Foundations VI

Perspective of Time

The sixth in a series of articles tracing the historic convergence of people and ideas that culminated in the cataclysmic 1913 premiere of Le Sacre du Printemps, and exploring the impact of that revolution today.

Previous Installments:
I. "Two Characters in the Cast: Serge Diaghilev and Igor Stravinsky"
II. "Enter Emile Jaques-Dalcroze"
III. "Two Trends"
IV. Two New Characters
V. Le Sacre’s Predecessors: L’Oiseau de Feu and Petrouchka
 

It’s easy to view works like l’Oiseau de Feu and Petrouchka from the dry, historical perspective of the present. From the lens of our own time, the focus is shaped by everything that followed. But we gain a different insight by considering history from its own perspective, not just ours.

When I watch old movies, read old novels, or peruse the books that formed Advice from the Attic, I try to put myself in the place of the works’ contemporary audiences. What life and cultural experiences and mores did they bring to this, what was this saying to them, why was this being said to them, and how might they have responded?

Take a moment to consider the music of 1910 from a similar perspective. Premieres included Bartok’s String Quartet No. 1, in Budapest; Mahler’s Symphony No. 8, in Munich; Edward Elgar’s Violin Concerto, Victor Herbert’s Naughty Marietta on Broadway, and the advent of ragtime.

Think the same way of dance news in 1910. Isadora Duncan had made waves throughout Europe; Emile Jaques-Dalcroze’s Institute at Hellerau got underway (with Mary Wigman and Miriam Romberg as students); Ruth St. Denis had established herself as a performer in New York, and premiered Egypta; Rudolf von Laban established his school in Munich.

This was a time when modern music and modern dance were both emerging, but not together. Modern music rode the coattails of other concert music onto the concert stage; modern dance didn’t easily follow ballet to the concert stage, however. While modern music was presented at esteemed venues, and (perhaps for that reason alone) acceptable to audiences, modern dance was pioneered in another cultural echelon. Ruth St. Denis and Isadora Duncan both had stints in vaudeville; even Martha Graham launched her career at the Greenwich Village Follies.

Our perspective provides no superior “interpretation” of what was, but only the appreciation of what was, on its own terms. Understanding the place and time of an artwork’s conception is critical to grasping its meaning and value.

As an example, here’s one critic’s view of a Balanchine effort to create a modern improvement on Fokine’s Les Sylphides, a work the Ballet Russes premiered in 1909:

Indeed, there are times when less is less, as Balanchine himself proved in the 1970's when the New York City Ballet revived one of his favorite early 20th-century ballets, "Les Sylphides," Michel Fokine's vision of sylphs in long tutus dancing in a moonlit glade. However, the unconventional staging Balanchine sanctioned had no moonlight, no trees and no tutus. Instead, the women wore simple practice costumes. This was a "Sylphides" without sylphs, a bare-bones presentation that resurrected only the choreographic skeleton and not the soul of Fokine's ballet.¹

Perhaps the soul of a work of art, of any kind, involves connecting to its original author’s soul. That doesn’t mean we need to live, believe, or experience what they did. It’s about recognizing what was “new” and what was “traditional” in their own time; what was culturally common among their audiences and what was novel; everything from clothing styles to social mores to political events shaped and reflected the thoughts, feelings and imaginations of real-life, flesh and blood people.

This is a perspective worth taking into account as we continue our story next time.

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1. Jack Anderson, Critic’s Notebook: Less as More in Choreography. The New York Times, January 3, 1994.