I've been greatly enjoying Karen Kain's wonderfully written memoir, Movement Never Lies, about her life as a ballerina. Kain was principal dancer with the National Ballet of Canada for about 25 years, and her decade-long partnership with Frank Augustyn is legendary in dance circles. Their very public relationship was romantic in a way that went far beyond the usual boundaries of romance:
Celia [the artistic director] was worried that the combination of jet lag, lack of food, and a miserable hotel would make it hard for us to take full advantage of that one chance. As a member of the jury, Celia was in a better hotel, so when she saw our dreadful state she took us to her hotel, fed us a proper meal, and ordered us to rest before the rehearsal. She led us to her room, which had two single beds, and said, "Now you two darlings just have a nap for an hour." Then she left, locking the door behind her so we wouldn't be disturbed. The scene was straight from La Fille Mal Gardée—and with much the same consequences.…
A male dancer must be exceptionally sensitive to tiny shifts in his partner's balance so he can correct problems before they're visible to anyone else; at school, the boys practised by trying to balance a chair on one leg. Frank had that attentiveness, that delicacy of touch, and that swift, unobtrusive responsiveness almost instinctively. On-stage we seemed to be dancing as one, and it's through such intangible perceptions that audiences come to believe that you are really partners.…
Energized by the audience's enthusiasm, I jumped so eagerly that I sailed right past Frank, who managed to seize my ankles as I flew by. Frank never ever let me fall.…
Thinking back on those days now, I have a much better appreciation of what made us special to each other and to the audience when we danced together. First, there was an unmannered simplicity in our dancing and acting that is very rare in ballet, perhaps because most dancers are older when they start performing leading roles. I've seen so many young dancers "produced" by their coaches over the years that I'm all the more grateful now that our early coaches—Celia, David Scott, and Nureyev—had the courage and wisdom to let us appear to be as young and innocent as we were, without embellishment or feigned sophistication. Second, we forged an intense bond of emotional and physical trust. We dared to be open with each other; if we hadn't, we wouldn't have fought so violently at times. There was a directness, and honesty, in our relationship that not only helped us create our roles together but also carried across the footlights. Nureyev once told me that when you're on-stage, the only thing you have to give your partner is yourself, and if you don't give that, your partnership is mere artifice. Frank and I were able to give ourselves to each other with total, unquestioning commitment.…
We were determined to encourage and support each other, to make it possible for each of us to excel. We held hands in the wings before an entrance to give us the strength and courage we so desperately needed. We were a team; if one of us failed, we both failed.…
There's a moment in the last act [of La Fille Mal Gardée] when Colas hides beneath some bundles of hay and surreptitiously watches Lise daydreaming… When Colas bursts out of the hay, Lise is so humiliated that she starts to cry. Trying to console her, Colas plants kisses on her arm, shoulder, and neck with a teasing tenderness that perfectly defined not only Colas but also Frank at his most lovable. Fille will always be one of my dearest memories, both as a work of art and as a symbol of what Frank and I meant to each other as dancers and as people. Much of acting is reacting, and because Frank and I trusted and cared about each other so much, we could react on-stage with utter openness and spontaneity. We were completely believable in these roles, and the public loved to imagine our storybook romance both on-and off-stage.
All together now: Awwwww!
