage view into precise horizontal zones,
one above the other. In this treatment, the impression of great depth and sculptural
dimensionality upon which traditional ballet technique and choreographic expressiveness
depends was rejected in favor of another, equally-constructed presentational sense of time
and space.
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As much as our ancestors were accustomed to a vista dominated by nature,
were used to living in a landscape of images. . .It’s a defining feature of
modern experience, on which differentiates our age from any other
(Knight: E-1-40-41).
All three artists constructed a new sense of the self in relation to art. But the
construction of self as spiritual artist did not find easy ground in Euro-American
Christian conventions; particularly for the dance artist. For this reason, Nijinsky, St.
Denis and Shawn found it easier to accomplish this transformation in context with exotic
themes. Shawn’s Gnossienne, St. Denis’ Incense, and Nijinsky’s Faune are intriguing
examples of the avant-garde Early Modernism in Euro-American culture as a bridge not
only between the United States and Europe, but between art and culture in the western
tradition. In the gesture of the avant-garde defying middle-class mores, expectations,
and hidden agendas in the relationship between power and meaning, these dances express
the results of both collaborative and individual artistic responses to the pressures of Early
Modernism.
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END NOTES TO CONCLUSION
1
An example of this conceptual flow from the spiritual self to spiritual works of art made from the self
might be St. Denis’ famous encounter with a poster for Egyptian cigarettes featuring a fanciful depiction of
Isis, which she said completely congealed for her ideas for a new expressive dance (An Unfinished Life).
The spiritual impetus offered her by the poster was filtered first through St. Denis, as she had herself
photographed as the Egyptian goddess (1904), then created a series of Hindu Indian dances on spiritual
themes of which one was Incense (1906), and only after that choreographed Egypta (1910) the first of a
series directly related to the image on the cigarette poster. She herself stated there was but a very little
difference between a theme of Ancient Egypt and a theme of modern Hindu worship, in part because the
impetus of her conceptual starting point filtered through her personal spiritualism did not change (as she
herself did not change), regardless of exotic theme.
2
Hindu assemblies facing the Darshan (appearance) hall for a guru, and the gender-segregated
congregations of both Quakers and Shakers follow this convention, with the women sitting on the left side,
and the men sitting on the right.
3
In the opening pages of his autobiographical account about how he became a dancer, (One Thousand and
One Night Stands) Shawn shares with the reader his considerable trepidations over the derisive reactions
men in the audience might have to his first solo dance performance. As long as he had a female partner,
Shawn could somewhat justify his dancing as necessary to show his partner to advantage. But a single
male dancer on the stage—particularly the vaudeville stage on which most of his early solos had their first
showings—was a comic rather than a serious situation. In having the laugh “first” at himself in Gnossienne
as the arrogant priest of the snake goddess, Shawn cleverly assumes control of the humor implicit in the
male dancing body, thereby removing that prerogative from the audience so that it has a chance to accept
some of its more serious aspects. This humor was a successful element of many of his solos (Chapter
Three).
4
Encarta World English Dictionary, St. Martin Press, 1999: 63.
5
An excellent interpretation of Shakespeare’s Hamlet, for example, discusses the fragmentation of his
personality as a particular dilemma of the modern man. Similar fragmentation appears in the writings of
Camu and Kafka, to name but two other examples.
6
As Joan Acocella states in the Introduction to her unexpurgated edition of The Diary of Vaslav Nijinsky,
the journal gives a detailed and chilling account of an artist succumbing to the initial stages of psychosis.
7
Both Sandow and Sunday were physically weak as children.
8
Later, all Shawn’s students called him “Papa Shawn”. It is appropriate that some commentators refer to
him as “the father of American Modern Dance”.
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APPENDIX
A Description of the Dances
I The Incense
II Gnossienne
III Afternoon of a Faun
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The following is a general word description of each dance. While it is impossible to
catalogue the details of every movement in this fashion, the description facilitates an
examination of the dances as cultural texts. Some clarification on the way in which the
word “text” is used in reference to movement needs to be made. Without undertaking an
extended discussion on how dance can, or cannot, be classified as language, a simple
disclaimer is offered here. This study does not imply that words perform the same
descriptive and connotative function in constructing meaning as do dance movements.
Rather, both words and dance movements (or, the successive design sequences of the
dancer’s body in space and time) serve as units of meaning in their respective mediums
of expression. While some scholars prefer to use the word “signifiers” in referring to the
“ineffable” meanings in dance, the word “text” was chosen to facilitate understanding
some of the culturally communicative functions both written and danced expressions
have in common, rather than their obvious differences.
Particular aspects of the dances are noted as follows:
Speed and quality:
a general idea of how fast or slow the movements are and if they
are smooth or abrupt relative to comparable everyday movements.
Direction:
where in space the whole body moves, or how one part of the body
parallels or opposes direction in another. These directions are relative to the point of
view of the performer on the stage. If the dancer faces right and walks forward, it means
the audience sees the dancer facing and moving to their left. In order to provide a
standard of description for the use of space and direction in these dances, I refer to
standard stage directions as follows:
Upstage
away from the audience
Downstage
toward the audience
Stage Right
Stage Left
Stage Center
horizontal/vertical
diagonal/direct
curved/straight
parallel/angled
Positions:
transitions into and out of positions of pose and if the position is open (for
the front of the body visible to the audience) or closed (for the back of the body visible to
the audience)
Autosphere: this term refers to that area of maximum space that can be reached by the
dancer in all directions without locomotion (i. e. from a stationary position). The
autosphere moves with the dancer and has as point of reference the dancer’s center of
balance rather than a point of reference in the space outside the dancer.
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I.
Incense
Choreographer
Ruth St. Denis (1906)
Piano Music
Harvey Worthington Loomis
Dancer
Lisa Plank
Reconstruction
Professor Jack Clark
Performance and video recording at Florida State University (2001)
time length
6 min.
Information on the reconstruction process for this dance was gathered through
conversations with Professor Jack Clark 9/16/03 and 4/16/03. It was undertaken by
Professor Clark in response to an MFA candidate’s project on notation. It was
reconstructed using a labanotation score supplemented by study of photographs and film
versions of St. Denis’ performances of the piece.
Description of the Dance
The overall pace of the dance is slow and deliberate. There are no abrupt movements or
transitions between movement sequences and positions of stillness. No movement
energy leaves the autoshpere of the dancer, although distances beyond are sometimes
indicated by extension of extremities.
The dancer enters the stage area walking from upstage right to center. As she does this,
the music completes one phrase and a repeat. The dancer stands facing the audience,
holding the offering tray in front of her just below heart level, forearms at right angles to
her body. When the music starts a new phrase the dancer walks forward four steps in a
straight line down stage starting on her right foot. With each step the foot is gently
turned out and she rocks gently forward and back at each step. The dancer amplifies this
forward swaying motion by slightly swinging the tray out away from and in toward the
center of her body.
She takes one large step to her right with her right foot and turns her upper body to follow
the line, leaving her left foot and leg to mark her central position. The left side of her
body is toward the audience. She sweeps first down toward the ground in front of her
then swings upward to the right, looking in that direction, bringing the tray as high as she
can. She is in profile to the right, the left side of her body describing a long diagonal line.
She retraces the line of movement back to the ground in front to swing the tray in both
hands to the left and transferring her weight from the right to left leg without reaching
with her foot. This time, the right foot remains pointing to the central position as she lifts
the tray high to the left, mirroring the swing she has just made to the right.
The effect is that the tray describes a large U with the dancer in the middle, and the action
of this symmetry is reflected in the repeating melody in the music. If there is a pause at
the apex of these lines, it is very slight, for the dancer continues to move, and the line of
her vision follows the trajectory of the tray. As she swings the tray down the dancer
draws her right foot in to stand on both feet, the tray again at her center.
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This sequence of walking forward and reaching right and left is repeated, but at its
conclusion, the dancer this time circles her right foot behind her and bends down, placing
the dish on the floor in front of her. As she lifts her upper body, her palms come together
in a gesture of prayer, held first at her forehead, then lowered to her heart. Her eyes are
looking down, then as her hands come down the center line of her body, she lifts her head
and looks up. As if framing herself, the dancer curves her arms symmetrically and
simultaneously together to reach down for the tray and she lifts it and herself up. She
stands, holding the tray balanced in her left hand a little higher than her head but away
from her body and turning right, walks in a curve down stage right to the right of the
large burner there. The extended arm and hand supporting the tray is counterbalanced by
a forward gesture of her right arm, palm facing out to the direction she is walking. Her
head is held high and turns slightly from side to side as she walks so that her face is
framed between her curved arms, which are held away from her body.
When she arrives at a position to the right of the burner, the dancer picks up some incense
from the tray and tosses it into the burner with her right hand. The dancer’s right arm and
hand undulate, and her head lifts. She transfers the tray to her right hand, pushes the
palm of her left hand in front of her in a mirror repeat of her previous stance, and
completes the circle walking around the burner.
She walks across the stage in a slightly diagonal angle to center stage. Her head turns
right as she takes a forward step on the right foot, so her body is twisted. She makes a
small turn circling left, the tray held high, her head following it and ends facing the
audience, standing at center stage. She bends forward to change the dish to the left hand
and lifts it as high as she can, making her body into one long extended line upward and
looks up at it. She pauses in this position. She lowers the dish, transfers it to her right
hand and walks in a downstage curve stage left, her left arm leading.
She circles to the right of the right burner and repeats tossing the incense, gesturing
smoke with her left arm and hand in a mirror repeat of her actions at the first burner. She
transfers the tray to her left hand and walks the rest of the way around the burner to take
up a position at center stage again. Her head is tilted toward the tray, and her face open
to the audience. She repeats a small circle to the right, now holding the tray in both
hands. She places the tray in front of her on the floor, and stands up. Standing in second
position, she undulates her body as if the previous undulations of her arms only had taken
possession of her. All her joints move in a rippling sequence to accomplish this
movement. She rocks right and left as her arms move up and down.
Then she bends forward down to the tray, both arms circling the outside of her body
together and joining to pick it up. The sequence of circling both burners is repeated in a
floor pattern roughly like a figure eight pinned at the center by a repeat of the gesture in
which she holds the tray high in her left palm above her head. When she has returned to
center stage, she puts the tray down on the floor again. As she rises to stand, her arms
circle wide around her body and come together wrists back to back with palms facing
outward high over her head which is held high. This pose is held briefly, reflecting a
climax in the music.
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She undulates out of this pose, repeating the same gestures as before, rocking from side
to side. She bends again to pick up the tray and standing, appears to present it to the
audience before walking backward, repeating the U shape gesture right then left. She
takes a few steps backward again, pauses to look at the audience with the tray held in
both hands at heart level, then she lowers her head slightly, turns to the right, and exits,
up stage center and then to the right the way she entered. The dancer returns to take a
dignified bow.
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II.
Gnossienne
Choreography
Ted Shawn (1919)
Music for Piano
Eric Satie (1889)
Re-creation
Barton Mumaw (1994-5)
Piano Accompaniment Lyudmila Mclerud
Dancer
Professor Jack Clark
Performed and videotaped at Florida State University (1995)
time
2 min
The overall impression of the dance is quick and light, a study in isolated movements for
segmented parts of the body. Lines are direct and forcefully indicated with no ambiguity
of direction; there are few curves either in the floor pattern or in the movements of the
dancer’s body. Although some movements, whether small (a flick of the wrist) or large
(change of direction in which the dancer travels) are abrupt and some smooth and
flowing, all have the same dynamic value, just as do the melodic sequences and their
mirror-reversals. At no time does the energy of any movement leave the immediate area
of the autosphere. The dance is introspectively centered, even though some locations
beyond it are occasionally indicated through the extremities.
The dancer enters from up stage left moving in a straight line to stage right in profile to
the audience. He quickly walks, glides and skips, head and lower body face right, but the
arms and upper body face left. He stands, knees bent, then lifts high demipointe and
lowers his heels again without moving any other part of his body. He turns abruptly to
indicate a diagonal path down stage left, hands held at the right hip. This allows the
audience to see the hand positions clearly. His head moves twice as if looking back, then
he proceeds on a straight diagonal course, pausing to lift the palm of his left hand up and
then down again as if coyly revealing a tiny portion of his hip. Simultaneously, he rises
and falls again from demipointe, knees still bent, and moving nothing else except his
head to glance back, with the hand gesture three times in crossing to down stage left.
There he falls into a wide second position, knees bent, arms up with elbows bent and
turns to run upstage, presenting the audience with a picture of his back, arms framing his
head. The palms of his hands are turned out. He runs a slight curve to stand up stage left,
head facing right, but the rest of his body facing the audience. He lowers his arms,
elbows still bent, to indicate his hips.
Simultaneously, his knees bend and he has risen to demipointe. His arms return to frame
his head as his knees straighten and his heels touch the ground, presenting the previous
pose as before, and this is quickly repeated. This time in crossing from upstage left to
upstage right in a straight line the dancer drops into a quick kneeling position near center
stage with his face and upper body toward the audience, left knee up, right knee down in
a swooping motion that does not halt his momentum. His head looks in the direction in
which he is rapidly traveling, except once or twice he looks back.
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He takes a few steps more as head, and lower body facing right, torso and upper body
facing the audience. His hands again come to his hips as he rises to demipointe, elbows
and knees bent, then he returns to straight legs as the arms rotate up to frame the head
again, this without altering the angle of the elbow or wrists.
At up stage right, he again turns to a diagonal downstage left direction while both arms
come down to indicate that direction in front of him as if drawing an arrow. The dancer
pulls his arms closer to his chest almost folded “indian-style”, left above right. He
adjusts his position as he turns right, with left leg and arm extended behind him. Making
an outside turn to the left, as he progresses down stage right, his arms follow the curve of
his trajectory to lift beside his face. He takes a few steps in profile right and extends his
arms in front of himself to step into a deep lunge. Here the elbows are fully extended as
he moves his whole body from a high to a low position in five stop action movements;
the last one in a ripple up the spine to head corresponding to a “grace trill” in the music.
This gesture ends with both hands pointing toward his extended right leg in back, his
head bowed. He suddenly lifts himself and bends backward over the extended legs, head
facing upstage and arms and wrists again flexed to frame his head.
Maintaining this upper body position, the dancer turns right in an outside turn, leaping to
the right leg in a wide second and continuing the turn by leaping to his left leg in a wide
second, his back to the audience. He completes the turn to face the audience, and in
another half-turn in the same direction, the dancer brings his arms wide out about
shoulder level. He is running to the right as he brings both arms forward to press palms
together in front of him, right leg forward, left behind in attitude (knee facing the floor).
His head is slightly bent, as if “condescending” a humble attitude of prayer.
He hops back and forth between right and left legs three times, bringing his hands
together forward and back of his body on each hop facing right, and looking back over
his shoulder when his hands clap in back. He ends this sequence with a quick draw into a
standing position, both arms framing his head, fingertips touching. He faces in this
position to the left, lunging forward on his upstage (left) leg and drawing back into a
passé supported on his right. He lunges again, this time drawing up in a passé on his left
as his head faces right. His arms have not moved. As he steps behind himself, his arms
come down wide to the sides closing near his hips, always up stage arm and leg forward,
downstage arm and leg behind him. He continues to face to the right.
There is a slight lift to demipointe, then he simply swivels his body around inside the
frame of arms and legs to the same position facing to the left. He again “shrugs” to the
left. This shift and shrug is repeated twice again. The dancer then turns to the left and in
a running step diagonal sweeps his arms out and around him, though this time the right
comes down (palm to floor) as the left goes up (palm to ceiling). Into this framing the
body turns back to face the audience, and he draws himself into a passé on his left leg,
left arm high, right arm low. He then drops into a diagonal cross down stage right, as
both arms meet at the same level and sweep up and out overhead. With a slicing
movement the arms pass and he falls into a deep bend on his right leg, left leg bending at
the knee and behind. His torso is pitched forward, almost horizontally in the direction of
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movement. In this “racing” position, he lifts on demipointe and runs the rest of the way
down stage right. Again, he swings his arms wide overhead and pivots on his left leg
high to return the way he came. But about half way back he lands in a wide second, his
arms swing up to frame the head fingertips touching, and the audience sees him with his
back deeply arched to them and head held high.
The dancer recovers from this position by turning to face the audience, right arm
positioned over left arm in front of his chest. (You didn’t think I could do that, did you?)
As he steps out to the right, presenting his body fully to the front, the arms switch
position at each step. He stops center stage and swivels his body inside the frame of his
arms from side to side and repeats this in crossing to stage left.
Changing again to move stage right, he brings his arms in a sweep up to frame his head
again, this time kneeling on both knees, upstage knee in front of the downstage one. He
arches back in a deep backbend, head high. Then in five stop movements, his arms come
in front of him in a prayerful gesture and his body bends forward to the ground. Quickly
he recovers to his feet and runs across the stage to the left, arms sweeping down to his
sides again. In this direction he again repeats his supplication.
He recovers to his feet, and almost defiantly slaps his hands together in a crouch; each
time swiveling as if to travel in the opposite direction three times. But as he shifts in this
frame to the left, he seems to be looking back over his shoulder. This reversal of
direction finishes with a defiant leap to the left, both arms coming overhead then pressed
across his chest upon landing, facing to the left. Abruptly, he shifts direction to the right
running in that direction with both arms out in front of himself, palms forward as if
pushing. He ends his run down stage center, facing right. Feet together he rises to
demipointe, with the up stage arm lifting, the down stage arm lowering. The last two
steps in that direction, in contrast to the lightfootedness of the rest of the dance, are
stomped audibly and heavily into the ground. He ends kneeling in an open position with
his upstage arm extended, then suddenly bows, both arms bent, palms down on the floor
in front of him, his head down.
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III.
Afternoon of a Faun
Choreography
Vaslav Nijinsky (1912)
Music
Claude Debussy (
Scenery and Costume by Leon Bakst
Dancer
Reconstructed
time
Rudolf Nureyev
13 min.
The dance takes place on two spacial levels, one (private hillock to the faun) elevated
above the other (which the faun cohabits with the nymphs). Both dance and music
coincide in some sequential conclusions, but other than coexisting in the same time
frame, do not refer to one another. Music and movement qualities are in opposition;
while the music is languid and dreamy, most movements are abrupt, with sudden changes
of direction and position. The faun achieves a very smooth transition of weight from one
foot to the other in walking, but it is accomplished from the knees down, as if paralyzed
at the groin. His feet are deeply flexed as he rolls his balance from one foot to the other.
All movements have height and width, but no depth—it is as if the dimensions of upstage
and downstage do not exist. Everyone moves in straight lines from one side of the stage
to the other.
With the opening bars of music, the faun is discovered posed lounging on his hillock.
He reclines in a position closed to the audience slightly on his left side propped up by his
left arm. His right knee is flexed and his left leg extended in front of him, his toes flexed
as if pushing against an invisible wall. In his right hand he holds a flute to his lips, and
he is facing stage left.
He slowly lowers the flute to lay it on the ground at his side and sits up, his right hand
extending to his flexed knee, hands in a mitten closure with the thumb up and separated.
He rests his elbow on his knee. Abruptly he shifts position to turn away from the
audience, then further to face to the right, elbows bent. Completing the turn, he lies
supine full length on his hill, looking up into the sky. He stretches his arms high above
his head in a yawn, then reaches in front of himself to sit upright, both feet deeply flexed
in front of himself. His torso is now open to the audience, face still in profile to the right.
His left arm supports his upper body as his right leg crosses his left. Resting his right
arm on his right knee, he is now in mirror opposite to his first sitting position.
Reaching with his right hand to the flute, he again lifts it to his lips. This coincides with
the introduction of a soft oboe segment of the music. After a moment, he replaces the
flute on the ground and turns facing stage left in a deep closed lunge, right leg over left,
twisting his body to look left. His right knee comes to the ground and his whole body
faces left. He opens his mouth wide, crouching with both hands on the ground, his left
knee up. As his left foot reaches forward to take his weight, right knee on the ground, his
torso is again open to the audience, and he pauses, elbows flexed, palms facing the
audience, left slightly in front, and right slightly behind his body.
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He scoops both hands forward to pick up a cluster of (white?) grapes. Lifting them high
over his head, he lowers them to his mouth. then places them on the ground again.
Crouching forward, he scoops up another bunch of grapes (red?) and brushes them
against his mouth as if eating and places them on the ground also. He then turns to face
stage right, sitting in a mirror image to his first sitting position, face in profile to the
right, right leg flexed over left that is extended in front of him both feet flexed. His left
arm rests on his knee, and his hand, thumb separated gestures to the left.
He does not move as three nymphs enter from stage right and cross in a straight line to
stage center. They are in profile looking in the direction they are moving to the left, arms
linked loosely at the elbows, and their bodies, equidistant from one another facing the
audience. Their upper bodies are immobile, carried smoothly over the ground in a
gliding movement. They pause and turn their heads to look back where they came,
expectantly. They gesture simultaneously lifting their right arms and walk the rest of the
way to stage left as two more nymphs enter from that direction and mirror the gesture.
With two nymphs on the right, and three on the left, the immobile faun is framed between
the two groupings. One more nymph enters from stage right. She stops just under the
faun’s hillock., bends down, and stands up in a flattened attitude facing left, both arms
framing her head in profile, and her right leg lifted. She faces both directions as if to
acknowledge the two groups and walks backward to join the two standing to the right.
The picture is now symmetrically balanced.
No one moves while the faun with jerking head movements, seems to follow the entrance
of one more nymph from stage right. Once she has stopped walking and opens her arms
holding a veil, his head jerks back to its previous profile facing right. The two groups of
three nymphs pass in flat lines behind her. She drops her veil on the ground and reaching
out from her body with her arms wide, the solo nymph stands up. At either side, the two
groups of three strike a symmetrical tableau.
The faun stands up. The single nymph drops another veil and turns to face him in profile
to the audience. As the two groups of nymphs pass each other from side to side like
curtains, the faun walks backward down his hillock, feet deeply flexed, arms bent at
elbows, hands at his sides. He is in profile looking in the direction from which he has
been descending. He walks straight from stage right to stage left, looking only in the
direction in which he is moving behind the nymph, who countermoves in front of him.
They do not look at each other.
Having reached stage left, the faun suddenly stops walking, lifts his left thumb to the side
of his head and turns his head toward the last nymph passing in front of him in the line at
the far left. When she turns her head in his direction, he brings up both hands to his
waist, head high and grins at her. She makes a startled gesture with her hands and arms
and quickly moves away from him. The two groups of nymphs exit as faun and one
nymph cross the stage so that it seems he is watching the group exiting stage right. She is
at stage left looking off to the left.
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First the faun rise to demipointe, upstage leg wide in front of the downstage leg and both
arms reaching out in that direction. Then the nymph rises to demipointe in the same
position facing left, but her arms are out to either side of her. She turns, and seemingly
wary of the faun, picks up her veil from the ground, her face looking to the right. She
covers one shoulder, rises, and by simply twisting her lower body. Moving nothing else,
makes off toward stage left, still looking over her shoulder. She stops in a semi
crouching position as the faun shifts his body within the frame of his arms to her
direction.
They walk toward each other, meeting at center stage on the same horizontal “plane” and
he embraces her with straight arms. He is on the right of her facing left, and she is on the
left of him facing right. She slowly sinks as he rises on demipointe, in a wide fourth
position, towering over her. Her left arm crosses her abdomen, and her right holds the
veil to her left shoulder. She slowly kneels and bends out of the narrow space between
his arms ending in a deep bow. But she lifts her head and body away from him as he lifts
his downstage right leg and proceeds to prance in front of her. He moves forward and
back as she stands up. He runs and leaps to her position, but she has countermoved to
his. He turns to kneel in front of her; they have essentially traded places.
But as he stands and rises again to demipointe, she sinks to her knees. Their hands and
arms have made no change of position in this section. Slowly she leans far back, her
right leg behind her so her torso is open. He makes a stabbing gesture with one foot and
comes closer to hold her between his rigidly straight arms. He continues to attempt to
confine her within his narrow range but she eludes him as they cross back and forth in
straight lines left and right. He crosses his arms around her shoulders in standing behind
her. Her arms are crossed under his and they move back and forth in this position.
She escapes, drops her veil, and moves as if to leave the area. But he reaches his upstage
right arm to her, and they link elbows. She is on his right. They both kneel, she to the
ground, but he only bending his knees to accommodate her. And when he turns to face
away from her, lifting his left arm up and drawing it down close to his body, she slides
out of his right arm to disappear stage right.
He is alone. He turns in her direction, reaching both arms straight in front of him. But he
then smiles, turns his head and rests his arms at his side again, hands bent at wrists,
thumbs extended. He walks toward and kneels at the veil, both arms coming up to the
sides of his head and well out to the sides. He walks and kneels again to pick up the veil,
his torso in an open position. He cradles the veil in his arms and turns to the right in time
to face the entrance of three nymphs. But when they see him with it in his arms, they
quickly return the way they came. The faun twice lifts the veil to his face in a gesture
like the one used to indicate eating the two bunches of grapes, first facing left and then
right, lifting the bunched veil on either side.
He swirls it up and down evidently pleasured by its movement in the air, turning in time
to meet three nymphs again, one of whom makes a rapid waving of both her arms at him
as if trying to get him to drop the veil so she can safely retrieve it. None of them dares to
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get too close to him. When it is clear he won’t let go of the veil, they turn and run back
the way they came.
He moves to stage left and closes the ends of the veil up against his body on each side,
drawing it to his chest. He is looking down at it, his body faces the audience and he
walks stage right. His walk is always stylized; with knees bent, he seems to smoothly roll
from one foot to the other by rising to demipointe off the back foot onto the flexed front
one so that his knees and hips never seem to move. When he turns, his knees are turned
in, closing the groin. His chest and upper body stay open to the audience. Holding the
veil with both hands to his breast, the faun walks to the steps leading up his hillock.
He ascends by lifting the leg at a right angle in front of him and rising to demipointe to
place it on the step. It seems to give him a weird floating appearance, because the steps
themselves are not visible. His torso faces the audience, but his head is in profile to the
direction his is going. Once in his private space, the faun kneels, lowers the veil to the
ground, and lifts both arms to frame his head. He kneels and jabs with his hands close to
his sides at the veil; the action is not just in the hands, but also in the abdomen like a
contraction.
He picks it up, and positions his downstage right hand to jab again from a position close
to his mouth, but instead places his hand in the loop of the drape of the veil and lifts it
reverently far out in front of himself, arching his back and head up as he extends his arms
slowly. In six abrupt stop-action moves he draws the veil to his face. He lays it down on
the ground again, kneeling before it and putting one end to his mouth as if kissing it. He
then lowers his body onto the scarf, leading with the groin, and lying on it prone. His
downstage arm slides to his side, his body convulses and he opens his mouth before
relaxing again.
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GLOSSARY OF TERMS
Terms used throughout this study reflect an interdisciplinary approach and merit
more thorough discussion than can be provided in footnotes. As used in this discussion,
such broad terms reflect an orientation toward performing arts scholarship in common
usage. This is justified in that the base of discussion is located in the dances; however,
moving between humanities and performance arts usage creates confusion. For that
reason, a glossary of these terms clarifying the way in which they are applied in this
study is appropriate.
Art and Entertainment
Constructed designations of what was art and what was entertainment changed
over the Nineteenth Century, setting the stage for the early Twentieth Century in Europe
and the United States. This topic is admirably discussed in Lawrence Levine’s book,
Highbrow/Lowbrow: The Emergence of Cultural Hierarchy in America. In general, the
term “legitimate” was used at the turn of the century to distinguish “highbrow” stage
presentations based on enobling themes that only high-class audiences could understand.
Legitimate stage presentations included serious stage plays, opera, concert music, and the
ballet and were based on European aesthetics. Ticket prices to these productions were
too high for regular attendance by the lower classes. “High class” artists were presumed
to have spent many years training in the subtleties of their profession under the aegis of
large, state-supported schools and professional companies and in the mentorage of other
renowned artists associated with a specific city. Such artists were almost exclusively
white, Euro-Americans.
“Low class” entertainers on the other hand, could be white or colored and were
presumed to have simply “absorbed” the mechanics of their craft from imitation of others
(despite the fact that effective comic timing requires meticulous training to achieve).
While the artist supposedly dedicated his life to his art in “lawful” association with other
artists, the entertainer was often thought of as a rogue individual; a clever charlatan of no
fixed abode and an opportunist out to cheat the public. “Lowbrow” entertainments
included those that pleased or titillated low-class audiences, such as dime museums, fairs,
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and vaudeville shows charging minimal admittance fees. Lines of division between “art”
and “entertainment” are arbitrary, for there is much entertainment in the opera or ballet,
and a good portion of vaudeville also presented “high class” actors, singers and dancers.
Culture
Culture as discussed here refers to the second definition of the term presented by
Duncan Ivison in his book, Postcolonial Liberalism. Rather than defining boundaries
between what is authentic and inauthentic, or traditional from modern expression, culture
is conceived of as being continually permeable and negotiable. People depend upon a
concerted assemblage of performative, mediatory elements of culture to orient
themselves to interpret experiences through language. Culture in this sense is not a static
monolithic construct, but an on-going process of interpretation made cohesive by general
common consent of its population.
Euro-American
This term provides a convenient shortcut in this study by combining predominant
European cultural attributes such as English, French, and German influences on
American culture. It is an arbitrary designation that should be recognized as linguistic
(English), religious (Christian) and physiological (North European). Although this is
both arbitrary and characteristic of only a portion of the American population past and
present, it is an important distinction in discussions of art and culture. Otherwise,
assumptions in written documents by artists and critics of the time go unrecognized.
Exotic
The term “exotic” is a broad designation of anything outside the norm of common
European experience, of which Orientalism is one type. Exoticism is interpreted in this
study to include not only distant geographic sites, but also references to remote, “ancient”
times (or even in the future, as would be the case for science-fiction narratives)
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ambiguously designated in the frame of fantasy (“a long time ago, in a place far away
. . .”). Both exoticism and Orientalism are Eurocentric constructs of non-European
cultures and therefore exist only within a context of European influence (the United
States).
Even the term “European” is somewhat flexible to include English, French,
German, Italian, Austrian and Scandinavian inheritors of the (Christian) Western GrecoRoman tradition; excluding inheritors of the Eastern (Christian and Islamic) GrecoRoman tradition such as; Russia, Turkey, Romania, Poland, Morocco, Egypt, Arabia, etc.
The exception is Spain and its colonies, perhaps due to its ties to North Africa; there is in
this definition of “European” also a physiological distinction between fair-skinned
northerners and dark-skinned “others”, including the Spanish, Gypsies, and
Mediterranean others, such as swarthy Italians. The designation, “American” also means
“European” in this sense, despite a diasporic population of peoples and cultures from all
over the world, including Europe, from the very inception of the United States as a
political entity. A third type of exotica was attached to ancient cultures of Greece, Egypt,
and Rome in part because they could “not speak for themselves” and were therefore
interpreted as a foundation of the essential, pre-industrial European ethos. In the
discussions of both Gnossienne (Chapter Three) and Faune (Chapter Four), greater
attention is given to this kind of exoticism.
Belman’s book, The Exotic in Western Music lists seven characteristics common
to all exotic music in Western arts that are also applicable to exoticism in visual
performances (i. e. dance and theatre). Over the course of time, then, certain features
signaling the exotic in these entertainments became codified. Whenever there was a call
for an exotic element, these features were repeated, with only minor variation, for any
and all non-European characters. Several essays included in the Bellman book describe
in detail specific exotic features in musical and presentational terms. I have summarized
these recurrent features as follows:
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1.
Exotic musical motifs were usually played on European musical
instruments with percussion sounds dominating to indicate either a heavy
primitivism or an aggressive mood.
2.
Rhythmic patterns in music signifying the exotic were short and repetitive,
as if the exotic character was unable to express itself in a cultured and
sophisticated manner; this was reflected in the dancing.
3.
Dancers often played instruments to accompany their dancing. These
might include rattles for Native Americans, tambourines for Gypsies,
sticks for Nautch dancers of India, etc.
4.
Vocalizations consisted of short, nonsense, repetitive, and often nonmelodic phrases rather than a linguistically worded, conceptually-complex
expression in song. Sirens, for example, sang in high-pitched voices on
sustained vowel sounds with vague melody and no rhythmic meter,
suggesting a pre-linguistic, seductive condition. Both Native American
savages and South Sea cannibals chanted nonsense syllables in monotone,
as did Chinese sorcerers. Musical instrumentation supported and repeated
these signature elements.
5.
Both the dancing and the music were represented as “unlearned”, or
“natural”. This reinforced the misconception that foreign arts require little
or no formal training. At the same time, the training in exotic performing
art is also referred to as esoteric, magical, secret, etc.
6.
A single character dressed in an exotic costume stood for, or represented
the generality of an entire culture. This had the effect of denying
individual, clearly focused, and complex personalities. Alternatively,
“flocks” of exotic people were presented as silent attendants on European
princes and princesses. A single male European character could stand up
against, and defeat, whole armies of exotic males, most of whom ran from
a fight.
7.
Exotic characters were often (though not always) confined to supporting
roles. When exotic characters were placed in the main role, they were
usually depicted as the tragic victims (usually beautiful young females
from wealthy, aristocratic families in danger of being sold off by their
fathers into an unwanted marriage) of a restrictive society longing to be
free, pleading for a European (male) sanctuary. Their fates were also
usually tragic: Chinese princesses died of love or went mad, Native
American “noble savages” stoically suffered injustice before dying, etc.
These personages often behaved in an irrational, emotional, child-like
manner that denied them individual adult human qualities. The
feminization of exotic characters (male and female) in the arts has been
the topic of much discussion in the literature.
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Humanism
It is the intent of this study to present dance within its cultural context as a
significant contribution to the humanistic project. This project, regardless of time or
place, proposes to frame a concert of ideas about the individual’s position in life; within
family, community, nation, and the cosmos. This frame of concerted ideas gives
meaning and purpose to the existence of the individual. As part of an attempt to expand
traditional academic concepts of which disciplines, values, and texts should be included
in the humanities, this study of dance in culture makes use of the word humanism in its
broadest sense. Although it is not the intent of this investigation to debate the issue of
dance as a language, it is helpful to point out that it is examined as “text” in the sense of
paralleling the communicative intent of a language. The text of a dance, then, can be
analyzed for its gestalt of meanings and references to the individual’s position in life in a
way comparable to examinations of written text for similar characteristics. If the intent
of communication is given as the basis upon which dance is included in a humanistic
discussion, then the limitations and strengths of both expressive gesture and oral/written
language become apparent.
Cross-disciplinary uses of such terms as “humanism”, then, need not be entirely
alien to one another. If indeed; “The first humanists also grasped how this project of
theirs [humanities] was simultaneously opposed to much of medievalism’s basic
assumptions about man’s place in the cosmos” (Fleming), then dance as an avant-garde
expression has a similar relationship with Early Modernism. Certainly the purpose of this
study is to examine the dynamics of how these dances negotiate both the continuum and
disruptions of this era. In this study, the term “humanism” is used in context with
common usage in performance studies, and it is recognized that this is at variance with
other academic definitions of the humanistic tradition. A helpful discussion of this kind
of use is presented in Richard Schechner’s series of essays on the topic in his book, The
End of Humanism: Writings on Performance.
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Modernism and avant-garde
Two main resources consulted for this study offered conflicting definitions of
“Modernism”. Norman Cantor in his book, The American Century: Varieties of Culture
in Modern Times presents Modernism of the first half of the Twentieth Century as a
rebellion against Victorianism; that whatever Victorianism was, Modernism was against
it (43). Cantor marks out these characteristics of Modernism:
1.
antihistoricist
2.
departure from macrocosmic to microcosmic dimensions
3.
preoccupation with self-referentiality
4.
fractured and discordant
5.
lack of predetermined pattern
6.
rejection of philosophical idealism
7.
functionalism
8.
rejection of absolute polarities
9.
elitist
10.
open sexuality
11.
aware of the consequences of technology
12.
moral relativism
13.
the arts as an ideal state
14.
cultural despair
However, this convenient depiction of Modernism as an abrupt break from
Victorianism does not accurately accommodate cultural and artistic trends discussed in
this study. Even the avant-garde aspect of Modernism, which fashioned itself in
rebellion against established order retained much in common with Victorianism, and the
concern for social improvement, or the idealization of women and children expressed in
Romanticism is also familiar in Victorian expressions (Chapter One). All these cultural
movements had their own arenas of “moral relativism, cultural despair, elitism, and
functionalism”.
The term “Modernism” can be approached in several different ways. In a broadly
generalized historic sense, the Western tradition can be separated into two halves
between the Ancient and the Modern World. Some historians place this separation in the
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Renaissance, at about the time a change of perception in humanity’s position in the
cosmos took place. In an effort to restore the position of rational investigation attributed
to Ancient Greece and Rome, the Renaissance goal was, according to Micheleti, “The
discovery by man of himself and the world”. Put another way, the Renaissance
encouraged, “. . .an interdependent system based on individual effort enhanced by
mercantile enterprise and military inventiveness” (Atchity: Preface to The Renaissance
Reader, xviii).
This idea suggests that the modern person is distinctive as one aware of self; the
measure and maker (homo faber) of systems for cooperative functioning. The modern
person is also the player of the game (homo ludens), suggesting an awareness of mutable
social roles and identities, each one layered over another. In the context of Modernism,
this Renaissance pairing of “self as maker” and “self as player of the game” suggests an
awareness of the mechanisms by which social and cultural systems are created and recreated to ensure continuity and survival. And in the process of negotiating these shifts,
the individual person finds that meaning in aesthetic, ethical, and spiritual arenas depends
upon either an agreed-upon community or personal construct, both of which are
interpretive, and interdependent. Projects in which these dynamics are in question are
humanistic endeavors, whether in the form of philosophical inquiry, the struggle to
establish beneficial political and legal systems, or expressed in the arts.
During this period of nascent modernism, then, a crisis of identity arose when the
individual found him- or herself in conflict with roles created by social obligation.
Whereas prior to the Renaissance no option to question the rule of authority was
available, the possibility of reversing the dictates of a hieratical system arose as a result
of a rebirth of humanistic investigation. As will be discussed, it is in the tensions arising
from the anxieties of self-doubt and defiance (in a multitude of variations) of established
order that the avant-garde impetus is directly identified.
To employ a comparable framework, the philosophical and sociological shifts into
Modernism also can be said to have converged with art near the end of the Age of the
Enlightenment (approximately on-going during the 1700’s) and the commencement of
Romanticism (approx: 1770-1830). This convergence was considered in the
epistemological examinations of Immanuel Kant (1724-1804) and Georg Hegel (1770-
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1831). Over the course of his explanation of these German philosophers and the way in
which their discourses on the nature of aesthetics suggested avenues of experimentation
in art, Arthur Dantoii states that:
This exaltation of art marks a distinction between these thinkers [Kant and
Hegel] and their predecessors of the seventeenth century, who found scant
occasion to write about art. . .in any special, self-conscious way (“A
Century of Self-Analysis: Philosophy in Search of an Identity”. From:
The Age of Modernism: 13-27).
Kant proposed that art had potential as an individually-interpretive activity situated
between intellectual and moral judgment as a corrective to the limitations of pure
reasoning. Hegel stressed the concept of accord, or unity of purpose among art, religion
and philosophy (Der absolute Geist). In Hegel’s discussion, these pursuits collectively
indicated a pattern of self-examination and reflection leading to spiritual transformationiii.
In this study, the avant-garde movement within the broad period of Modernism is
focused on as in defiance of middle-class precepts that are both modern and Victorian.
At the same time, the avant-garde, like Romanticism, requires the presence of that
against which it rebels in order to continue to exist. The term avant-garde means at the
front of a military advance; the part that leads the way and is the first to get hit by the
opposition. Avant-garde artists succeeded by failing; that is, they deemed the degree to
which their art was opposed by the status quo (i. e. the bourgeoisie), as an indication of
how successful their art was. As with most terms used in this study, the term avant-garde
is used in its broadest sense. Richard Schechner’s assembly of essays, The End of
Humanism, presents two kinds of avant-garde. The first is an historical avant-garde that
is charted through its examples in art and a philosophical basis for that art; the many “isms”, some of which are discussed in Chapter One. However, the second kind of avantgarde is also important to this study:
[an]. . . “experimental” performance: whatever is happening at the
boundaries, in advance of the mainstream. Of course, sometimes these
two kinds of avant-gardes are expressed in the same movement
(Schechner: 16-7).
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While the movements of avant-garde artists in Europe influenced the approach the dance
artists in Russia (Nijinsky) and the United States (St. Denis and Shawn) took in their
dances, the artists and their creations are discussed in the framework of this latter sense of
the avant-garde. Arts and entertainments, along with patterns of marketing, are
discussed as avant-garde expressions in Chapter Five.
In this sense, Modernism and avant-garde is taken here as an attitude in which
certain kinds of experimentations with the above cited characteristics were ongoing, and
of which those collected around the avant-garde represent the more radical, progressive
and experimental. For this reason, this study relies more upon the model presented in
Hilton Kramer’s The Age of the Avant-Garde: An Art Chronicle of 1956-1972 and
Joachimides and Rosental’s The Age of Modernism: Art in the 20th Century as useful in
discussing the dances.
It is from a close reading of these art history books that the five avant-garde
attributes of Modernism (exoticism, distortions of time and space, naturalism,
spiritualism, and response to technology) are taken. For the purposes of discussing
performing arts, it is more accurate to say that Modernism supported both a continuation
of Victorianism and the radical experimentation of the avant-garde in an antagonistic and
mutually-preserving relationship. This reading of the term is consistent with the
humanities survey textbook by DeWitt and Platt, The Western Humanities.
Modular Organization
Modular organization and construction appear with remarkable consistency
regardless of medium in all instances of public display and marketing of goods and
services. As discussed particularly in Chapter Five, modular construction patterns made
it possible to market and distribute performing arts and entertainments in the same
context as concrete products in a mass market configuration; the same principles apply to
the construction of a skyscraper as to the construction of artworks, including dance.
Elements of basic modularization as discussed by Bradd Shore (Culture in Mind, 151) are
as follows:
294
1. Modular construction employs a series of interlocking (or inter-related) units
organized to construct a more complex entity.
2. Variations among the constructing units and multiple combinations of those
units produce entities that appear to be different; a quantitative rather than
qualitative multiplicity is produced.
3. Constant experimentation in devising configurations is encouraged; individual
variation of expression lies within the limited parameters of a modular system.
4. The consumer’s attention is directed to surface features because modular
systems have no intrinsic interior.
5. Modular systems promote an egalitarian bias because any one configuration is
equal to any other; these configurations as well as the units comprising them
are interchangeable.
Naturalism
Of all the terms used in this study, “naturalism” has proved the most problematic.
The way this term is used in this investigation is confusing because the three dances
under examination appear highly stylized and presentational in their movements, yet they
are claimed to be “natural and therefore true”. However, there are two ways in which
naturalism is expressed in them. One is that all three dances incorporate pedestrian (i. e.
non-dance) movements such as kneeling, walking, running, and swaying. These
movements are performed in such a way that anyone might duplicate them without
specialized training. Although the stage pictures of Gnossienne, Faune, and Incense are
carefully contrived, there are no spectacular balletic leaps, extensions, or spins.
Naturalism is also expressed in the costumes, which permit freedom of movement in the
295
dancing body. While the Incense worshipper and Gnossienne’s priest are barefoot, the
Faun wears soft-soled sandals.
The term “natural” attaches to these dances because they are performed in a nonballet, non-socially-coded fashion. During the time period in question, ballet, opera, and
social class performances in public were considered “artificial”, or “contrived” in a
European context. In the United States, that European context had previously (before
1900) provided the model upon which American arts and social graces had been based.
However, by 1900 that European model had provided the means by which the upper
classes separated (“purified”) themselves from the lower classes, rendering European arts
and artists—as well as those Americans who emulated them—to be viewed as “alien” to
American values in other classes.
The fusion between artistic performance and public social performance occurred
at this time to create a dichotomous opposition between what was considered “American”
versus “non-American” (everybody else). This polarized perception was particularly
acute in the performance of masculinity in the US and was directly related to issues of
political dominance at home and abroad. If the European male was slight, effeminate,
probably bi- or homosexual, artistic, scholarly, and decadently sophisticated in the social
graces (particularly dancing), he was in all ways “unauthentic”, “contrived” and
“artificial” therefore not true and natural.
Directly opposite then, the American male must be rough, robust, uneducated, a
laborer, masculine, and heterosexual. A “true” or “authentic” American male spent his
time (or at least acted and looked as if he did) outdoors, free of an “unnatural” urban
environment. Feminine artistic activities—particularly dancing—were “alien” activities
to the American male. To be male was to be “not-female”. The American man
(associated with an uncultured, outdoors self-sufficiency) performed a “natural” self,
created out of a worldly sophistication. Females (associated with a cultured indoors,
urban dependency), and males of all other nationalities performed an “artificial” self
associated with the arts and “book learning”.
The other sense in which “naturalism” acts upon the dances in this study is that
since social performance of the self is artificial, a ritualized performance of the artist in
these dances—because it is not the norm; because it is exotic, alien, etc.—is intimate and
296
unobserved and therefore “true”. This is in the sense of Delsarte the idea that the
movements of these dances are stylized and ritualized in a highly presentational form that
they convey a reality of the inner self of the person/persona/character that ordinary
pedestrian movements could not. Socially-performed mannerisms—considered artificial,
and therefore “false” (particularly for women) were intended to obscure true feelings, not
reveal them. Arrested action, or pose in a theatrical performance was not normal
everyday life. Presented in an exotic context, such pose reflected not illusion, but the
supposed natural and non-artificial simplicity of Greek classicism in its “pure,
unadulterated” form. Exotic references to Greek arts embedded in all three dances
(although “Indian”, the costume of Incense invokes Greek robes) are discussed at length
in their respective chapters. Resources exploring these dynamics in greater detail are
Brewster and Jacob’s book, Theatre to Cinema (which explains the relationship of posed
images from live stage to film via Delsartism) and Michael Kimmel in his book,
Manhood in America.
Orientalism
The term “Oriental” is a broad designation based upon European concepts of nonEuropean Eastern cultures subject to imperialistic rule in contemporary and ancient
images. These include a more or less generalized exotica in the Near East; Turkish,
Arabian, Egyptian, Moroccan, Persian, etc. Far East Orientalism included; Chinese,
Japanese, “Siamese” (Thai) and Moslem/Hindu Indian sources.
The very word “Oriental” is a western construct broadly encompassing perceived
and interchangeable characteristics of these cultures; one particularly useful in discussing
The Incense (Chapter Two). Although Russia and Spain also had exotic associations,
they did not fall under the same kinds of generalizations as Orientalism. Since
Orientalism has deep associations with Imperialism (Said), the ways in which various
cultures are exoticized are determined by their subject status to western nations (i. e. as
India was subject to Great Britain from 1857 to 1948, although British economic trade
and cultural domination had begun many years earlier). The amalgam of these subject
cultures in European depictive and performing arts suggested a feminized, lush wealth
and sensuous freedom that flattered the European male gaze. Russian, Spanish (Gypsy),
297
Native American and African imagery presented a slightly different context of exotica
because these did not come under direct European rule. The term “oriental” is a broad
designation based upon European concepts of non-European Eastern cultures subject to
imperialistic rule in contemporary and ancient images. These include a more or less
generalized exotica in the Near East; Turkish, Arabian, Egyptian, Moroccan, Persian, etc.
Far East sources of Orientalism included; Chinese, Japanese, “Siamese” (Thai) and
Moslem/Hindu Indian. A third type of exotica was attached to ancient cultures of
Greece, Egypt, and Rome in part because they could not “speak for themselves” and were
therefore interpreted as a foundation of the essential, pre-industrial European ethos. In
the discussion of both Gnossienne (Chapter Three) and Faune (Chapter Four), greater
attention is given to this type of exoticism.
Progressivism
This term describes an attitude rather than a cohesive movement in the United
States as a cultural response to urbanization, industrialization, and immigration. The
belief was that, given abuses and inequalities in society, government must first “purify”
itself through reform and then act to protect its weakest members; children (abolition of
child labor) and women (elimination of sweatshops and prostitution). Other points of
Progressivism were prohibition, the “Americanization” of immigrants, and restriction of
immigration.
Progressivism was not entirely consistent. Supported by small business,
professionals, and middle-class urban reformers, the approach did not challenge
capitalism directly; it simply maintained that the most rich and powerful had a moral
responsibility to administer to the most poor and weak. In this sense, Progressivism was
paternalistic and moderate and at the same time supported women’s suffrage. As a
particular approach to social and economic reform Progressivism appeared in the latter
part of the Nineteenth Century and faded during the First World War. But some of its
effects on foreign policy in the United States continue in the attitude that it is the
responsibility of the most powerful nation to guide the less fortunate to a better life.
298
Romanticism
The movement of Romanticism is closely connected with Symbolism in the
perspective of this study because they precede the specific avant-garde attributes under
discussion. Romanticism offered a corrective measure to rational thought and scientific
progressivism characteristic of the previous Age of Enlightenment. The creative (poet)
artist as “a man of feeling” was extolled for his visionary genius with access to
fundamental reality and the capacity to inspire mankind toward improvement. The
movement promoted individual initiative, nationalism, imagination, free expression of
feeling, communion (or striving against) with nature, and idealization of women,
children, and non-European groups. Pastoral nostalgia for a figuratively glorious past
took precedence over the decadence and ugliness of industrialized urbanization.
According to The Dictionary of the Arts, Romanticism is defined as:
. . .a style that emphasizes the imagination, emotions, and creativity of the
individual artist. . .asserting emotion and intuition over rationalism . . . in
reaction against 18th century classicism and rationality (447).
Since human beings clearly would not always abide by logic and the dictates of rational
behavior alone, let alone achieve rational integrity, Romanticism sought to subsume the
rational into a balanced relationship with the irrational in an effort to discover the “true
and essential self” from which right action would be directedivand nostalgically bring
about a return to a former, more innocent and therefore uncorrupted social state. And in
this directive the man of feeling; of passion and poetic vision, was to lead the wayv.
The Romantic rebellion against neoclassicism through personal aesthetics, and an
expression of transcendent reality was overcome by the 1870s by Symbolism. As
discussed in greater detail in Chapter Four, Symbolism sought to capture the ephemeral
experience of life. Symbolists (such as the poet Mallarmé) turned toward a more
internalized, spiritual expression centered in the private thoughts of the individual, as
opposed to a more geographic, political, or external expression in Romanticism.
While Romanticism offered a broad, idealistic vision of utopia for mankind by the
benevolent hand of the artist, the closely-related movement of Symbolism appeared late
in the Nineteenth Century as a dialogue between poetry and painting. But Symbolism
also had the effect of defining the general rebellion of Romanticism into a perpetually
299
volatile condition of spiritual self-validation. It is this condition of regenerating
opposition to the status quo that made it possible for the avant-garde to remain
innovative, shocking and “new” while continuing to sustain the illusion that the avantgarde was always about to be eliminated by a larger, more powerful middle-class
mercantilism (Kramer: 3-5). This model emphasizes the Romantic notion that the
individual artist of vision is always about to be destroyed (along with everything else of
true, spiritual value) by the crass stupidities of the middle-class. Hisvi only recourse was
to strategies of subversion, and he fought a heroic, losing battle.
Symbolists internalized that battle. Their preoccupation with experiential
transformation as gateway to spiritual revelation suggests a psychological reaction to
scientific and technological advances such as the theories of Darwin and Freud which did
not complicate the earlier Romantics. As the inroads of scientific discovery
progressively brought to rational light elements of human existence formerly shrouded in
mystery, the “unknown-unknowable” continued to retreat beyond those borders. Some of
those borders were to be found on the symbolic grounds of internal expression and
meaning. In other words, the more rational knowledge about the nature of existence was
sought, the more essential it became to maintain a realm of experience that could not be
encompassed by that knowledge. By way of answering this profound need for mystery in
the human psyche, the Symbolists turned inward as the external realms of Romanticism’s
sublime nature retreated. Instead of exploring geographic frontiers, Symbolists were
engaged in, “. . .seeking to express moods and psychological states. . .Their [Symbolist]
subjects were often mythological, mystical, or fantastic”(The Dictionary of the Arts:
500).
i
The French historian Jules Michelet , who was the first to use the term “Renaissance” in the midnineteenth century is quoted in the preface of Kenneth Atchity’s The Renaissance Reader (HarperPerennial,
1996).
ii
Danto claims Kant as “the first real modernist” because he was the first philosopher to bring into
examination the mechanisms of criticism as a legitimate study (13).
300
iii
It is precisely this impetus of unity among elements of performance that was the goal of the German
composer Wagner, and is a mark of spiritualism in the dances which suggests “fundamental truth, beauty,
and universality”
iv
It is interesting that this “core, essential self” constituting the individual free of outer societal corruptions
was identified as the daemon, or part-animal, part-human (Id for Freud) being which must be tapped in
order to discern the “truth” of the human condition. In other words, the human is once again placed in “the
center of the universe” as the unchanging source from which apparently-immutable but ultimately
humanly-constructed institutions of society arise.
v
The English Romantic poet, Percy Shelley, wrote passionately for the poet to become the legislator of a
new world order.
vi
The arcitypal Romantic poet was male; the same principles of romanticism in early experimental dance
was conveyed by women.
301
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Shelton, Suzanne. Divine Dancer: A Biography of Ruth St. Denis. NY: Doubleday &
Company, Inc. 1981.
Sherman, Jane, and Barton Mumaw. Barton Mumaw, Dancer: From Denishawn to Jacob's
Pillow and Beyond. NY: Dance Horizons, 1986.
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Shore, Bradd. Culture in Mind: Cognition, Culture and the Problem of Meaning. NY: Oxford
University Press, 1996.
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York and Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1989.
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Sorell, Walter. The Dance Through the Ages. NY: Grosset & Dunlap, 1967.
St. Denis, Ruth. An Unfinished Life: An Autobiography. London, Bombay, Sydney: George G.
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Stanislavski, Constantin. Building a Character. Elizabeth Hapgood, Trans. NY: Theatre Arts
Books, 1949.
Stebbins, Genevieve. Delsarte System of Expression. NY: Werner, 1902.
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Current Opinion, NY: October, 1915 (246-7).
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Counterpoint, 1999.
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Company, 1969.
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1890-1920. Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 1999.
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Lives in Dance. Paul Magriel, Ed. NY: Da Capo Press, 1977. (p. 1-14).
___________. “Maude Allen”. Chronicles of the American Dance. Paul Magriel, Ed. NY:
Henry Holt and Company, 1948 (221-224).
Visions of the East : Orientalism in Film. Matthew Bernstein and Gaylyn Studlar, Eds. New
Brunswick, N.J.: Rutgers University Press, 1997.
Weisberger, Bernard. They Gathered at the River: the story of the great revivalists and their
impact upon religion in America. Boston: Little, Brown and Company, 1958.
Winthrop, Palmer. Theatrical Dancing in America: the Development of the Ballet from 1900.
NJ: AS Barnes and Co., Inc., 1978.
Wood, Ghisliane. Essential Art Deco. London: V & A Publications, 2003.
Young, Tricia. The Killinger Collection: Costumes of Denishawn and Ted Shawn and His Men
Dancers. Florida State University Department of Dance, 1999.
Zorn, John. The Essential Delsarte. Metuchen, NJ: Scarecrow Press, 1968.
Unpublished Manuscripts, Notes and Letters:
Letter, Jane Sherman. 6 September 2003
Conversation with Professor Jack Clark. 30 January 2003 and 16 September 2003.
Conversation with Professor Patti Philips. 16 September 2003.
Email Communication with Nancy Reuter. 16 December 2002.
Video Resources
Incense.
Reconstruction by Professor Jack Clark. Choreographer Ruth St. Denis (1906).
Music by Harvey Worthington Loomis. Dancer: Lisa Plank. Performance and video recording
at Florida State University (2001) 6 min.
Gnossienne Re-creation by Barton Mumaw. Choreography by Ted Shawn (1919). Music for
Piano by Eric Satie (1889). Piano Accompaniment Lyudmila Mclerud. Dancer Professor Jack
Clark Performed and videotaped at Florida State University (1994-5)
2 min
Afternoon of a Faun Reconstruction by Elizabeth Schooling and William Chappell. PBS
Production: Nureyev and the Joffrey Ballet in Tribute to Nijinsky. (1980).
Choreography Vaslav Nijinsky (1912) Music by Claude Debussy (1894) Scenery and Costume
by Leon Bakst. Dancer : Rudolf Nureyev (1980) 13 min.
Vaudeville, An American Masters Special narrated by Ben Vereen: 1997.
The Great Primitives: Landmark films from the First Decade of Motion Picture History, coproduced by Marilyn Fabe and Tom Schmidt. 16mm compilation film, 1978.
Trailblazers of Modern Dance. WNET/13 MP #3998-3999 New York University Library
Holdings, 1979.
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH
Elizabeth Drake-Boyt was born in Des Moines, Iowa, December 13, 1948. She has enjoyed a
life-long interest in dance and theatre histories. Her BA was obtained from Southwest Missouri
State University in Speech and Theatre. She took an MA in Theatre Arts, Dance Emphasis from
the University of Arizona, and is a member of the Society of Dance Historians. The broad,
interdisciplinary challenges presented in research projects and teaching in the Humanities
promise to provide her with provocative considerations in the application of dance as an
appropriate academic study.