Borovansky Dancer Anne Mackintosh Remembered as Poet Anne Elder

Part 1

Background: Borovansky Ballet and Anne Mackintosh

The back cover blurb of The Heart’s Ground, a Life of Anne Elder by Julia Hamer (Lauranton Books, Melbourne, 2018), claims ‘Anne Elder was a dancer with the Borovansky Ballet in the 1940s’ but a quick check of the definitive list of the personnel Borovansky recruited to his company shows no such name. What the blurb doesn’t mention is that Elder danced under her birth surname Mackintosh, which is on the list.

That list, included at the beginning of the footnotes below, is one of the cornerstones of the Borovansky Ballet’s documented history and it appears at the start of Frank Salter’s Borovansky, the man who made Australian ballet (Wildcat Press, 1980), one of the only two books to date that deal specifically and exclusively with the Borovansky Ballet. The other book is Borovansky Ballet in Australia and New Zealand by Norman Macgeorge (F.W. Cheshire, 1946). Anne Mackintosh has more than a glancing connection with both and now, thanks to the new biography, we not only learn more about that but also discover some leads from which we can piece together more of history of the Borovansky Ballet.

So, although the focus of Hamer’s The Heart’s Ground, a Life of Anne Elder is on Elder as the noted poet she eventually became, it not only offers a deep insight into this enigmatic and temperamentally volatile creative woman’s life, it also adds to the documentation of Borovansky Ballet history.

While the name Elder is not on Salter’s list, a cursory glance at his index corrects any confusion by not only naming ‘Elder, Anne Chloe’ but adding ‘(see Mackintosh)’. Even though Anne Mackintosh was not what we might call a dancer’s dancer, she did spend ten years of her life in the pursuit of dance. As a result she left one of the important early records of Borovansky and his enterprise because she was in fact an important member of Borovansky’s retinue from when he founded the Borovansky Ballet Academy (known in its first year as The Academy of Russian Ballet) in 1939, then his company in 1940. She remained with Borovansky until—by coincidence—just before the company went professional under the aegis of J C Williamson in 1944. Furthermore, Salter relied heavily on a tribute to Borovansky, written by Elder (the surname under which she published), to create a vibrant portrayal of Borovansky during the formative years of his ballet enterprise. That tribute is probably the first and only one produced so close to Borovansky’s lifetime (1902–1959) and as such it is invaluable. Thanks to Salter’s use of it, it is the one that by its example set the trend for later memorialists. We now have it, published for the first time in full, thanks to Hamer’s biography where it is included as an appendix.

Remarkably, and until very recently, formally recorded documentation of the Borovansky era relied almost exclusively on the memories, particularly in the way of oral histories, and memoirs of its former members, especially Barry Kitcher’s From Gaolbird to Lyrebird, a life in Australian ballet (print edition Front Page, 2001; revised and expanded eBook edition BryshaWilson Press, 2016). Aside from the books by Salter and Macgeorge, the only exception was Edward H. Pask’s Ballet in Australia, the Second Act 1940–1980 (OUP, 1982). Germinating contemporaneously with Salter’s book, it provided much concise information, chronologically organised, about the work of Borovansky and his company: its personnel, repertoire and performances. Macgeorge’s book, written in the early days of the Borovansky Ballet as a professional company, is an ambitious compilation of information about it, abundantly illustrated by photographs and images of artworks. As such it is a critically significant record.

Elder’s influential Borovansky tribute was started while Borovansky was still alive and published after his death in an abridged version in Overland. Titled Borovansky: Strong Man; Sad Pierrot, Memories of a Maestro from a forgotten dancer, it appeared in Issue 17, 1960 and again in the 1965 anthology An Overland Muster, Selections From Overland, 1954–1965 (ed Stephen Murray-Smith Jacaranda Press).

When Edouard Borovansky and his wife Xenia opened their academy in Melbourne, they embarked on an enterprise that permeated the subsequent history of ballet in Australia. They were serious about training professional ballet artists and among their first students was Anne Mackintosh, who was serious about becoming a ballet artist.

The Borovanskys’ 20-year quest in training local dancers and establishing a professional Australian company that developed the dancers’ talents and built audiences for the art form enabled the formation of The Australian Ballet in 1962. More than half of the founding Australian Ballet personnel came from the Borovansky Ballet.1 And while the background to The Australian Ballet’s genesis is multi-faceted and intricately woven from various separate strands, it is a fact that the new company’s three Australian principals and more than half of the remaining dancers, the musical director, the stage director, the associate ballet master and the assistant ballet mistress were all Borovansky alumni. Even the artistic director Peggy van Praagh first came to Australia from her native England, at the invitation of J C Williamson to direct Borovansky’s company after his death in 1959. Borovansky had in fact attempted to recruit her in 1958 as ballet mistress and artistic associate.2

Although it was at the closing performance of the Borovansky Ballet that van Praagh made her impassioned plea for a government subsidised ballet company and urged the audience to lobby for it, once the new venture received the go-ahead, the memory of Borovansky found no place in it, despite the fact that his company was on various occasions in both the 1940s and 1950s billed as ‘The Borovansky Australian Ballet’ and ‘Borovansky Australian Ballet’.3 Anne Elder was among the first to note this and recorded in her diary, ‘I was quite horrified to hear about the suggestion to drop “Borovansky” from the company (name)—if they want a memorial for him surely that is a more honest one than to name an RAD (Royal Academy of Dance) scholarship after him.’ (p 225). She had already shown an almost prophetic perception of the need to record something of Borovansky’s phenomenal achievement even while the man was alive and began composing her tribute to that effect.

Author Julia Hamer, whose mother April was Elder’s younger sister, pieces the biography together from family archives, which include a good deal of correspondence and other documentation such as Elder’s diary entries, other text sources, various interviews, her own memories and valuably extensive use of Elder’s poetry. The material is chronologically organised, beginning from the early 19th C with an exploration of Elder’s bloodlines and ending with her death at the age of 58 in 1976.

Because the focus is on Elder as poet, a volume of her poetry The Bright and the Cold, Selected Poems of Anne Elder (compiled by Catherine Elder, Laurantan Books, 2018) was also published simultaneously to complete the picture and make the poet’s work readily available again.

However, The Heart’s Ground also charts Elder’s dancing life in some detail, devoting two chapters to the subject, which is set in the context of her life about which we learn much in the course of the narrative. She was born in 1918 in her parents’ native New Zealand, descended from Scottish and English business people whose financial fortunes wavered but who managed to remain well heeled. Her mother’s family was more cultivated in the perceived refinements of the era, so she wrote poetry, drew and painted, sewed exquisitely and even wrote her memoir. Elder’s father Norman Mackintosh was an insurance executive of high ranking and a board member of the Royal Melbourne Hospital. During her Borovansky era, which straddled WW II, in 1940 she married lawyer John Elder, a member of the Melbourne Club, historically a bastion of socially elite power. On his return from active army service she became a housewife, had two children and began to concentrate seriously on writing poetry. She began publishing in the 1960s, gaining significant acclaim in Australian literary circles. Anne Elder had suffered poor health all her life, eventually enduring debilitating scleroderma, an autoimmune disease of the rheumatoid type, which was undiagnosed until the very end of her life. She died in 1976. During her life one volume of her poetry For the Record (Hawthorn Press, 1972) was published. Another, Crazy Woman and Other Poems (Angus and Robertson, 1976, reprinted 1978) appeared posthumously.

Hamer uses excerpts from Elder’s Borovansky tribute and from Salter’s book, as well as quotes from Borovansky dancer and Anne’s close friend Jonet Wilkie to reconstruct Elder’s Borovansky Ballet phase. This serves acceptably as progressing the biography in the context of the whole work; in terms of Borovansky Ballet history, its value lies in the insight if offers into dancer Anne Mackintosh and the picture of her life as a player in the Borovansky phenomenon. What is priceless is the inclusion of Elder’s whole Borovansky tribute because it is rich with information that through the publication of this biography is now readily available to the public.

As children, Anne and her sister were doted on and grew up largely in the Toorak area, Melbourne’s economically most exclusive locale. They learned ballet for a period in their childhood, with Anne returning to it at the age of 16 (1934), infatuated with Pavlova. The author offers no information about what sparked the infatuation at that stage of Elder’s life, except to say, ‘This desire came from her earlier glimpses of Pavlova.’ A quote from Elder’s tribute to Borovansky follows:

Pavlova was my goddess, my white swan, my pearl beyond price. Her almond eyes, the arch of her throat, the arch of her foot glowed from the pages of childish scrapbooks. I prattled in my measles delirium of the little dark head nestling in a hood of white fur and rosy satin, the lovely wrist extended for the kisses of a score of gallants while the first snowflakes drifted, drifted past a lighted Christmas window. The Russian ballet was my Mecca, my dream of heaven. (p 106)



Although Hamer mentions Pavlova’s Australian tours of 1926 and 1929, there is no indication of whether Elder went to a performance and we can perhaps assume that she didn’t because she only refers to images in her ‘childish scrapbooks’, but there is no mention of actual dancing. Nevertheless, anyone who has the eyes to see dance—an ability something akin to having an ‘ear for music’—can appreciate the movement in a dance photograph. Given that no single dancer in history can match what Pavlova achieved across the globe in popularising ballet with the help of photographs as her principal publicity tool, it would be no surprise if Elder was among the countless worshippers seduced in this manner. The spell still works if the number of Pavlova images and devotees on line is any proof.

Furthermore, Pavlova in fact gave ‘a large framed coloured photograph of herself in the divertissement Christmas‘ to Melbourne-based ballet teacher Eunice Weston during the 1929 tour,4 which indicates that the image was clearly a well-known and often reproduced one. Considering that Borovansky opened the Borovansky Academy by joining forces with Weston, relying on her capital, absorbing her school into his to the point that even ‘her studio furniture was transferred to Borovansky’s premises,’5 there is a strong chance that Anne Mackintosh, who was among the Borovanskys’ first ballet students, was even also familiar with Weston’s memento at some stage.

Whether Anne ‘prattled’ about this specific photograph is not as intriguing as the information that she did it in the ‘delirium’ accompanying her measles, which we are told, on the preceding page, she endured at the age of 20, four years after returning to the barre.

But the mystery remains, why at the late age of 16 Anne Mackintosh suddenly decided to devote herself to the relentless rigors of learning classical ballet? Others who made that same decision as late in their lives usually did so because that was when they first encountered the art or because it was their first opportunity to try it, or because they were natural dancers, as was the case with Elder’s Borovansky colleague and friend Dorothy Stevenson, who also started at the age of 16.6 Considering Elder had had ballet lessons as a child and considering she had collected a Pavlova scrapbook while Pavlova was still alive, it is something that raises questions. Since she specifically refers to Pavlova in the divertissement Christmas, it is also possible that her serious interest was triggered by some film footage, which references that ballet, released after Pavlova’s death in 1931, Pavlova—A Memory. This movie short, filmed in Germany during the Continental Tour 1926–27 features the cloak and bonnet, a Christmas setting and the gallants mentioned. It would have been shown extensively during the time leading to Anne’s decision to return to dance.


Pavlova Cloak and Photos

Part 2

Anne Elder’s Tribute to Borovansky

To make full sense of the Pavlova passage quoted above we must turn to Elder’s Borovansky tribute, which it opens and in which it is used as both a set up for and a foil to her description of her dance class experience pre the arrival of the Borovanskys. There she continues:

‘Reality was blistered feet and bruised toes and the back row of a dancing class. It was the only sort of class then in existence…a troupe of befrilled first cousins to Shirley Temple…their tour de force, the pose pirouette en tournant…off they went like a flight of slightly drunken fairies revolving dutifully in diagonal…I was bitterly jealous of the fairies for to me their technique seemed perfect. I was sixteen, tallish and too old to start… But martyrdom must be endured, and so it was for close on five years. I passed three exams by a narrow squeak. Since our training went strictly by the book we clutched pages of roneo-ed instructions to our bosoms wherever we went, learnt parrot-fashion in buses and trams. The Elementary, the Intermediate and the Advanced were the be-all and end-all, unless you went into Panto with the little Miss Temples or learnt to tap and tried for Rio Rita. For some it was an abortive and spirit-breaking state of affairs, hard work with no prospects. But a door was soon to open on a wider field and the man who opened it was Edouard Borovansky. He taught Melbourne the meaning of Maître de Ballet.’ (p 293-4)

Considered in this context, the information takes on a kind of poetic truth: childhood fancies grow to obsession that is then acted upon through a gruelling and punishing endeavour, which itself is a rite of passage towards fulfilling the fantasy that originally inspired the effort.

Elder expends over 400 words on herself and her own fraught relationship with dance before mentioning Borovansky. That she wants to set the scene against which the Borovanky’s achievement looks most miraculous seems an acceptable strategy for a eulogising tribute. That she puts herself centre stage tells us much more about her than the pre-Borovansky state of local ballet, which was undergoing radical change as various teachers with various competing systems of ballet tuition affiliations competed for students and to assert the supremacy of the specific system each of them followed.

The ballet school Elder describes, in fact libels by implication, is that of Jennie Brenan , a formidable character, who was the major supplier of dancers to the J C Williamson theatrical empire and the first president of the Royal Academy of Dance (1936) in Australia. Elder’s description implies that the school was an incompetent and inferior ballet teaching institution without making any allowance for the fact that she was hardly a natural dancer but rather one whom no amount of ‘martydom’ would shape into anything beyond being able to pass some exams ‘by a narrow squeak’.

It is ironic that Elder’s tactic of aggrandising Borovansky’s accomplishment as a maître de ballet by denigrating the Brenan school is guilty of the same redacting techniques that van Praagh and other anti-Borovansky elements used to diminish Borovansky’s achievements and dismiss his company to the realms of minor significance.

Despite that, it does seem that under the Borovanskys’ intensive professional ballet tuition, Elder’s determination to dance enabled her to acquire a level of competence for tackling certain soloist roles. The self-styled ‘forgotten dancer’ did not forget the one who made that possible.

And indeed, what follows is a masterful portrait of a deeply complex, flamboyantly colourful, disconcertingly contradictory, often abusive and relentlessly visionary artist and leader, in whose company the young Anne Mackintosh and her gifted alter ego Anne Elder were right at home.

In her tribute Elder takes us back to her first encounter with Borovansky when he came to Australia as a member of the Covent Garden Russian Ballet in 1938. He was charged with hiring girls from local dance schools to appear as extras in Aurora’s Wedding. Borovansky conducted the audition with absolute professionalism and Anne Mackintosh was one of the four selected. Elder continues her description:

 …the most memorable moment of the morning came next. Borovasnky turned to the rejected ones and said with a little bow:

 ‘Thank you…I’m ter’bly sorry, that is all. But there will be much need of you another time. I will need many girls for other ballets.’

 It was a dismissal full of courtesy and dignity, it presupposed that they were serious artists…So it is for kindly and charming manners that I first remember Boro; and this may surprise some who suffered under his unprintable sarcasms in rehearsal, and others who experienced his impatience of the well-meaning hanger-on, deplored his tendency to use people for just so long as they were useful to him.

Borovansky’s treatment of the extras was pure Pavlova from whom he learnt much in the way of stage craft, publicity and the cultivation of audience. Pavlova was acutely attuned to winning people over not just as ticket buyers but as young dancers, too, and even organised classes for them on her tours.

If the image of Pavlova ignited Anne Mackintosh’s passion for ballet, that first meeting with Borovansky replaced fantasy with thrilling reality. In a bid to share her experience, Elder creates word pictures for us, describing Borovansky as:

A shortish man with a dancer’s flexible walk and the firmly modelled face of a Slav…how flatly the obituaries read…how haunting the photos of the well-cut shoulders, the jaunty bow tie, the debonair smile and the curiously sad pierrot eyes.

Madame Borovansky also features prominently:

…she herself has been a dancer with a superbly classical line, and she is a magnificent teacher. She was entirely responsible for the classical training, Boro took the character and those in national dancing. Each was the perfect foil for the other. Where he spurred us on with jibes and the goad of his enthusiasm she calmed us with her most reticent and perspicacious sympathy. How she worked at us and with us, day by day moulding this very raw and ill-assorted material into something like a troupe of coryphées…Well do I remember the pallid and congealing contents of teacups forgotten on the windowsill while she thrashed out the next step. Then in would stride Boro, throw himself into a chair, chin on chest, eyes lowering and critical; he would stab in a comment, she would counter, they would break into Russian, we would be glad we didn’t understand the meaning of the words…

Elder wires her word pictures for sound. Madame is quoted:

‘and a one two, and a one two, and Up! And Up!…How you expect to jump, my darling, if you not bending the knees in plié?’

On a note of encouragement she would say:

‘I was watching, Annushka, and it was not so bad as I expected.’

But it is Borovansky who is the star of this duet:

‘I am just a bloody peasant. My wife, she is aristocrat. You listen to Madame, what she is telling you my dear guerl.’

 How to describe his slight distortion of the English language? It was part of his personality but is hard to convey. His accent was not so guttural as heavy, the vowels swallowed, an occasional transposition of consonants and omission of the verb ‘to be’. The tone alternated between a hoarse cajoling whisper and a roar of exasperation.

 ‘My Gord’ he would bawl, ‘you ter’bly heavy today, Annushka. Vot you have for lunch…the pork pie and the big sausage?’

Elder also describes Borovansky the performer in detail:

We forget that he was first a truly great character dancer. He had that mastery of mime which enabled him to alter not only his mobile face but also it seemed, his mobile body with each different part.

In paying tribute to his seemingly magical shapeshifting abilities, Elder unleashes all her poetic power using words to capture the unspoken, that which can only be expressed through the wordless language of dance:

He was in fact short in stature; but how do we remember him in his delightfully ponderous character of the circus Strong Man in Beau Danube? Surely an enormous man, powerful but fleshy, in fact a man entirely made of pink ham. The next night his very bones have shrunk, are bowed and creaking at the knee. He is the elderly lover, paunchy with a hint of corsets beneath the velvet and lace, sweeping his tricorn to the ground with finicky stylishness. It is the very essence of “L’Amour Ridicule”, adorably ridiculous. And do not imagine (although he was a master of make-up) that these cameos relied on the trappings of costume and wig alone. He could rehearse the part in slacks and sweater and it would live in the bare room, perfectly convincing, easy to the last finished gesture. He had a deep insight into both pathos and comedy, and he combined them both to the point of heart-break in that role which became perhaps his signature, the sad Pierrot in Carnaval. I have seen Woizicovsky do this part and since then several adequate performances by Australians. No-one else but Borovansky has caught the moment for me; the most deliciously funny and pathetic moment is all ballet when the fumbling hands in their impeding sleeves clap together in ecstasy, the tragic mouth opens a black O of anticipation in the dead-white face, the zany eyes with their agonised brows almost meet the hair-line in unbelieving glee. He has caught the sweet pretty Butterfly! He has got her under his hat! Softly, carefully he peeps. Consternation. No Butterfly! Poor Pierrot, poor silly lovelorn clown. But he has the audience spellbound. The ballerina is forgotten. This is artistry, this is Borovansky.

 I think the greatest part was one which has been passed over by Australian audiences; that of Malatesta’s court Fool in the original version of Francesca da Rimini composed for de Basil by David Lichine. It was an interpretation with a deep sense of history behind it. Never was there a Fool who was less of a Fool than this one. Borovansky made of him an evil and repulsive cripple with a crooked scheming mind. A balletic Iago, he slunk, dragging a leg and dangling a withered hand, through the panoply of a mediaeval princely court, planning his machinations for the downfall of beauty and young love. The moment when he seized upon the scarcely-dead body of the old nun, and dragged it away for his own cold and obscene purpose was unforgettable. Borovansky had a quality which made his own corner of the stage magnetic to the eye of the audience. At the same time he never detracted from the general pattern. He was too much of an artist and an old hand to do that.

While Cyril Beaumont singles out Borovansky’s Strong Man role for praise and notes his use of mime as Girolamo (Elder’s ‘Fool’),7 Borovansky the performer has been buried under his role as a company founder/director, which makes this unique appraisal of his performing achievements, by one who witnessed them, all the more valuable as a historic record of superbly wrought detail.

Elsewhere in the biography The Heart’s Ground even includes Jean Stewart’s  celebrated photo of Borovansky as tragic Pierrot but without crediting the photographer, only citing the NLA, which has a copy.


The tribute covers much more besides. We are given glimpses of the company’s early performances in ballet galas and the evolution of Borovansky’s enterprise:

A group of enthusiastic supporters under the title of the Melbourne Ballet Club built us a tiny stage in the studio, and there for the next two years new works were tried out in monthly week-end performances. Dorothy Stevenson and Laurel Martyn were given the chance to produce a number of their own short ballets, several of which were included later in larger shows. Daryl Lindsay and Dargie sketched us in class and rehearsal. Geoffrey Hutton was a friend and an honest critic. William Constable Florence and Kathleen Martin, later Alan McCulloch, designed sets and costumes. We had three faithful pianists; and all the dresses were cut and sewn in the studio, Edna Busse being queen of the sewing machine as well as a hard-worked dancer. The names came thick and fast, it is not possible to give them all their due place. Something large was in the making and the pace increased from month to month.

Before the powerful conclusion in which Elder brings the focus back to herself, now the fully formed dancer, and the ‘irreplaceable’ maestro—wishing ‘him long life in the continuity of Australian Ballet which he built’—she throws us another historic gem that Salter missed in his use of the tribute but for which he provides possible additional information in the way of a photo, and for which Macgeorge definitely provides additional information.

While acknowledging the entrepreneur and accomplished artist, the Strong Man in Borovansky, Elder offers two anecdotes to illustrate his ‘appealingly naïve’ side ‘the loveable Clown’. The first, which is relevant here, provides the background to the photo in Salter’s book:

The first memory is of a cold night on Station Pier, myself one of a row of girls holding little bouquets of flowers to present to Colonel de Basil and his ballerinas . . . a pathetic welcome to Melbourne by a bunch of hopefuls. Boro, having marshalled us, waited edgily in the gusts of rain. Suddenly a line of limousines appeared through the barriers, gathered speed and swept past us without a falter. Boro darted out, gesturing wildly. “There is big mistake!” he cried despairingly. “De Basil he is great friend of mine!” Of course there was a big mistake and it was put right later but it was horribly embarrassing. He had talked assuredly to us about our chances of getting in to the Company and he was made by the night and the rain and the misdirection of a message to look a fool. He was a hurt little boy and we couldn’t bear it for him.

A photo in Salter’s book illustrates a visit de Basil and his ‘ballerinas’ made to the Borovansky studio. A mash up of facts states that de Basil visited the studio while the Original Ballet Russe was in Melbourne and that Borovansky took some students up to Sydney to appear as extras; the caption reads: ‘Colonel de Basil visits Borovansky’s Melbourne studio with some of the de Basil dancers, to see what progress their former colleague is making in his uphill struggle to establish an Australian ballet company.’8

As with all the photos used in Salter’s book, there is no photographer credit, in this case S. Alston Pearl. The photograph also shows Anne Mackintosh, the second dancer in leotards from the left. The other dancer beside her is Laurel Martyn. Borovansky is third from the right, flanked by Edna Busse, who has her arm around Rachel Cameron, a leading early Borovansky dancer, whom Borovansky brutally discarded, and whose story Salter faithfully reports. Borovansky, Busse, Cameron and Martyn are easy to identify because their images are extensively documented; by deduction we know the other man must be de Basil. Thanks to photos of Anne Mackintosh in The Heart’s Ground, we can now also name her in the photo. The visitors’ names can be sourced from the NLA photo collection, which has this and two other accompanying photos in it, all of them from the Geoffrey Ingram Archive. As Geoffrey Ingram is thanked by Salter in his Acknowledgements, we can even assume that the photo he included is the same print as the one held by the NLA. From the NLA’s identification we can name all the visitors: ‘De Basil company members (left to right) Colonel de Basil, Olga Morosova, Tatiana Stepanova, Nina Verchinina.’ Morsova was de Basil’s wife at the time and Verchininia, who was one of the most accomplished of the company’s dancers, was also Morsova’s sister.

It does look like this photo shows the unintended slight at the docks being ‘put to right’. Furthermore, Macgeorge records:

Following an audition by de Basil, who had brought his Russian Ballet Company to Australia and was seeking local talent, Edna Busse, Laurel Martyn, Anne Mackintosh, Rachel Cameron, Phillipe Perrotet [sic] and others accompanied M. and Mme. Borovansky to Sydney in December, 1939. They continued with their classes while some of them were doing “super” work with the Russian Ballet in Sydney.9

It is well known that Borovansky appeared with the de Basil Original Ballet Russe as a guest artist, reprising some of his acclaimed roles, including Girolamo, as shown in the photo among those above. It is also documented that this company’s dancers arrived in Sydney in December on two passenger ships, one from England and the other from America. But piecing the information from Elder and Macgeorge, it looks as though de Basil and his small entrourage actually arrived in Melbourne from overseas. Considering that some of the Borovansky dancers were auditioned by de Basil and appeared as extras in Sydney on the first leg of this tour, the Station Pier incident must have taken place prior. This also throws into question the NLA date of 1940 for the photos but since that is attributed to a researcher, we can assume it is derived from the facts that the Borovansky academy was in Melbourne and that the Original Ballet Russe opened its Melbourne season in March, 1940. Even Elder’s description of the miserable wet night of the welcome at Station Pier is far more consistent with Melbourne’s Decembers rather than its traditionally gloriously sunny and mild autumns.

The Mackintosh and Macgeorge timeline for the de Basil visit to the Borovansky academy is also supported by Kathrine Sorley Walker in De Basil’s Ballets Russes (Hutchinson, 1982), where it is stated that one of the ships bringing dancers passed through Melbourne, that the Colonel was on it and that he visited the school.

Kathrine Sorley Walker+

Kathrine Sorley Walker, De Basil’s Ballets Russes (Hutchinson, 1982) Page 213. The footnoted quote (49) is from the Melbourne newspaper The Argus, 25 December, 1939

The second anecdote also contains some new information because it shows that Borovansky socialised with his dancers in the early days, which according to all other sources he no longer did in the Borovansky Ballet’s professional era, when he kept his social interactions away from the dancers. Elder wrote:

As for the big fish, it was the biggest he had ever caught, and he was a passionate fisherman. Alas, just at the moment of landing it into the boat it slipped through his fingers and was gone. Consternation…. No fish! A roar of pain escaped from his lips and he was almost in tears on the way home. It was the Clown and the Butterfly all over again, the moment when the confident character is completely undone and which draws forth indulgence from every human heart.

The Heart’s Ground also mentions Borovansky’s socialising with dancers and even hosting some of them at a beach holiday house, and visiting at the Mackintosh home. However, the included famous portrait of Borovansky in hat and ‘jaunty bow tie’—as Elder so aptly described his sartorial preference—which is captioned: ‘Edouard Borovansky, possibly at Montalto Avenue’, where the Mackintosh family lived for part of the 1930s, is attributed by the NLA as being from the Auckland Star, 1944, during the company’s first New Zealand tour, and the first overseas tour made by any Australian ballet company.

Elder’s tribute, with its vibrant evocation of the Borovanskys and their endeavours, makes it clear that ballet was her muse at a critical point of development in her life, that it stirred some creative essence within her from which the poet emerged. Dance is to movement what poetry is to words; her raw material was words not movement but it was movement distilled into the art of ballet that inspired her art of words. Apart from the tribute, another even more radiant example of this muse and poet relationship is evident in Elder’s poem about Borovansky, ‘Commedia Dell’ Arte’, which The Heart’s Ground also includes in full. It was first published after Elder’s death in Crazy Woman and Other Poems and is now also reissued in The Bright and the Cold. Elder’s multilayered virtuoso treatment of complex content and profound themes deserves an expository monograph on its own. Although the Clown characterisation is a portrait of Borovansky as observed from the outside during a performance of the ballet Carnaval, the poet creates the persona of the artist and enters the experience from the inside where it grows to the ineffable heights of that amorphous concept recognised as great art.




Boro by Elder txt

Part 3

Dancer Anne Mackintosh

That Borovansky chose Anne Mackintosh without seeing her dance is probably at least in part the explanation for their positive professional relationship. He would have appreciated her maturity, self-important bearing and her sharply observant eyes that radiated an imposing intelligence. Proof of the bearing is evident in photographs included in the biography but also in the text.

Company colleagues Jonet Wilkie and Laurel Martyn are both quoted. Wilkie had ‘never met someone so outwardly cool’ and was ‘quite put out, she seemed so poised and sure of herself.’ Martyn described her as ‘an elegant, lovely person with a certain aura: calm but with passion underneath that was not a distancing thing. She was an onlooker, and remembered lots of things, including what people had said.’ We also learn that ‘Jonet agreed with Laurel in seeing Anne as talented, with a classical cool quality’ but it seems that aside from using adjectives such as ‘lovely’ and ‘enchanting’ in reference to Anne’s dancing, neither Wilkie nor Martyn felt able to be more specific. By inference we can deduce that Anne was a competent but not memorably expressive dancer, a deduction that is supported by photographs of her in various ballets. In a company that built a strong fan base on the vivid stage personalities of its artists, Anne Mackintosh was an unobtrusive member, a reliable but not outstanding dancer when compared to various others.

Les Sylphides by Hall

One of those others and the only one still alive from Anne’s dancing days, Martin Rubinstein, remembers her as a company member but not her dancing. Given that he was six years her junior, and still a teenager when she left, this is not surprising considering how focused he would have been on his own training and professional ascension. Audrey Nicholls,10 Borovansky Ballet and Rambert Ballet veteran of the 1950s, points out that you didn’t need to be a star to have a following among the audience in that era, that it was a time when audiences could become familiar with the work of particular dancers and enjoy it for a range of qualities, not just superior dance skills. Nicholls still approaches her ballet viewing this way, finding interest in various performers who may never rise to stardom. Indeed, this outlook is supported in The Heart’s Ground by a letter Elder wrote to her husband about the Christmas eve festivities at her wartime office job: ‘my ballet fan officer gave all the girls a glorious sheaf of flowers each.’ (131) Furthermore, according to another Borovansky Ballet veteran, Marilyn Bogner, Anne Mackintosh was still remembered by name as one of the company’s early dancers, when she was a member of the Borovansky Ballet in the late 1940s and early 1950s.

Mackintosh young

Anne Mackintosh, young dancer. from The Heart’s Ground by Julia Hamer (Lauranton Books, 2018)

Considering how hard it could be to survive in the relentlessly competitive environment of ballet at the performing company level, Anne’s ability to fit in would have been a huge asset. It is quite surprising that she could do this, given what we learn elsewhere in the biography about her abrasive and difficult nature as displayed in her behaviour with her family and even with fellow poets.

Anne not only fitted in with the ballet scene, she made friends, some of them for life. She went on holidays with them and, like most Borovansky dancers before the company became professional, had a day job. Unlike most others, she didn’t need to work to support herself but had taken on employment as part of the war effort. One friend Anne made through the ballet was artist Norman Macgeorge, author of Borovansky Ballet in Australia and New Zealand, another previously unknown but valuable fact revealed by the biography. Although Macgeorge is not mentioned among the artists in Elder’s Borovansky tribute, he does appear in a letter about Christmas 1942 that Anne wrote to her husband, fighting overseas:

Anne went to stay for the rest of the weekend with elderly friends, the MacGeorges [sic], who lived on the Yarra in Ivanhoe. Norman MacGeorge was a painter, and after cold duckling,

‘He and I went out on the punt…while she [Mrs MacGeorge] wrote letters—it was a night of fairytale beauty, stars punctuating the pale green sky behind the gums leaning over the river. We drifted along and talked about important things & came home to the landing stage about half past ten…’ (p131)

From this we learn that Macgeorge was Anne’s friend, rather than a friend of her family. The friendship between the two is also indicated in Macgeorge’s book where ‘Mrs John Elder (Anne Mackintosh)’ appears in the Acknowledgements at the beginning of the work. That they met through ballet and were good friends by 1942 shows that Macgeorge was, like Elder, a Borovansky believer, someone who joined Borovansky’s quest to establish an Australian ballet company. Although he was a critic who wrote for the press, as well as an artist, and well connected in the Melbourne cultural scene of that day, as the author of the Borovansky volume he was much more than a hired hand, he was—for want of a better term—a player, just like Anne Mackintosh and all the others fired up by Borovansky’s vision.


Part 4

Borovansky Ballet in Australia and New Zealand and Anne Elder

There can be little doubt that Borovansky Ballet in Australia and New Zealand, was produced in direct response to Pioneering Ballet in Australia, edited by Peter Bellew (Craftsman Bookshop Sydney, 1945), the book about Hélène Kirsova and her company the Kirsova Ballet, as the two arch rival company builders Borovansky and Kirsova battled it out in the ballet wars of the early 1940s. The Kirsova book came out in 1945, after the Kirsova Ballet folded in 1944. It went into a second edition in 1946 and must have been printed in vast numbers because it is still readily available at very reasonable prices. Macgeorge’s Borovansky book came out as a 300 limited copy edition in 1946, and then in two more editions before the end of 1947. It is by far the scarcer and therefore more expensive book. It is evident that Pioneering Ballet in Australia was produced to enshrine Kirsova’s memory as an artist of supreme integrity and originality. The fact that the editor Peter Bellew became Kirsova’s husband should be considered as essential product disclosure although it is mostly ignored.

By contrast Norman Macgeorge is an author without any ulterior motive. He was merely someone with whom Anne Elder could talk about ‘important things’ such as, in their case, art and more specifically, the art of ballet. Meanwhile, Peter Bellew dedicates his book to ‘Helene Kirsova a true and sincere artiste who, with unswerving idealism and courage, pioneered Australian Ballet…’ In his introduction ‘Birth of a Ballet’ he constructs a case to memorialise her as ‘a true creator and not merely a reproducer or adaptor…’ She is presented as someone of ‘almost fanatical idealism and uncompromising determination that aesthetic values must always come first… qualities which fit most uneasily into the commercial side of theatre.’ J C Williamson had in fact first offered Kirsova the deal that Borovansky took up with such vigour and confidence, having no qualms of the sort Kirsova clearly felt.

Bellew’s manifesto of Kirsova’s art ends with a coup de grace which makes it clear that his effort is skewed to ensuring that Kirsova is recognised as occupying an immeasurably higher ground than Borovansky as both artist and company builder. In a small print asterisked footnote, he writes: ‘Australia’s second professional company was formed by J. C. Williamson Ltd. in May 1944, three years after the Kirsova company’s premiere. Under the leadership of E. Barovansky [sic] and comprising a group of former members of the Kirsova company and pupils of the Barovansky and other schools, it has toured Australia and New Zealand.’

The misspelling of Borovansky’s name —two times is more than a typo—in an otherwise meticulously produced book is insignificant compared to the distortion of fact embedded in this footnote. The company was formed by Borovansky in 1940 and performed as the Borovansky Australian Ballet; the mantle of J C Williamson only enabled it to go professional. Secondly, the leading dancers of the Borovansky Ballet, Laurel Martyn, Edna Busse, Dorothy Stevenson and Martin Rubinstein had never been in the Kirsova company. The Kirsova dancers who came to Borovansky were Peggy Sager, Helene ffrance Paul Hammond (who at the time danced under the surname Clementin), Strelsa Heckleman, Joan Gadsden and Judith Burgess. Borovansky’s colleagues from the Covent Garden Russian Ballet, Tamara Tchinarova and Serge Bousloff, who both joined his company, had danced with the Kirsova company for varying degrees of time but given their full Ballet Russe background, it would be wrong to give their credentials as ‘former members of the Kirsova company’. Any credit that might be given to the Borovansky academy for supplying the rest of the dancers is diluted by relegating it to merely one of the schools responsible. Furthermore, of the Kirsova dancers—again, with the exception of Tchinarova and Bousloff— only Peggy Sager was ever accomplished enough to be ranked with the Borovansky dancers mentioned above. The remaining ones were designated as soloists.

Macgeorge’s book is a powerful reply packed with information, verbal and visual, which leaves the reader in no doubt that the Borovanskys’ five years of work resulted in a substantial company that clearly belonged on a professional stage. Macgeorge gives Madame Borovansky equal prominence with Borovansky on introducing them and their credentials. Apart from assuming wrongly that both Xenia and Edouard Borovansky were contracted to the Covent Garden company when Xenia was only an accompanying wife, and claiming that Xenia was ‘related’ to Pavlova, although she was at most just a distant cousin of Pavlova’s partner Victor Dandré, he sticks to the bare facts of the Borovanskys’ backgrounds and credentials. Xenia’s exact ballet background has never been incontrovertibly established beyond that she was from Moscow and had been exposed to the Bolshoi tradition. Salter claims her mother was a Bolshoi soloist and had had Xenia trained by a colleague. Macgeorge claims she was trained by her mother.

Either way, one detail relevant to this emerges from Elder’s Borovansky tribute when she describes Mme Borovansky’s mother as being a ballet mistress in ‘the Marinsky tradition’. While it could be argued that Elder probably meant ‘Bolshoi,’ it is unlikely because up until the current century the Bolshoi and Marinsky (and later, Kirov) approaches were vastly different in terms of technique and style. Elder would have understood that given her love of Pavlova and appreciation of the Ballets Russes plus the fact that she continued to follow mid century Russian ballet, as evidenced in the biography when she is quoted on the subject of Ulanova, a celebrated Kirov dancer, appearing with the Bolshoi in the famous 1956 Giselle film. It does imply that Elder picked up this notion of Xenia’s mother’s ‘Marinsky tradition’ from something Xenia said. At the very least, this is something valuable to follow up considering how important Xenia’s teaching was to the early Borovansky Ballet, when she had complete charge, and even later, when the professional company classes were given by various dancers, usually a principal in the company, Xenia’s classes still continued to be the first port of call for many aspiring dancers.

But back to Macgeorge. While supplying brief biographies of the Borovansky principals and soloists, he acknowledges the Kirsova connection of the above named dancers—with the exception of Tchinarova and Bousloff— who came from her company. The book includes a photograph of the entire 1945 company and a list of names (Paul Hammond, who appears on the list as Paul Clementin, is the only absentee). The repertoire is itemised in a series of separate articles, accompanied by photos, for each work. Some ballets by visiting companies are also included, among them Lichine’s Graduation Ball, which received its world premiere in Sydney, 1940, a fact Macgeorge relates. He also deals in brief with the coming of ballet to Australia from the time of Adeline Genée, limiting the information to foreign companies, which is obviously an excuse to ignore the existence of the Kirsova Ballet, and that’s a pity because it detracts from Macgeorge’s otherwise dignified partisanship.

Macgeorge even reveals that when the newly formed Borovansky Australian Ballet held its inaugural two-night season at the Comedy Theatre, in December 1940, ‘A group of enthusiasts, headed by Mr. Roger Raine [sic], Mr Mackintosh, father of the dancer, and others had guaranteed the funds to cover possible loss, but there was never any doubt of the result.’

BoroAustBallet txt

It is also regrettable that more copies were not printed to balance the historic record of Borovansky’s achievement in a context contemporary to Kirsova’s. Salter argues that Kirsova ‘must be acclaimed the winner’ of this ‘cold warfare’ because when A Dictionary of Modern Ballet was published by Methuen in 1959, ‘Kirsova’s achievements in Australia are recorded quite fully, but Borovansky rates no personal listing at all.’11

Despite the fact that for whatever reason Macgeorge’s book did not have the impact of Bellew’s volume, over time it has become a major historic record. Elder’s credit in it, together with the new revelation of her friendship with its author, shows that the role she played in the early days of the Borovansky Ballet went beyond dancing and that her tribute is more than a fond ramble down memory lane but rather an integral piece of a bigger picture on the creation of which she and others were working actively and which we are still trying to put together.

Another seemingly incidental but in this context valuable piece of information that The Heart’s Ground delivers is a snippet from a letter that Elder wrote to her parents about taking class with Kirsova, while on holiday in Sydney, late 1940. She wrote:

‘…never enjoyed anything so much in my life; after a few days of feeling rather at a loose end it was heaven to be back in a familiar world…She gives a rather technical & far less pretty class than Madame, & with not such exacting attention to detail—not a marvellous teacher but composes rather nice enchainements. She seemed quite interested in my dancing…’ (p125)

Kirsova is generally remembered as a solo operator; in establishing and running her company, she also taught all the classes and created most of the choreography. Elder’s description of the class indicates that Kirsova was developing dancers through technical exercises and the execution of dance sequences, which are the prerequisites for any professional dancer. Kirsova was also known for favouring technically strong dancers, which is understandable. Despite Elder not getting the hands on attention that she might have had from a ‘marvellous teacher’ and that the much more proficient Peggy Sager and Strelsa Heckleman were to get later from Kirsova, she enjoyed the experience tremendously. It indicates to us that Kirsova was able to engage dancers in her class without personalised attentiveness which would have been a very useful skill given the constrained circumstances and considerable demands under which she had to operate.


Part 5

Exit the Dancer, Enter the Poet

By contrast, Borovansky was primarily concerned with building a company and its brand rather than producing the raw product for it. He had high professional standards to maintain but he was also a great pragmatist, capable of making do with whatever was the best of the material at hand for moulding his artistic visions. He was content to reproduce the works of other choreographers and even encouraged both Laurel Martyn and Dorothy Stevenson to choreograph ballets—as both Macgeorge and Elder noted—that he mounted as part of the company’s repertoire. From The Heart’s Ground we learn that Anne was even gripped by the desire to choreograph. Writing to her husband, she describes an idea for a ballet that was inspired by a concert of Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony. It was never created, the densely worded description clearly pointing to the fact that Elder thought in words rather than movement, as choreographers do.

Nevertheless, we know that Borovansky valued her work in the company because he rewarded her dedication, loyalty and presence with a leading role—along side historically significant artists Laurel Martyn and Dorothy Stevenson— and himself as her partner in his Fantasy on Grieg’s Concerto in A Minor (1941). Although we learn nothing more about it from the biography, Elder does refer to it in the conclusion of her tribute, stating she is:

…proud that in my one important role I was partnered by a man who had created for me and who had himself danced with the very great ones. (302)


Mackintosh and Borovansky, Fantasy on Grieg Concerto, photos: Hugh P. Hall NLA


So, clearly this honour was a dream achievement for the dancer who had been envious of jewellery music box baby ballerinas’ wonky accomplishments.

And how lucky for them both that she left Borovansky before he was quite through with her. He was notorious for his vicious invective when dancers he needed told him that they were leaving. In fact, Elder had a taste of this when she chose to spend time with her husband while he was on army leave rather than dance in a weekend Ballet Club performance. The biography states ‘Boro hit the roof’ (p 132-3) but there is no mention of how Boro greeted the news of her departure from the company when it went professional and was going on a tour of New Zealand. With money to pay young and much more accomplished dancers, he would not have been too fussed.

Elder left the company to be a housewife and mother, which she saw as her role in life. The effect of leaving the ballet environment was not beneficial to her emotionally. The biography reveals:

Years later, after Anne’s death, Jonet commented that it was only when her poetry began to be recognised that Anne could watch ballet without pain. (p139)

In terms of ballet history, the ballet chapters of The Heart’s Ground would benefit from more clarification and some minor corrections, while this does not impact on the biography as a whole, it would be very valuable to those interested in the ballet content. Among the corrections only one needs mention here: Laurel Martyn’s ‘fiancé’ (later husband) was Lloyd Lawton not ‘Lloyd Linton.’ (p 127).

Clarification regarding the relevant tours by Russians would be helpful. While Elder’s tribute mentions Borovansky’s ‘days in the Pavlova company’ (p300), Hamer only mentions that Borovansky had been on painting expeditions with Pavlova (p.111). If The Heart’s Ground is read chronologically—as most would read it—some mention would have been valuable of the fact that Borovansky came to Australia the first time as a member of Pavlova’s company on the 1929 tour, which would not be known to most readers, including younger readers studying Australian ballet history.

Likewise the references to the Covent Garden Russian Ballet tour of 1938–39 need clarification in relation to the information that Borovansky ‘and his Russian wife Xenia toured Australia a second time with the Covent Garden Ballet in 1939. While the company was in Sydney Hitler annexed Bohemia-Moravia…’ (p 109). The Covent Garden Russian Ballet’s appearance in Australia in 1938 and 1939 is classified as a single tour, though fragmented by the fact that the company also toured New Zealand from late January to mid March 1939 before returning for additional seasons in Melbourne, then Adelaide, and a closing gala featuring some of the dancers in Sydney in late April.12 The annexation of Bohemia-Moravia was on 15 March 1939.

This whole tour is regarded as the second of the three Ballets Russes tours of the 1930s  and while these three tours operated under the mantle of Col de Basil, it was managed by Victor Dandré. Furthermore, Xenia was not a member of the tour but an accompanying wife. This distinction is relevant because she was a dancer, had been on tours as a member of Pavlova’s company (although she missed the Australian tour of 1929 because her mother was ill)13 and went on to be an important influence on the development of professional ballet in Australia. The more accurate we can be with historic information the better.

Then there is the problem regarding the naming of the companies because while the third company was mostly billed as the Original Ballet Russe, it was also known as Colonel de Basil’s Covent Garden Russian Ballet. That Borovansky also appeared with this third company in Australia as a guest artist and given that the tour commenced in Sydney in late December 1939, is more than a clue to how carefully worded any information regarding anything to do with those tours must be. It can be put simply as follows: Edouard Borovansky first came to Australia in 1929 as a dancer with the Pavlova company, of which Xenia was also a member but did not come on this tour. She first came to Australia when Borovansky toured again as a member of the Covent Garden Russian Ballet tour of 1938–39 and she accompanied him as his wife. During that tour they decided to stay on in Australia and began by opening a ballet academy.14 Borovansky also danced as a guest artist on the de Basil Original Ballet Russe tour of 1939–40.15

The rest of the biography delves broadly and deeply into Elder’s life. Hamer’s introduction explains both the complexity and enormousness of her attempted task to present a broad, incisive expository exploration of her subject’s life, a task both helped and hindered by the author’s privileged and exclusive access to material and knowledge. Hamer is also fascinated by concepts of the relationships between creativity and personality, particularly in her aunt’s case the destructive behaviour linked to her mindsets and narrow thinking that on observation can be classified as what is these days regarded as ‘mental instability’. The biography is densely packed with intimate detail and such information can heavily prejudice the reader against Elder. While exquisitely attuned to her own emotional sensitivities, Elder does not seem to have had much empathy with the feelings of others. She was a supporter of capital punishment in an era when popular opinion was growing strongly against it. She could treat people around her very callously. One story in particular sticks in the mind and concerns an occasion when Elder’s son aged twelve was ill and she wanted to give him a treat by giving him

some food on a plate that she treasured and had stapled together after it was dropped. She said, ‘Be very careful of that plate.’ Inevitably, he broke it. Anne was furious, and shouting, ‘you little bugger!’, she seized of one of the pieces of his Meccano set and broke it in a vengeful gesture. (p 183-4)

We also learn that Elder and Wilkie, who formed a lifelong friendship while they were ballet colleagues, also shared an interest in religion of the formal church going western style with its traditional polarisations depending on the brand followed. In Elder’s case that was Anglicanism and Wilkie’s, Roman Catholicism, to which she converted after marriage to Joe Doolan, a man who also wrote poetry and whose comments on her poems Anne valued.

A startling revelation is Anne’s very narrow but arrogantly held view of the concept of ‘beauty’ that showed a very limited appreciation of aesthetics. While her diary rhapsodises about the loveliness of Mount Vernon, George Washington’s colonial house, on the same trip to America she describes Picasso’s Guernica in terms of: ‘If you want horror, there you have it.’ She clearly does not want this from art, but rather something conforming to her notion of appealing to the eye to make her feel comfortable. Had her poetry conformed to such an outlook, it would never have been published. Ironically, her detailed description of Picasso’s painting shows she can see the content but not respond to the art:

a screaming face full of teeth lamenting over a dead babe whom you see upside down, so that the nose falls upwards towards the eyes. What an astonishing device to depict utter deadness—so hideous but one can’t help admire the impact of it.

The confines of Elder’s inner existence are also reflected in her attitude to the women’s rights movement of the 1970s. In a letter to to poet Graham Rowlands she wrote:

A small point, but please do not address me as Ms!! I have been a totally dependent female all my life, including 35 years as wife and mother (happily) without any ambitions on my own account other than to have a slim book of poetry published. Any shadow of Women’s Lib. or lesbianism simply disgusts and horrifies me…I am very definitely Missis John Elder. I only use the Anne for poetry business.

Biography by its nature invites reading between the lines, leaving readers to interpret what they may and this will vary according to each reader. As a study of a privileged, circumscribed life in a certain historic context, The Heart’s Ground is a biography for our time because it is open to various readings, most obviously from feminist, socio-political and psychological perspectives, with a thick overlay of interest in history.

So what can we make of Anne Elder? There can be little doubt that her poor physical health must have impacted the rest of her as a person. But who can say whether the ill health contributed to her personality or her personality exacerbated her autoimmune system? Also, it is likely that her archly conservative and repressively traditional views complicated her life by preventing her from exploring her full potential and by that limitation contributing to her despair, depression and relatively early death. In that sense she was a tragic figure in the literary meaning of the word—someone whose undoing is a product of her own making.

Despite that, Anne Chloe Elder produced reams of poetry and, as Anne Mackintosh, for one glorious period of her life—inspired by the image of a woman who through her daring independence and leadership inspired an artistic revolution in popularising an art form throughout the world—found a milieu where her will power and self-discipline enabled her to harness her fragile body and steely creativity in an enterprise of artistic expression within a like-minded community. She may have stood apart, a sharp observer, as Laurel Martyn astutely and perceptively noted, but really in her unique way she was actually in the thick of it. We have her magnificent tribute and sublime poem to prove it.

Blazenka Brysha


With thanks to Borovansky Ballet veterans Audrey Nicholls and Barry Kitcher for additional research and insights in the research for this monograph.


The official list of Borovansky Ballet personnel recruited by Edouard Borovansky

As recognition of the Borovansky Ballet’s major importance to Australian ballet history has grown, so too have claims of company membership. Salter’s dedication at the start of the book includes an alphabetical list of nearly 400 names, which is recognised by Borovansky veterans as the definitive record of the company’s membership throughout its existence under Borovansky’s direction. It includes all the local dancers as well as international artists who joined for various seasons, and also the music staff. If your name is not on the list, you were not a member. This distinction has become relevant in recent years with the growing awareness of the Borovansky Ballet’s importance in the history of Australian ballet and the various claims, of having been in the company, by people who were not.

Sometimes the claims are made by the elderly who may have been in another company such as the National Theatre Ballet but had studied with the Borovanskys at some point. Sometimes they are made by those who were Borovansky students and found themselves recruited to the professional performances as additional dancers. Many people, including non-dancers appeared as extras in crowd scenes. Borovansky knew how to pad out the ranks for maximum impact and minimum expenditure.

The only omissions on Salter’s list acknowledged by Borovansky alumni as having been in the company are a few dancers recruited by Peggy van Praagh after Borovansky’s death in 1959. Their names are to be found in the official performances programmes and most notably include Patricia Cox, Barry Moreland and Janet Karin.

Salter list 3Parts-1Salter list 3Parts-2Salter list 3Parts-3



  1. The Australian Ballet 1962/63 Season programme
  2. Salter, Frank, Borovansky, the man who made Australian ballet (Wildcat Press, 1980), 203–4; Sexton, Christopher, Peggy van Praagh, a life of dance (Macmillan, Australia, 1985) 112
  3. Brissenden, Alan, and Glennon, Keith, Australia Dances, Creating Australian Dance 1945–1965 (Wakefield Press, 2010), p8
  4. Pask, Edward H., Enter the Colonies Dancing, A History of Dance in Australia 1835–1940 (OUP,1979), 126
  5. Brissenden, Alan, and Glennon, Keith, Australia Dances, Creating Australian Dance 1945–1965 (Wakefield Press, 2010), 144
  6. Salter, 108
  7. Beaumont, Cyril W., Complete Book of Ballets (Putman, 1949) p 916, 1020
  8. Salter, 96, 102
  9. Macgeorge, Norman, Borovansky Ballet in Australia and New Zealand (F.W. Cheshire, 1946), p 12
  10. Audrey Nicholls interviewed Martin Rubinstein, who lives in a Melbourne retirement home, and Marilyn Bogner, who lives in Italy, on the author’s behalf
  11. Salter, 118
  12. Pask, 156
  13. Salter, 36–37
  14. Salter, 80–82
  15. Salter, 95



The Big Picture: Jean Stewart’s photo of Martin Rubinstein as Harlequin


If only one photograph was allowed to survive as a testament to mid-century Australian ballet, it would have to be Jean Stewart’s capture of Martin Rubinstein as Harlequin (Carnaval, as it was billed, Ballet Guild, 1949)—airborne, magnificent, a vision of joy in flight: Apollo taking respite in a moment of Dionysian abandon. And there the dancer hangs weightless in mid-air, perfectly composed, adorned by a delicate flourish of the arms and the parting of lips in a playful smile. Behind him is a rudimentary set consisting of a simple painted backdrop, a prop sofa dressed in a rather loose cover, and the very visible stage floorboards that complete the picture.


It tells the story of how aesthetic aspirations aligned with a grand tradition found their expression in energetic enthusiasm sustained by shoestring budgets. But that’s not all because this picture comes bursting at the seams with a big back story: the story of mid-century Australian ballet and Jean Stewart (1921–2017) was there photographically documenting big chunks of it.

The year is 1949. Martin Rubinstein (b 1924) is appearing as a guest artist with the Ballet Guild under the direction of Laurel Martyn (1916–2013). He is actually a guest star. Rubinstein is one of Borovansky Ballet’s biggest stars, hence drawcards, but the Borovansky Ballet is in recess. The mid-1940s saw it consolidate as a professional ballet company under the aegis of J. C. Williamson, Australia’s biggest theatrical entrepreneurs of the 20th century.

Actually, J. C. Williamson had offered the deal to Hélène Kirsova (1910–1962) and her Sydney-based Kirsova Ballet (1941–1944) first but she turned it down on grounds of artistic autonomy and integrity. Edouard Borovansky (1902–1959) was made of sterner stuff and not so fussy. He had toured with Pavlova, even coming to Australia for the first time with her in 1929. He had starved in Paris in the 1930s and returned to Australia with the Covent Garden Russian Ballet (Ballets Russes) tour in 1938. Like Kirsova he could sense the locals’ keenness for ballet and potential for recruitment as dedicated audiences. Like Kirsova he (with his wife Xenia) started a ballet school and worked hard towards establishing a ballet company.

Dancing Yearstxt

Borovansky’s contract with J. C. Williamson meant that Borovansky dancers were also recruited into JCW musicals such as The Dancing Years, Gay Rosalinda and Oklahoma! when the company was in recess.

Borovansky’s first Australian ballerina was Laurel Martyn. As a young ballet student she had been chosen to present Pavlova with flowers in Brisbane on the very tour that first brought Borovansky to Australia. At the time Martyn, 13, was a student of Marjorie Hollinshed, a dance teacher who turned her attention to ballet after seeing Pavlova dance on her first Australian tour, in 1926. J. C. Williamson had intended to bring Pavlova out much earlier, in fact, as a follow-up to presenting Adeline Genée—with her troupe billed as the Imperial Russian Ballet—in 1913, cashing in on the Ballets Russes mania that followed the Diaghilev company’s 1909 Paris première and accelerated the development of ballet as a sophisticated 20th century global art. War intervened.

In the troubled times that followed both ballet and fascination with it continued to grow. Touring was not only an economic imperative but an artistic necessity as performers needed to find audiences. The evolution of ballet has always been the story of a migratory art. Teachers crossed borders to find students and vice versa.

Martyn furthered her training in England under Phyllis Bedells, who with Genée was among the founders of what became the Royal Academy of Dancing. She then honed her technique in Paris under Egorova and Kchessinska and was the first Australian woman in the Vic-Wells Ballet, the first male being Robert Helpmann. With war looming in the late 1930s, Martyn returned to Australia where she found work teaching ballet under draconian conditions for Jennie Brenan, who had encouraged her to go to England in the first place and whose school was a major supplier of dancers for J.C. Williamson. Among her charges at the school Martyn taught a promising student Martin Rubinstein. Not surprisingly, he was selected to demonstrate in a coaching session by Anton Dolin, also a member of the Covent Garden Russian Ballet tour in 1938.


Borovansky was quick to recruit Martyn and Rubinstein for his enterprise. Martyn brought instant critical recognition as a dancer and as a choreographer. She also worked as Borovansky’s ballet mistress and assistant. Rubinstein developed quickly into a dance artist of note. They all worked on through the tough war years.

The Borovansky Ballet had only been a professional company briefly when Tamara Tchinarova, Borovansky’s colleague from the Covent Garden Russian Ballet tour, joined the company as dancer and artistic associate. Having settled in Sydney, she had worked with the Kirsova Ballet. After that company folded, she contacted Borovansky who eventually called her to join him after Martyn was injured.

Ever mindful of box office, J.C. Williamson wanted more Ballets Russes content in Borovansky productions. The company was already performing the ubiquitous universal favourite Les Sylphides and Le Spectre de La Rose, as well as Giselle, a work popularised by the Ballets Russes. The Borovansky Ballet was the first Australian company to mount Giselle and it was with Martyn in the lead.


Thanks to Tchinarova’s comprehensive knowledge, the Borovansky Ballet added Le Carnaval (Fokine) and Le Beau Danube (Massine) in 1945 and Schéhérazade (Fokine) in 1946.

Le Carnaval BorovanskyBtxt

Edouard Borovansky as Pierrot, Strelsa Heckelman as Columbine, Martin Rubinstein as Harlequin and Tamara Tchinarova as Chiarina

All three works were guaranteed audience pleasers and had a stage history in Australia. The role of Columbine in Le Carnaval had the distinction of first being performed in Australia by the great ballerina Olga Spessivtseva with the Dandre-Levitoff Russian Ballet in 1934. It was also a role that brought acclaim for Kirsova when she first came to Australia with the Monte Carlo Russian Ballet in 1936.

Borovansky danced Pierrot in the première cast of Le Carnaval,  Laurel Martyn danced Columbine and although it was Edouard Sobishevsky who partnered her as Harlequin, Martin Rubinstein went on to attain much success in all three ballets but especially Schéhérazade in which he danced the Golden Slave to Tchinarova’s Zobeide. The latter partnership was incendiary according to Tchinarova and brought huge acclaim. According to Valda Jack who danced in the production but also with Ballet Guild, Rubinstein’s death leap as the Golden Slave ‘brought the house down,’ as did his final leap through the window in Le Spectre de la Rose.


That incendiary partnership

Although Borovansky had performed Pierrot, the Chief Eunuch (Schéhérazade) and the Strong Man (Le Beau Danube) with the Ballets Russes to acclaim which grew with Tchinarova’s revivals, he did not know the rest of Tchinarova’s three additions in detail. In a letter to Barry Kitcher (reproduced in the digital edition of his memoir From Gaolbird to Lyrebird, BryshaWilson Press, 2016), she states: ‘Bousloff did not remember much, and Boro, of course knew his roles well but was vague about others. A favourite pastime of de Basil dancers in between appearances on stage was dressing room cards playing.


Like Borovansky, Serge Bousloff had come to Australia with the Covent Garden tour. As Fokine was also on that tour and personally mounted Le Carnaval, there had been opportunity to learn for those interested. While Bousloff, like Borovansky, may have been remiss in that area, he provided the Borovansky Ballet with a principal of note, famed for his stage presence and bearing if not his technique. A sample of his dancing can be seen in the Youtube snippets of the Borovansky Ballet’s Swan Lake Act II in which he partners Edna Busse, the first Australian ballet star produced by the Borovansky Ballet Academy under the guidance of Xenia Borovansky.


Frederick Ashton was one of Laurel Martyn’s colleagues at the Sadler’s Wells

Considering that Serge Bousloff and Vera Nelidova are credited with staging Ballet Guild‘s Carnaval, it must be assumed that Bousloff was either reproducing Tchinarova’s revival or that Nelidova, who had also come with the Covent Garden company, did all the work. Another possibility is that Bousloff’s wife Kira, who had also come with the Covent Garden company under her maiden name Abricossova, also contributed because her staging of Prince Igor was included on the same programme and she also appeared as Chiarina in this Carnaval. Kira Bousloff went on to found the West Australian Ballet and become that state’s most esteemed ballet teacher.

But back to Laurel Martyn. From Borovansky Ballet’s earliest days she was a major player as can be deduced from the fact that when the Borovansky Ballet Company was registered (1940), she is named as one of the five directors. In 1946 when the Melbourne Ballet Club, which had given Borovansky significant support for his company’s gestation, re-formed as the Ballet Guild, Martyn was recruited as director. The Ballet Guild’s brief was to develop Australian ballet by training dancers and building an accomplished company performing a repertoire favouring original local works. This suited Martyn well and she left Borovansky taking other dancers with her.

The Ballet Guild’s 1949 season is given in the small theatre at its studio, St Patrick’s Hall, 470 Bourke Street, Melbourne. Rubinstein has a bravura technique that includes breath-taking elevation, superb turns, good line, polished finish and a refined flash of theatricality. Eve King is his Columbine. The promise of a dazzling future for the young dancers and the development of their artform wafts and romps across the stage with them.

Indeed, contemporary to this was the advent of the National Theatre Ballet (1949–1955), an artistically and theatrically ambitious venture by Gertrude Johnson’s National Theatre Movement, under whose auspices Borovansky presented his own Australian dancers for the first time. That was in a programme called First Season of Ballet at the Princess Theatre (1939).

The National Theatre Ballet was initially directed by Joyce Graeme, who with a few others, notably Margaret Scott and Rex Reid, stayed behind after coming with the profoundly influential Ballet Rambert tour of 1947—1949. The company produced a range of local works including by Laurel Martyn and Louise Lightfoot (who staged the first local production of Le Carnaval, in 1937 on the First Australian Ballet Company which she co-directed with Mischa Burlakoff, a dancer who stayed behind from Pavlova’s 1926 tour). It also employed many local dancers and more than a few who had worked with Borovansky; Kira Bousloff was the régisseuse générale in 1952. The company even included Le Carnaval, staged by Valrene Tweedie, a student of Lightfoot and Burlakoff who joined the Ballets Russes and left Australia with them in 1940. Tweedie danced Columbine.


Giselle was one of the traditional favourites that the Ballet Rambert performed among all the very new works it brought on its historic tour to Australia.

Although the National Theatre Ballet was relatively short-lived and most notably remembered for mounting the historic first staging of the full Swan Lake in Australia (1951), its existence broadened local ballet horizons considerably and heralded possibilities that were more fully realised with the coming of The Australian Ballet in 1962, managed by the Australian Elizabethan Theatre Trust, an organisation formed in 1954 taking a lead from the National Theatre Movement’s vision for the arts and responding to a growing awareness of the need for a formal public channel for the presentation and administration of the performing arts at the national level in Australia.

Borovansky continued to hold studio performances during his company’s recess in the late 1940s then returned in 1951 with the Borovansky Jubilee Ballet. It was to open in Sydney with a programme featuring a première of Petrouchka. Rubinstein was to dance the title role.

Petrouchka Kitchertxt

The Borovansky Ballet staged Le Carnaval again in the 1950s, and Laurel Martyn also continued to mount it on the Ballet Guild in its various incarnations over the years while at the same time producing a variety of original local works.

But back to the picture…

Rubinstein makes his biggest mark in roles made famous by Diaghilev’s greatest star Vaslav Nijinsky: Le Spectre de la Rose, the Golden Slave in Schéhérazade, Harlequin and Pertouchka. But fate intervenes. Rubinstein suffers a leg injury before he can dazzle the public with his Petrouchka at the Borovansky Ballet’s premiere of the work (Sydney 6.4.1951) and then a double bout of TB sweeps him from the stage forever.

The legend of Nijinsky—whose performing career was also ended by illness—grew to mythical proportions, fuelling the rise of the Ballets Russes and inspiring the 20th century’s finest dancers, one of whom—Mikhail Baryshnikov, partnering Natalia Makarova— makes the second of his two ballet dancing Australian appearances for Ballet Victoria, Ballet Guild’s final incarnation, in 1975.

Even 30 years after Rubinstein took his final bow, those who had seen him dance still spoke of those performances with awe.

Unlike Nijinsky, Martin Rubinstein recovered from his illness and went on to have a long and fruitful career as a ballet teacher, beginning with the Borovansky academy, where he introduced the Royal Academy of Dancing syllabus, having graded to the highest level in it while still with Jennie Brenan, who had a long-standing friendship with Adeline Genée, one of the founders of the RAD. By the late 1950s, Rubinstein was travelling internationally as a children’s examiner and in the early 1980s he was made a Dual Examiner which meant that he could examine up to the highest levels (ie professional) in the system. He was the first non-English appointee and at the time this was an extraordinary honour. Subsequently he was awarded a Fellowship of the RAD and an Order of Australia medal. His long teaching career was associated most prominently with the Eve King Audrey Nicholls School of Ballet. King and Nicholls were also Borovansky Ballet veterans.

In 1964 The Australian Ballet performed Carnaval (sic), staged by Peggy van Praagh (1910–1990), its artistic director. She had come to Australia after Borovansky’s death in 1959 to direct his company for J. C. Williamson. When The Australian Ballet was formed under her direction in 1962, all of its Australian principals and more than half of all its dancers, its music director, stage director, assistant ballet master and mistress were all Borovansky personnel.

In the years that follow, Borovansky isn’t given much credit for his contribution to what became Australia’s critically acclaimed ballet culture. Then in 1980 when Frank Salter’s Borovansky, the man who made Australian ballet (Wildcat Press, Sydney) is published to redress the balance, Jean Stewart’s photo of Rubinstein as Harlequin is included with no mention that this is from another company’s production and no acknowledgement of the photographer.

Although Stewart remembered this to the end of her life, the wrongs were righted in 1982 when the photo appeared fully documented in Edward H. Pask’s Ballet in Australia: the second act 1940–1980 (Oxford University Press). Finally, it gets a glorious incarnation as a full page in Alan Brissenden and Keith Glennon’s Australia Dances: making Australian dance 1945–1965 (Wakefield Press, 2010). With these two books Laurel Martyn’s Ballet Guild starts to get some long-overdue attention. Because Martyn continued to work creatively well after the demise of Ballet Guild, the historic importance of Ballet Guild tended to be overshadowed by focus on her as a very highly regarded leading member of Australia’s dance community.

So a Ballet Guild performance was passed off as one by the Borovansky Ballet. Considering that the line-up of not only the local companies of that era, but even the Ballet Rambert on its 1947–1949 Australian tour was a case of musical chairs, this is not so much fraud as simply a hint about the complexity of that history and an indication of how much sorting of fact is still required.

And what of Le Carnaval? The Australian Ballet under Maina Gielgud’s direction gives it another go in 1991 and none other than Laurel Martyn is called upon to mount it. On opening night Harlequin is danced by principal David McAllister who becomes the company’s artistic director in 2001, and so the thread of history unravels…



Blazenka Brysha

Special thanks to Valda Jack (Lang), Barry Kitcher and Judy Leech for help with photos and information for this story.



Additional research of visuals: National Library of Australia, Victorian State Library and Melbourne Arts Centre dance collections

Principal texts about the era:

Edward H. Pask, Enter the Colonies, Dancing (Oxford, 1979); Ballet in Australia (Oxford, 1982)

Alan Brissenden and Keith Glennon, Australia Dances: Creating Australian Dance 1945–1965 (Wakefield Press, 2010)

Frank Salter, Borovansky: the man who made Australian ballet (Wildcat Press, 1980)

Barry Kitcher, From Gaolbird to Lyrebird: a life in Australian ballet (eBook, BryshaWilson Press, 2016)

Edith Pillsbury, Lynne Golding, Australian Ballerina (Allegro Publishing, 2008)

Michelle Potter, Dame Maggie Scott: a life in dance (The Text Publishing Company, 2014)

Charles Lisner, My Journey through Dance (UQP, 1979)

Frank Van Straten, Tivoli (Lothian Books, 2003)

Other additional sources for

Valda Jack, Borovansky dancer who also appeared with Ballet Guild: author interviews


Kirsova as Columbine

Louise Lightfoot Le Carnaval

Le Carnaval Australian context

Tchinarova NLA Michelle Potter interview

Rubinstein NLA Michelle Potter interview

Valrene Tweedie

Karsavina, Nijinsky & Bolm Library of Congress photo

National Theatre Ballet

Kira Bousloff

Australian Elizabethan Theatre Trust


Dance Creation 2010 – Review

After the AICD’s Dance Creation 2010 opening night performance, the audience left the theatre smiling, talking and walking briskly. No doubt, the quality and variety of works and dance styles on show satisfied a wide range of tastes and certainly gave people something to talk about. No-one mentioned there was not a pointe shoe in sight but some noted that not all on offer was in the classical style.

The AICD’s Dance Creation 2010 took a long time to produce – fourteen years, in fact. That is how long this national, biennial choreographic showcase has been running and this year’s three-performance season was the culmination of the intentions and results of that first Dance Creation, held in 1996. Three of the six works in Dance Creation 2010 were by choreographers who got their start as winners of various awards made during the event’s original incarnation as a competition and the shift from pure classical style actually occurred at the very outset.

One of the great things about Dance Creation is the total artistic freedom given to the choreographers and this has really paid off. What a joy it has been to see the unfettered artistic evolution of a Timothy Brown, Lucas Jervies and Timothy O’Donnell.

Under the current format, participating choreographers are selected by AICD Victoria on the basis of nominations from the artistic directors of major Australian dance companies and institutions. Dance Creation 2010, held at The National Theatre, St Kilda, 20-21 August, featured new works by Timothy Brown (nominated by Natalie Weir, Artistic Director, Expressions Dance Company), Robert Curran (nominated by David McAllister AM, Artistic Director, The Australian Ballet) Deon Hastie (nominated by Leigh Warren, Artistic Director, Leigh Warren and Dancers) Lucas Jervies (nominated by Marilyn Rowe OBE, Director, The Australian Ballet School) Timothy O’Donnell (nominated by Ivan Cavallari, Artistic Director, West Australian Ballet) and Ludwig (nominated by Ivan Cavallari, Artistic Director, West Australian Ballet).

The works were performed by dancers from The Australian Ballet, The Australian Ballet School, NAISDA College of Dance, QUT Faculty of Creative Arts (Dance) and Ludwig, the recently-formed, Perth-based ensemble, whose work embraces performance, choreography, photography and film.

The program opened with Timothy Brown’s When Cherry Blossom Falls, set to Ludovico Einaudi’s Divenire spliced with nature sounds, the latter unacknowledged in the printed program and presumably the choreographer’s own addition. Using an ensemble of one male and six female QUT dancers, Brown matched the lushness of Einaudi’s piano score by a continuous flow of movement of a low muscle-tension, contemporary style. Bodies fell to the floor and tumbled, rising individually and grouping into sculptural formations, giving the work shifting perspectives from above and below. Despite all the floor work, the overall impression was one of lightness. The random geometry of the ensemble work, presented with such naturalness and simplicity, imbued the piece with lyrical feeling. This is definitely a work that would suit a range of dance bodies and styles of interpretation and, as such, would sit very nicely on a company that prides itself on versatility.

We didn’t get too long to reflect on the evanescence of blossom before Timothy O’Donnell hijacked the audience with Trust Me on the Sunscreen, in which he also performed, with his partners in art, Emma Sandall and Cass Mortimer Eipper. The trio are Ludwig. The work, set to Baz Lurhmann’s monologue Everybody’s Free (To Wear Sunscreen, is a witty, energetic romp in classical style, revved up to underline the rousingly positive advice on offer, which includes statements such as: “You are not as fat as you imagine…” This got a big laugh of recognition from the audience, most of whom were young dancers. The expansiveness of the choreography is given a punchy delivery by the dancing, which gets a big leg-up – literally – from Emma Sandall’s virtuosity. She is a stunningly extended dancer who understands sensitive articulation, which should be the aim of any classical dancer who wants to take a move all the way but not cross into acrobatics.

Deon Hastie’s Caught is “an exploration into the power of mussing, an aboriginal technique that involves capturing someone’s affection by using a special root of a tree and rubbing it into the skin.” It was performed by dancers from NAISDA and used a contemporary style, combining 20th C non-classical with more recent influences of street styles and some indigenous moves. This was Hastie’s – and NAISDA’s – first Dance Creation and what a revelation it was. At the risk of sacrilege, if you needed an antidote to classical overdose, this was it. The ensemble of three men and four women threaded their way through the intricacies of physical encounters while the bassy, infectious beat of the electro score, (from Book Shade’s Movements) made for an appropriately thematic hypnotic effect. The spell-mixing motif, of one hand cupped and the other stirring around in it, repeated by the men, was especially memorable and one good, original move is worth dozens that you’ve seen before. Deon Hastie is definitely a choreographer to watch and Caught, along with When Cherry Blossom Falls, is the work I would most like to see again.

Cass Mortimer Eipper, representing Ludwig’s nomination, showed an excerpt from Le Chat Noir, a larger work that he is creating on Link Dance Company, the graduate company based at WAAPA. This was a rhythmic, fun piece featuring five women and relying on isolated body part moves for its effect. Set to the infectious beats of Der Ditter Raum’s Swing Bop and the Benny Goodman standard Benny Rides Again, on this occasion by Big Band Remixed and Reinvented, it evoked the atmosphere of a cabaret, a suggestion also offered by the work’s name, which harks back to the legendary venue of late 19th C Paris. It was difficult to gauge whether the excerpt was an isolated piece of whimsey or something more substantial in the context of the work as a whole. Nevertheless, it was performed with verve and charm and indicated that Ludwig can produce more than one type of choreography. Between that and the company’s ability to deliver gob-smackingly good dance, they should go a long way, if they can stay highly productive and keep clutching any lifelines they can grasp in the daily battle for survival faced by any genuinely artistic venture. The company’s website is light on disclosure of the business end of things, merely acknowledging a few private companies as ‘supporters’, which indicates that it receives no funding.

Robert Curran’s that for which I live and die is a duet for his fellow members of The Australian Ballet, Brett Chynoweth and Sarah Thompson. Set to Eugene Ughetti’s Intermezzo and James Newton Howard’s Snow Falling on Cedars, it was described by the choreographer as “an abstract exploration of existentialism, based on the writings of Soren Kierkegaard and focuses on one man’s experience/understanding/struggle with the meaning of his existence at an unspecified time in his life.” That’s a lot to tackle in the ten or so minutes of the work’s running time. What Curran does offer is a hardcore classical ballet duet fragmented into solos for both dancers, allowing them to interact at certain moments. A highlight of inventiveness has the man handling the woman by her hip, with one body slipping around the other in an agonised relationship of connecting awkwardly, which is contrasted with incidents of paralysing isolation. Chynoweth and Thompson made their own contribution to the work with their stellar performance of it. Whether the depth of choreographic talent evidenced here goes anywhere, is entirely up to Curran and depends on how productive he can be, which is the knife edge for any creative artist.

The most sophisticated work on the program was Lucas Jervies’ from home far from, using an ensemble of 14 dancers from The Australian Ballet School. Although we should never judge a choreographer by the size of his ensemble, the ability to manoeuvre and manipulate numbers of bodies is a core skill that any aspiring choreographer needs to develop because any repertory or commissioning dance company is likely to have ten or more dancers. Jervies shores up his efforts by enlisting the muscle of Beethoven as back-up, using Piano Sonata #32 (youtube offers a magnificent selection of renditions, including from Barenboim, Arrau and Richter) as his score. The piece is part homage, part thank you to Balanchine, Beethoven, Bournonville, Bob Fosse, Marco Goecke, Michael Jackson, Stephen Page and Georg Reischl for their inspiration to Jervies.

The word homage implies reference but in Jervies’ case the influences are so filtered through his own interpretative vision that the only overt link I detected was to Goecke in some of the arm movements. This is only fleeting, as Jervies focuses on a combination of hand gestures and flagrant shoulder rotations, often with only slight body turns and minimal simultaneous movement of feet. Except for the fact that everything springs from classical technique, it looks like the biggest influence comes from the use of shoulder joints in street styles like hip hop. But the dancers don’t just wear out their shoulders and flap their hands. They are also challenged to move as an ensemble that morphs numerically into patterns and combinations that keep the piece moving satisfyingly. Jervies is a 21st C ballet choreographer, which is exactly what the artform desperately needs now because if it is not constantly renewing itself with new works and new challenges, it runs the risk of what befell the dinosaurs. For the last 20 years ballet has been dominated by “kerpow” athleticism and astonishing physical feats but little meaningful content and feeling. It’s time to turn the tables and a Lucas Jervies should be a number 1 recruit to the cause. As one of the adjudicators of the 1996 Dance Creation panel that awarded him the Edouard Borovansky Award for Student Choreographers, I am particularly pleased to see the show of promise pay off because more often than not, dance is as ephemeral as cherry blossom, so well observed by Timothy Brown.

It is to be hoped that all the participating choreographers will be proactive in mounting at least excerpts of their Dance Creation 2010 vids on youtube – the dance artist’s new best friend. For one thing, all the performers could be tagged and given some ongoing credit for their wonderful contributions. Cultivating a presence, sharing your work, exchanging with other creative people and exposing yourself to new influences can only improve your art. Worry about “giving it away” and intellectual property rights are not an issue if you use the quotation approach. Furthermore, as everything on the web is dated, you have proof of primacy of origin. It’s time to get feral. Art has no business being safe.

Dance Creation relies exclusively on sponsorship: some corporate, a lot from a few private sources and a huge amount in kind from the many interested parties, especially the AICD and the dance institutions, both company and educational that provide the material, the infrastructure and the enthusiasm to make Dance Creation happen. The unsung hero of this glorious quest is Dame Margaret Scott AC DBE, Founding Director of The Australian Ballet School and one of the major figures of Australian dance history. Her vision and tenacity have enabled the practical survival of this on-going venture. It was Dame Margaret who rescued Dance Creation from imploding as a competition by steering it towards its current format.

Dance Creation survives on a wing and a prayer and the boundless generosity and naïve optimism of a disparate cross-section of the dance community and their efforts to do the little bit they can by inspiring, begging and nudging others into doing as much. There is an old saying that when you can do very little, the worst thing you can do is nothing. Well, that’s one thing of which you cannot accuse this mob.

Blazenka Brysha


Footnote: The Australian Institute of Classical Dance was formed in 1991 by Marilyn Jones OBE following her receipt of a Creative Artists Fellowship from the Australian Government.
The Institute is a non-profit organisation with a board composed of eminent members of the dance profession. It was set up to oversee and encourage the development of Australian classical ballet.
Marilyn Jones, a celebrated 20th C ballerina, is the Artistic Director of the AICD. Garth Welch AM is Chair of the National Committee and Steven Heathcote AM is the national patron.

Dance Creation is steered by an Executive Committee, whose membership is: Dame Margaret Scott AC, DBE (Chair), Annie Denton, Charles Heathcote, Colin Peasley OAM, and Jill Rivers.
David McAllister, Artistic Director of The Australian Ballet, is patron of Dance Creation.

Dance Creation 2010 Donors and Sponsors
Dame Elisabeth Murdoch AC DBE
Mrs Elizabeth Albert and Mr Robert Albert AO RFD RD
The Tania Liedtke Foundation
Mr Glen Robertson
Miss Jean Stewart
Professor John Rose and Mrs Rose
The National Theatre
Ms Ann Ryan
AICD National Council
AICD Western Australia

Dance Creation 2010 also gratefully acknowledged the assistance received from
The Australian Ballet
The Australian Ballet Society
Dance Australia Magazine
Easy Stay, St Kilda
Margaret Mercer
Seagull Press, Belgrave

Interview with Colin Peasley OAM

Colin Peasley OAM is regarded as one of the great character dancers on the world ballet stage of the last 50 years. In this archival interview from 2004, he gives a unique insight into the art for which he is internationally celebrated. Originally published at  30/03/2004.

Colin Peasley (Photo: Blazenka Brysha)

“I have never believed that character roles weren’t important. These days they tend to be devalued and I can understand that because if you spend ten years learning to point your foot and to jump up ten feet and turn in the air, then somebody says, ‘I want you to stand here, make two faces and walk off.’ – that doesn’t seem to be what you’ve been working for. I can understand why dancers don’t like it…” Colin Peasley

Colin Peasley’s forty year career on the ballet stage is a unique achievement not only for its longevity but for the sheer magnitude of its phenomenal creative output. Peasley is blessed with a genius for characterization that has enabled him to tackle an extreme range of roles from over-the-top to minutely understated – fops, friars, diplomats and witches. Whether he is an actor who became a dancer or a dancer who transformed himself into an actor is a moot point. The facts are that he is most definitely a dancer and, without question, also an actor. This interview focuses on Colin’s approach to characterization and performance in general, speaking candidly of his many experiences, including working with Nureyev, Bruhn, Helpmann and Graeme Murphy.

My primary interest in theatre has always been performance, and if I can borrow Graeme Murphy’s notion that “every life must have a theme song”, at the back of my mind, the late Bon Scott struts through the ACDC anthem Show Business on an endless loop.

While Bon Scott was involuntarily retrenched by the Grim Reaper, regrettably, in most instances, the ballet dancer tends to choose retirement from the stage just as his or her expressive powers start to develop along strongly individual lines.

Ironically, however, it is the story ballet – the art’s most traditional form – that has allowed the older dancer to have a presence on stage and accounted for some of the best dance performances I have ever seen. This, of course, is in the capacity of the “character” role, a part requiring stronger acting skills than acrobatic ability but, because the performance communicates through movement only, I have come to regard this facet of ballet performance as the subtlest form of dance.

My interest in “character” roles goes back several decades to when I fell in with a group of ballet goers who were rabid Ken Whitmore fans. Whitmore, who was a member of The Australian Ballet (1977-84) and is now deceased, was doing character roles exclusively by that stage though he was still a relatively young man. His interpretation of Friar Laurence (Cranko’s Romeo and Juliet) filled the fans with reverential worship. His Widow Simone (Ashton’s Fille mal gardée) delighted them with its campy cheek and I still remember the season when Whitmore sent a quiver of excitement through his following by doing his make-up for this part to look like the new artistic director Maina Gielgud. It was as the foppishly brittle King of France in Prokovsky’s The Three Musketeers that Whitmore impressed me most and it was through his work that I became interested in “character”. If Ken Whitmore was the tutor of my undergraduate experience of “character”, it is by watching Colin Peasley that I have reached postdoctoral fellowship.

The following interview took place on Tuesday, March 16, 2004, in Colin Peasley’s office at The Australian Ballet Centre, where he is Education Programme Manager.

In The Australian Ballet’s early days, you danced your fair share of corps roles – peasants, gentlemen, czardas and pavanes – but you also appeared as Drosselmeyer in Casse Noisette (after Lichine, 1963) and as the Master of Ceremonies in Aurora’s Wedding (van Praagh after Petipa, 1964). Were these your first forays into character, how did you get the parts and what do you remember of the experience?

They weren’t my first character parts. I’d been doing character parts with Valerine Tweedie’s little amateur group in Sydney and when I was learning, I danced with a lot of amateur companies, which is the only thing that was around in those days. So, I tended to do works for the Halliday sisters – they had a group called the Sydney Ballet Company; something run over in North Shore, which was called Sydney Youth Ballet and I played the wolf in Peter and the Wolf for that and various roles like that. And even on television, for instance, I did Kastchei in The Firebird on ABC television. I’ve always had a penchent for acting and I think this is probably what Peggy van Praagh saw in ’63 when she was casting Nutcracker and possibly I was the oldest corps de ballet dancer there (Colin was born in 1934) and that may have influenced her, too.

The roles were wonderful and they were very fulfilling and and I have been very lucky in my entire time that I have never believed that character roles weren’t important. These days they tend to be devalued and I can understand that because if you spend ten years learning to point your foot and to jump up ten feet and turn in the air, then somebody says, “I want you to stand here, make two faces and walk off,” – that doesn’t seem to be what you’ve been working for. I can understand why dancers don’t like it but it worries me that artistic directors and reproducers of ballet don’t always give character work full credit.

Can you tell us more about the ABC production of The Firebird – who mounted it?

It was done by Valrene Tweedie in Sydney and at that stage I was working for the ABC as one of the ABC permanent dancers. We worked for Light Variety, it was called something like that and the producer was James Upshaw. We did all of those Dick Bentley shows, Make My Music and a hundred different shows. Occasionally, we did a serious work and Firebird was one of them.

Who danced the Firebird role?

It was probably Ruth Galene because she was ballerina at the time and did a lot of those things.

I always think of you as having “started” with Bodenwieser. How did you get into dance and how did you get to Bodenwieser?

Dance was a very big problem. In the 1950s. when I wanted to dance, it was looked upon as very strange if a fellow wanted to dance. I’ll go back on that: if I had said to my father that I wanted to be a violinist, or an easel artist or anybody in the arts, I would have been looked upon as strange. Artists were seen as long-hairs, as a bit weird. To ask to be a dancer was something that was not allowed. So, one: it hadn’t crossed my mind because it was taboo, and two: if it had, I wouldn’t have been allowed to do it anyway.

However, my sister wanted to do her début – it was a time when people “made their début” – and she needed someone to partner her in the formation waltzes and things you had to do to make your début and so, I took up ballroom dancing and caught the bug from that.

While I was ballroom dancing, I went through all those medals: gold bars, gold stars, every award possible, because I’m obsessive in all I do and then I started exhibition dancing. Well, in exhibition dancing you have to pick the girls up and throw them around and put them down; I was picking them up all right but I couldn’t put them down without falling over, so, I went to an adagio teacher, and the adagio teacher was on the floor above the Bodenwieser studio. One day when I was coming down, the studio door was open. I looked in and saw real dancing for the first time. Real dancing because the whole body was being used. They were throwing themselves to the floor and doing all sorts of wonderful things. It was a time when there were some really interesting women in there and I was amazed as I stood in the door. That was a stupid thing to do because boys were like hen’s teeth, so, any boy who stood in the door and looked like he might be interested, was about to be dragged in and inducted. And I was dragged in by Gertrud and I was told I must join the group instantly and I did. And I loved every minute of it because it’s expressive; ballroom dancing is not expressive. So, it probably gets back to me wanting to be an actor all the time.

Can you put a year to that encounter?

Yes it was probably 1958, maybe’57.

Can you name some of the women in the company at the time?

One person was Moira Claux, whose father opened the first nudist colony in Australia and I remember her because there was always a flash of breast around, which I thought was absolutely wonderful and kept me there even more than what dancing did. Others were Coralie Hinkley, Eva Nadas, Margaret Chappel and Anita Ardell. Keith Bain was the only male dancer who kept on going.

What is the legacy you took from Bodenwieser?

The fact that it was true dancing, that it involved the whole body. It brought out the fact that dance is a communication. Ballroom dance isn’t really a communication; it’s nice to do and it’s a social way of getting around but it’s not a communication like modern dance. I thought Bodenwieser’s approach to the teaching of dance was amazing, mainly because she was a woman who had a Graeme Murphy approach to creation. It just flowed out. I’ve never seen things flow out of a person as fast as this. She was a funny little woman, who was always in mourning. She used to always wear black in mourning for her husband who died in a German concentration camp. She would wear what was called “summer suits”, with little slackey-type trousers and a little veil over her eyes. And, if you fell over – I thought this was the best thing ever – she would immediately take you into the office and give you a little sip of sherry. I kept falling over all the time and that’s why my mind’s gone now, from her helping me on falling over!

It was theatre, really good theatre.

How would you describe Bodenwieser as an artist?

Being a middle European, being Austrian, Bodenwieser’s modern dance was entirely different to American – which I didn’t know at the time. It wasn’t about everybody becoming clones of Martha Graham, or clones of some other choreographer. Martha Graham built her technique on her own body. The middle Europeans tried to bring out your movement qualities and they did this through improvisation, not only single improvisation but group improvisation. Every Bodenwieser class finished with some improvisation. It may have been just Bela Dolesko (Bodenwieser’s musical associate) playing something on the piano while we interpreted the music, or, it may have been a story like the Three Wise Virgins, which we did regularly. I don’t know what a “wise virgin” is but we would do these biblical tales and we would make up dance to it. I found this liberating.

And what would you say about her as a person – after all she was instrumental to your serious start in dance?

I got to her very late in life, because you know she died in ’59, so she probably wasn’t a very well woman. But I still marvel at the way she had been able to transpose modern dance from Europe into the colonies – can you imagine coming from such cultured places, firstly to New Zealand and then over to Sydney, then starting from scratch, her group going around on the Tivoli circuit – it must have been horrendous for her. And she had enough impetus, enough strength and enough drive to get this going and to start a modern dance group in a really foreign soil.

But you could also turn that around and say that it must have been very inspiring and even exhilarating for her to come to a place where she was clearly so welcomed. Consider the people who gravitated towards her and the fact that she left such an enormous legacy, it must have somehow been rewarding for her, too?

Yes, that she was the sole perpetrator of all this meant that she had nobody competing but then that’s also a problem because half the thing about modern dance or any art form is that you need other input, you need to digest other sources to find out whether you are going right, or wrong, or just regurgitating what you’ve done. These days you can see videos and things; she never saw anything like that.

It’s an unimaginable leap from Bodenwieser – modern dance pioneer, avant garde artist – to custodian of character interpretation for a major classical ballet company – or is it? Can you explain?

Yes, but I think people misunderstand what modern dance was like in the ’50s – it was still based on stories. Even Martha Graham’s early works were all stories and Doris Humphrey’s and all of those people’s. So I did The Imaginary Invalid for Bodenwieser, we did Errand into a Maze. They were basically stories, they may not have been a Dr Coppelius story but they were still places where you had to define the character and portray that character to make that work sensible. So it wasn’t such a big trip at all.

In fact, I would say it gave me better insight into what character work was. Bodenwieser didn’t have a corps de ballet; you didn’t stand at the back, in fifth position with your arms in a demi-seconde looking beautiful – everybody was contributing so that even when you were a crowd you were focusing towards the centre. So, to come into a ballet company where people just stand in lines and look mindless, I found unbelievable. So, too, the fact that people actually had to come around and say, “in this part, when Giselle comes on, everybody’s got to focus on Giselle…”.

What about the fact that the style of technique you would have used with Bodenwieser was not as regimented as that of ballet? How much freedom did that allow?

She did start with a ballet barre. Her classes started at the barre, not accenting turnout as much as classical ballet does but we did a barre to start the work on an ordinary day. As soon as we left the barre, her center work was always inventive; she could make an entire class out of one step: you’d do the step in different ways, with different accents, with different rhythms, with a jump in it, with a turn in it, you could do it as a progression, as a group thing. It’s amazing how she could develop one movement into all of these things. Although, I know what you’re talking about – classical dance is terribly regimented – her approach, I think, was nowhere near as regimented. Since then, I’ve done Martha Graham classes and they’re as regimented as possible, very codified. And, it’s a problem.

Classical ballet is a step system and by that I mean “we call this a glissade, we call this an assemblé, that a jeté. That’s a strength but it’s also a great weakness because words don’t mean the same to everyone. For instance, old to a ten year-old is an 18 years-old; old to me is someone 118. So, if I say to somebody, “I want you to do a glissade assemblé,” they’re drawing on their knowledge of what this is and it may not be what I think it is. This is where modern dance triumphs – except for Graham – because they don’t give the steps names. They say, “I want you to slide out your foot and to join that leg to the other and I want you to jump up in the air and join the legs together and come down.” We just say, do a glissade assemblé – good shorthand but not always what you want. Modern dance has the advantage over this and luckily I was able to bring some of this intellectual concept to my classical dance.

When you are first cast in a role, how do you go about creating it – do you have an approach, a method?

I don’t, unfortunately. I wish I did and that I had been to NIDA, or one of those places where they teach you all those clever things. I certainly bought all the books and read them because I’m a reader. Possibly that’s the clue because when I want to get into a role, I read about it. These days you can also look at a video, but I prefer to read, and strangely I prefer to read crits about it rather than what somebody says about doing it.

Going back to James Upshaw, I remember when we were doing those ABC shows, they were straight to air, there was no video tape then, in fact they would use a thing called a kineoscope, where they would take a film of a TV set and that would go around as a film to be shown in other places. It meant that any mistakes are out there. And James Upshaw did a hideous thing – on Thursday morning the whole cast and crew would assemble in the viewing room and we would watch the film of last week’s show. Then we’d go out and rehearse the next show straight after. That’s devastating because suddenly you realized that what you think looks like a young man in love with a girl, reaching across the table looking at her lovingly – we did a lot of those things with hands across the table while she’d be singing – actually makes you look like a sick cow. And you realize that what you think you’re doing is not being transmitted to an audience.

So, what a crit says they see in a performance is sometimes very good. When they say: “When Tom came on here, he doesn’t have the same sort of strength that so-and-so has but the softness he brought to the role blah, blah, blah…” and you think, I rather like that idea, I like the role being soft rather than hard and so you get ideas on how to develop things from what other people say about other people’s portrayal of roles. Or, from pinching other people’s ideas! I can’t tell you the number of things that I’ve pinched off Ray Powell or Sir Robert Helpmann that I think are good and I developed it to suit my body, my way. If I think it works, I take it! And I change things that don’t.

Do you ever incorporate things you see outside of theatre? For instance, I know that playwrights and poets may go to a public place and listen to the way people talk…

Yes, I’m an imitator of people’s walks. I look at how people walk and carry themselves, how movement manifests itself in different things. We all talk with body language and when you look at somebody who’s really upset at a party, they’ve just had a fight with their boyfriend or whatever and you see it happening and you see how the people group around, you think: “That’s really good” and I’m being a real bastard divorcing myself from the whole affair but analyzing it, which holds you in good stead. Some of the great stars of the past, who overdid it are also a great resource…

So, you’ve got an almost infinite resource in the world around you?

Of course, but only if you’re willing to use it. A lot of people don’t put the two things together.

The question I have wanted to ask for many years is about Gamache, that pampered, perfumed, satin-clad fop who wants to buy the young Kitri’s hand in Don Quixote – how did you learn the role, or, indeed how much of the character did you create from scratch when you first worked on it with Nureyev? Was it 1970?

We first started it in 1965 when we were overseas in Nice. Nureyev’s rival in Russia, I think (Yuri) Soloviev was having a great success with Basil and Nureyev wanted to dance Basil in the West, so he decided to do it. But we’d already committed to costumes, sets and learning all of Raymonda, so, in a pique, he went away and gave Don Q to Vienna (State Opera) when we said we couldn’t do two major works in one overseas tour. We didn’t get it until 1970.

When Nureyev first began teaching it to us, the role of Gamache was on Karl Welander. When he came back in 1970, he suddenly picked me. I’d seen Karl running round looking like I don’t know what – some sort of a twit and hating it – and I thought I can’t wait to get in there and do it because it’s a good role, for godssake!

Most of it was Nureyev. He was a wonderful mimic, a very clever choreographer and probably the only genius I’ve ever worked with. I think a lot of the things he did, he did out of spite, he didn’t like me that much. He used to call me “the black witch” for a story we won’t go into. When the costume came out, he fell about – he felt I was gift-wrapped. He kept saying, “More ribbons, make him bigger, make him larger!” But the costume really defines the character. When you put the costume on and that wig and that hat on and you’ve got the bloody sword and the gloves, there’s nothing else you can do but be a fop of that particular time. I think that was very successful. I loved working with him and the role. And, I’ve fought to do the bloody thing ever since!

You made Gamache somehow aged beyond the years you must have been when you did it for the movie…


How did you come up with that?

The first thing was that he had no hair under the wig – there’s a point where the wig comes off and you see the bald head. Originally, Nureyev wanted to have syphallitic sores all over the head because in those days that was one of the reasons they wore wigs. All these dreadful things were on their heads and rather than wash or cure it, they just covered it up. So, obviously if I was syphilitic and aged and wearing rice powder to attract this young girl, it meant that I was an older person.

Why did they not have the syphilitic sores?

Dear Peggy thought it may have been going too far and I thought it may have been going too far, too, don’t you think?

Colin Peasley as Gamache in Rudolf Nureyev's Don Quixote, 1993. (Photo: Jim McFarlane, courtesy of The Australian Ballet)

How did you find Nureyev, the choreographer, to work with?

The man knew more about dance than anybody I’ve ever met. He was able to create female and male roles, and dance female roles incidentally better than most of the females. He was able to show them what was important in the step and how to bring this out. This was a clever quality.

I can’t imagine how any of our principals ever could achieve this, and this is not being rude to our principals mainly because when you’re on stage for your pas de deux and you come off, you go backstage to change or to rest. But he must have stayed in the wings all of those times in Russia, because how did he come out here and reproduce all those bloody ballets with 500 different people doing things all over the place – corps de ballet people that he probably didn’t give a stuff about but he knew all their steps, knew how it all went together. This is amazing. Kelvin Coe was another one. Kelvin Coe could dance everybody’s role in every ballet.

What is your most vivid, publicly admissible memory of Nureyev?

The stories are always good stories but they’re not what I remember him for. I remember him for being a superb artist on stage, for the times with Fonteyn doing performances that had the audience standing and cheering for longer than anybody’s ever had since. In Sydney, when he first came out, he did Corsaire in the old Elizabethan Theatre in Newtown and the 12-13 minute pas de deux would get 15 minutes of curtain calls. I’ve seen him come back and do the whole coda again. When was the last time you saw that?


This is a period we’re never going to see again. They’d say to him, “Are we going to do the coda again?” and he would say, “They’re not breaking chairs!” meaning they hadn’t stood up and jumped and yelled long enough. To be a part of that, to see the magic of these people – and you’ve got to remember we toured Europe with them as their backing group for three months, as well as the other times; for us this was a crash course in how to develop into an artist. It taught us all the good things.

At the same time we had people like Helpmann. During the filming of Don Q I would complain about having to come on to the set at six in the morning for make-up because I was too young-looking, I’ll repeat that “too young-looking”, and they had decided to spray me with latex, which wrinkles when it dries. Then on top of the wrinkled face they’d put this white make-up so that on camera you couldn’t see the latex and by the time I took it off at night, my face was like a prune. But it did make me feel old. So while I was bitching about that, Helpmann said, “What you’ve got to remember, Colin, is that we’re the ones getting the close-ups. Everytime they take Nureyev and Lucette, they’ve got to take their whole bodies and they’re way back. Who do you think they’re going to remember at the end of the film?”

Nureyev always got the publicity in the press. Once the dazzle of his initial appearance had been pushed into the background, he got the publicity for being a bastard: for slapping the ballerina, for throwing a tantrum, for making demands. But, if you say that all publicity is good publicity, could dance use a few more Nureyevs?

I think dance needs another Nureyev. I don’t think it’s going to get one for a while. And I say that because both Nureyev and Baryshnikov came out when there weren’t such good male dancers around so it was really easy to see the difference between Nureyev and everybody else even though, for instance, Garth Welch could dance almost as well but didn’t have the charisma and didn’t have all that publicity backing, which is part of this machine that makes you into a star.

Nureyev was treated like a rock star and acted like a rock star – all that thing of drugs and going to the clubs and the stories about him out at three o’clock in the morning with six or seven people on his arm. It was grist for the mill. Being over-the-top helped greatly but he couldn’t have been a star if he hadn’t been able to come up with the goods in dance. And very few people have the ability to walk on the stage and to attract your attention like that.

He’d walk on stage and some poor woman over here could be doing 32 fouettés and all eyes would instantly go to this man who just walked! Oh, come on! That’s wonderful, that’s charisma. That’s the star quality and today, even in film it’s gone. Where are those stars, the Bette Davises? It was a different time and in dance it was able to be done because the general standard of dancing wasn’t as high. For somebody to come out of The Australian Ballet and make you all go, “Wow!” is very difficult because all those principals are “Wows!” And there’s even a few corps de ballet that are “Wow!”

Yes, but I think there’s a difference in certain individuals. For example, you look at film of Baryshnikov doing something like the Albrecht solo from Giselle, in Dancers, which he does three times in succession in front of a mirrior and each version is identical and he’s consciously striving after that. There are not many dancers who have that level of control. So, you’re talking about unique genius and that flowers only rarely. Nureyev was quite the opposite, he would do it three times and do it completely differently and wow you again because of the variety…

Nureyev was amazing because he pushed the boundaries. He would hold the curtain between acts, while he went over and over things. He danced on second breath. I don’t know anybody other than Eric Bruhn, who did the same thing. By that I mean that most dancers will hold themselves back in class so they’d be fresh for the evening performance. But Nureyev would do a solo maybe six, seven times with the conductor on stage and things weren’t working. You’d think, oh God, what’s going to happen when the curtain goes up because no-one knew if it would work. It was like a circus with the excitement. Eric Bruhn would do the same thing but if it wasn’t working, he’d change it. So, if his double saut de basque around the room weren’t working, they’d become double assemblés! Or he’d change it so that when he went on stage, he was absolutely sure everything was going to work perfectly.

There are the camps of people who feel that Baryshnikov is superior or that Nureyev is superior, or, I know people who swear by Eric Bruhn as the ultimate dancer. Would you single out Nureyev?

Actually, Eric Bruhn’s the one that appeals to me because of his pure classicism and there was never anything that he did which didn’t look like it should have been photographed and put into a book on technique. Nureyev was interesting because of his personality and because he took huge risks. And Baryshnikov because he’s got this wonderful, easy jump and turning ability but, unfortunately, I didn’t think Baryshnikov had the intelligence of Nureyev. For instance, I think Baryshnikov does things in Giselle that no prince, real or imaginary, would do. I don’t think he has the integrity that Nureyev had but he’s still an amazing dancer, by God, I’m not taking anything away from him.

While there is no doubt that an interpretive artist evolves and improves over time, your Gamache has not altered radically over the years (comparing the 1972 film of Don Q with the most recent revival performance in 1999). Why is that?

When you do some roles, you’re not comfortable with them. There’s something that doesn’t click, you really haven’t discovered the person. So, you want to fiddle with it and experiment. With Gamache, firstly I was coached very well by Nureyev and I felt that the person who came out of that coaching is exactly the way Gamache should be. And, in spite of the fact that I’ve seen other people do it, I always felt our version was better. I think my character was more three dimensional, more rational that he was the sort of person who would have done those things, that he wasn’t camp, he wasn’t a figure of fun in himself, he was a figure of fun because he stood out against all the other people. He was an outcaste in that group. So, because I thought my interpretation was a good one, I’ve maintained it.

So the character becomes a personage, like Dame Edna Everage is a personage so that whatever the character does is automatically “ in character”?

I find the best character creation is the one that you’re not acting but the one you’ve taken and put on. So, when you go on stage, I could have had a really bad day rehearsing people or a really good day and part of that personality is reflected in the person you see on stage. I don’t try to divorce the way I’m feeling from the person, so he changes slightly in that way but the person himself is Gamache. It is a person, I know him, I could show you exactly who Gamache is right now.

When you play parts like Friar Laurence and Cardinal Richelieu (The Three Musketeers), both clerics but at the opposite ends of the moral spectrum, what in each instance do you focus on?

The first one, because of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, has a hell of a lot of things written about him but he is a peasant priest. He is not an educated priest. He makes dreadful decisions in what he does for Romeo and Juliet. I mean why did he marry them? Why did he let that happen when he knew it was going to cause all that trouble. Why did he make the vial of sleeping potion? These are dreadful things. Compare this with Richelieu, who is noble by birth and not only a cardinal but First Minister of the state, he was Louis XIII’s Prime Minister and he was a very powerful, very intelligent man but absolutely ruthless to the point of evil – destroying the Huguenots, basically starting the 30 Years War, making it so that Louis XIV can become the first absolute monarch. Richelieu is pushing towards that, doing dreadful things to those nobles, with spies everywhere!

They’re two wonderful characters. The first one because he’s a bit ditsy and the second because he’s got so much power.

Your Friar Laurence has a kind of naivety that is very absolving. Like you, I’ve wondered about why he does the things he does but he has a kind of innocence that drives him…

Exactly. Because he’s illiterate and because he’s a man of faith, and faith is very strong in him, he believes that God will handle all these problems. God will be on the side of right but God isn’t always on the side of right, unfortunately. Because these people should be together, doesn’t mean they will be and that’s where a lot of these religious people fall down. It’s not a rationally explicable God up there.

Your interpretation of Madge the Witch in La Sylphide is very subtle. How do you see this character and how did you arrive at your interpretation? I ask especially because you’ve already talked about Eric Bruhn, who was also such a famous Madge himself.

He actually did it here. It was the last performance before he died, which was a few months later.

Sylphide wasn’t taught to us by Eric. It was taught to us by Constantin Patsalas, who was a choreographer and a close friend of Eric. Madge was taught first on Paul De Masson, I think.

As the role of Madge developed over time, it turned into a caricature ( as Colin says this, he raises his hands like twitching claws, tilts his head to the side and distorts his face with a maniacal scary cackle ) and I can’t see how this could have happened in Denmark because they’re so famous for their actors and I can’t see how it could have happened when some who played Madge were women. I can’t see a woman doing this send up. So, when Eric started demonstrating things, my whole concept changed because I was angling towards that way anyway. When I saw Eric do it – he only did it on the Saturday night (premier season, 1984) – there was more power, more validity in this person being a pathetic old woman who has secret powers that she can use but she doesn’t go round throwing it out. She only does it when you tread on her. She is a mirror; if you’re nice to her, she’s nice to you and that’s why she says to those girls, “Oh, you’ll be married, you’ll be happy!” and all this. Then, when other people start to do things, she says, “No, you won’t marry her but you will…” The only thing that doesn’t really work there is in the witch scene when they are all going, “Agrh, agrh…” (Colin mimics the dancing demons), which seems a mocking of the whole thing. I’ve never been able to relate how I can do that less while everyone around you is doing all that grotesque dancing. Otherwise, I think the way I’m doing it works.

What is your favourite role?

I think my favourite role is the Baron in The Merry Widow ( This role was created on Colin in 1975). I love the Baron; I think he’s such a nice person. I love the way he won’t believe he’s being cuckolded, even though everybody is saying, “She’s doing things behind your back.” And he doesn’t believe it right up to the last act when he actually sees it happen. He is really brokenhearted but then when he goes out he says, “Come on, you’re young and he is young and I understand…” That’s really nice, I like him.

Do you have a favourite ballet?

No. And it’s because ballets are so varied and your moods are varied. I’ve seen this (current) performance of Mr B four times. I’ve always loved Serenade and if I was a female dancer, this is a work I would really love to do. Then, last night when I saw the show, I thought, no, Symphony in C would be the best one to do – it’s brash, it’s out there. If you feel romantic or soft, Serenade would be the one, or you feel dominant, like I normally feel, then Symphony in C. It depends on how you feel. But I love Giselle, which is a master work; Les Sylphides, which we don’t do anymore – please God, let it come back Raymonda, which has a stupid story but the most beautiful dancing. And I don’t want someone else to do it; I don’t want them to ask a contemporary choreographer to put on a new production. I want the Nureyev steps, based on the Petipa because it’s the dancing that I loved.

Would it be possible to restage it?

Well, yes. We have the notation, even though Nureyev is dead.

As a performer, do you stew before or after performances, if ever?

I do both and I still get very nervous before a performance and the dancers in the company find that amazing. A dancer gets nervous because they realize they might fall over in their pirouette or their jump may not be as clean as they want it; they think because you’re doing an acting role, there’s nothing to get nervous about.

Acting roles always have a lot of props. You’re always handling a lot of things and, quite honestly, if you muck something up, then you’ve made the story ridiculous. So, I still get nervous and while I don’t stew, sometimes at the end of performances, I think, “Oh that should have been done and why did she look at me at that stage, the timing of that is really out…” Acting on stage isn’t really acting, it’s reacting and if the person you rely upon to do something – so that you can react to that something – mistimes, or does it wrongly, it makes your reaction stupid.

Again, this is something not all artistic directors realize. We had one director who would take one of the principals into a room and rehearse the entire Giselle mime scenes just with this girl, without an Albrecht, without Hilarion or anybody else around. So, when the dancer went into a full call, she would be curtseying on the count two and a half, and be running away laughing on the count of three, no matter what Albrecht did. A nonsense! The curtesy has nothing to do with the count of two and a half; the curtsey has to do with “Thank you, sir,” for whatever he’s done.

As an artist, what is your principal inspiration?

My principal inspiration, in the beginning, as a dancer, was Eric Bruhn and Nureyev. To me, they were the epitome of what classical dancing was all about. I was also lucky in The Australian Ballet because we had Ray Powell and Sir Robert Helpmann – and Algeranoff at one stage, too – all great character actors who could do amazing things on stage. The classical standard was set by the fact that we performed with Bruhn and Nureyev for two or three years and the value of our character work was set because we had these great artists with us. It’s wonderful to have the luck to do that and it’s a while since any of our dancers have had the luck to be around great character dancers and to see this sort of thing happening.

I’ve never believed that character work isn’t of value. I believe that if you’re telling a story ballet, then the most important thing is the story, not the dancing even though we use the dancing to tell the story. Because of this I’ve always been very comfortable in what I do.

Inspiration for roles comes from a variety of places. And these days you can get video of any bloody film in the entire world. The other day I went into a place which had more DVDs than I’ve seen in my life! There’s no reason why we can’t look up any actor; in my day, we had to remember them. We had to remember ballets. We hardly ever saw a dance company out here and if we did, that had to remain in your memory and, of course, memory enhances and makes you believe that they were doing it better than they were. Now we can just pick up a video and it’s so much easier.

In Graeme Murphy’s Nutcracker (created in 1992) you play one of the Russian émigré friends of the elderly Clara. Tell me about the process of that creation.

Well, it wasn’t only Graeme but Kristian Fredrikson, who designed it, who was also very active in the way the ballet was put together. In the first rehearsals, we also had all of those wonderful Borovansky dancers and other dancers from the early age, around us – Maggie Scott, Valrene Tweedie, Athol Willoughby, Harry Haythorne. In the ballet, the old dancers are part of the Russian émigré community, which was only small. So, every Christmas they would go to Clara’s place, bringing their little gifts and this year they knew that it would be her last Christmas because she was starting to fade. They’re all worried about her because she’s living alone, with her memories. And my goodness, when you reach my age, you understand those things. I’ve visited people and thought that might be the last time I visit them.

The range of those characters plus the fact that we (the cast) were so different in our own personalities and lifestyles, meant that we all came out so distinctly different: the part that Harry played, that Paul de Masson played, I think even Stephen Baynes was in the first one. We had all these different old men and you could see them as that. They’ve got the camaraderie of being expatriots and having a common interest in Clara. I found it very easy to start that character.

Graeme allowed us to have some input and that always makes tha character better because it fits you better. If you’ve got to walk into someone else’s shoes it takes you a while to work out what those shoes are like and how that person walked in those shoes. I pity anybody who’s trying to get into my roles because they are so personal, so based on my body and my way of moving.

When you did the group dance at the party in Nutcracker, how much instruction did you get from Graeme on how to do it?

A lot. Graeme was very determined about how it should happen, what the steps were and he kept encouraging us to do more. He was like a cook: he’d put in the ingredients but then as the ingredients either came up or down, he added a bit more salt or flour or whatever. It wasn’t ad libbed.

Did he make you go harder or slower?

He did. He would say to people, “I think this doesn’t work, I think this should happen.” I think that’s the way most theatre producers work these days. They do a reading of a play, then work out what these characters should be doing and whether it’s coming across and whether it’s readable to an audience. Graeme was the person doing that. But he had all the gimmicks of bringing out the photos, which makes the scene work so well. And the fact when she (Clara) was going to have a heartattack and the bit where she has too much vodka and dances, thinking she can do more than she actually can; and the lovely bit with the doctor coming in with the film.

How strenuous did you find it?

Not at all. Graeme has the greatest flow of ideas of anyone I’ve ever worked with. The man is so amazing, so amazing that I’ll give you a small anecdote. When I was Ballet Master here and he was doing an early ballet, he spent time on a lift with a girl that wasn’t working. He could get her up there and do things but it was not coming out the way he wanted and they weren’t getting it. He tried for about two days then the next day he said, “That’s not working, Colin.” And he not only cut that but about 32 bars going into it because that was part of the build-up and he started from scratch. I thought, why would you do that, I loved all that! But then two or three years later, it appears in another ballet. It’s mulled around, and he’s worked out how to get in and out of that lift so that it looks effective and it’s gone in somewhere else. I love this man, I mean, this is really great stuff. And it’s sensible, why waste all that time?

You are the only foundation member of The Australian Ballet who still performs with the company on a regular basis. What does the foreseeable future hold in this area?

Death! I think I’m very lucky at the moment in two ways: the company still uses me, and I think they like me, and there are not too many of my era who are willing to get up and make an idiot of themselves. I hope that as I go into my nth year, they’ll still continue to use me.

Many interpreters of character roles tend to have a speciality that distinguishes their approach, for example: the late Ray Powell was, at his best, a benevolent bumbler; The Royal Ballet’s Derek Rencher always maintains a dignified distance; Ken Whitmore camped it up. You completely defy categorization, which in ballet terms, at least, puts you in league with the likes of, say, a Geoffrey Rush, on screen. His output, for example, includes the comical entrepneur in Shakespeare in Love and the evil political figure in Elizabeth, to name two roles from the same historical period and about the same time in his acting career. How have you managed such variety?

Going back to movies, which you just brought up, the one type of actor I don’t like is the John Wayne. John Wayne was John Wayne in every movie he did. Why people said he was good, I have no idea. I don’t think that’s acting. I think acting is when you get somebody like Geoffrey Rush who tries to delve into the character and brings out what that character should be. And I think that’s fun, don’t you?

Yes, but to be able to do it?

Well, the one thing I don’t want to be on stage is Colin Peasley. I’ve never been tempted to be myself; I don’t like myself so much that I want to replicate myself all over the place. An important part of theatre is the preparation time: when you’re in your dressingroom. Martha Graham phrased it beautifully: as she was putting all this hot black on her eyelashes, she said, “When you look in the mirror, you don’t look back at yourself but Cytemnestra does!”and with that, she upped and out the door. That’s exactly what it’s all about. Going into the dressingroom and putting on rock music while you’re slapping on a little bit of face, isn’t preparing for a role at all. Preparing for a role is thinking about it and getting your face to look like you think that person should look. Then when you put on the costume you are that character, not in the Nijinsky way – they say he used to be in character for an hour after the performance, which I think is a bit overdone but I understand what he was doing. Look at those photos of Nijinsky – in every photo he looks different.

You just said you don’t want to be Colin Peasley. Tell us a little bit about Colin Peasley. I know you’re fussy about ironing, so you’re big on costume, even in everyday life; you like it just right…

I think Colin Peasley’s biggest regret in life is that he didn’t discover dance earlier. Although I was a ballroom dancer from the age of 16, I didn’t start doing classical dance until I was about 21. That was obviously too late to be a dancer, even in my day. I’ve had this huge love of dance ever since but not the capacity to fulfil it. That’s a regret in my life.

The joy in my life, is that when you come to a thing late in life, the love continues longer but also you come to it with more knowledge, more understanding of what you’re doing. It’s not monkey see, monkey do like it is with a five or six year-old kid, so, I think I’ve approached dance more intellectually, which is probably the wrong way to approach it. But, it’s meant that I’ve had a huge joy in teaching and I love teaching. It’s not just saying, “Point your foot here!” it’s trying to work out why you point your foot here. That’s a part of learning, asking more questions than you know the answers to. Colin Peasley loves all that.

And, he loves to be on stage. They could ask me to walk on as a butler and I’d say, “Yes, please!” I don’t have to be a star, I just like being there.

And why?

Because it’s a drug. The excitement of being on stage, the buzz of people around you, the old thing about the smell of grease paint and the roar of the crowd is all there. And at the end of a performance when they’re all yelling and screaming, even if you’re in the back row, you imagine it’s for you. Nobody stood in the back row thinking it’s all for Fonteyn and Nureyev but for them, because they did such a lovely peasant – and I do, too.

In recent years you’ve become very adept at handling computers and technology, partly in your work as Education Program Manager. You’re not just a performer, there’s a lot more to your life…

Yes and this is partly to do with my upbringing and the way my family approached education. They thought it was very important and I do, too. They allowed me to question and I’m a questioner, I want to know how things work. That’s the reason why I cook and I enjoy cooking. I’m a voracious reader, I’m a collector of books; I have more books in my house than I have house to put them in.

What sort?

I’m a very catholic reader, when I’m on planes I read detective stories, which can be the biggest load of trash and it’s relaxing not to have to think. But then, I would say I’ve got the largest collection of ballet books in Australia outside the Australian Ballet School. I’ve been collecting since I discovered ballet. All this has kept me with what I think is most important for life and that is an interest. I’ve got an interest and my basic interest is dance but now there is a lot of other things, too.

Tell me a little bit more about your family background?

I grew up in Sydney, I have a sister who is seven years younger than me, which meant that we were both treated as only children, which was a disaster. I’m not close to any of my relations. I went to Sydney Technical High School. At that stage, I imagined I wanted to be an architect. I studied German at school and that’s strange because this is just after the war (WWII) and they were still teaching it. I got my qualification certificate to go into university and I never went. We didn’t have the money and I couldn’t afford to do things like that so I worked in a shop during the day and I did some night school courses. Then ballroom came into my life, I rushed off to ballroom classes and became a teacher of ballroom.

When I was at Bodenwieser’s and doing ballroom, I had a very good friend, Alan, an Asian, who said to me that he wanted to do acrobatic dancing and I said I’d always wanted to do tap. We’d taken our girlfriends to the Tivoli for one Saturday evening – when you’re doing ballroom, your partners are always your girlfriends because you don’t want to loose them – it’s the truth! Even if you’re not really compatible, they’re your girlfriend. On the back of the program was an ad for the Tivoli acrobatic and tap school; it was like God talking to us. So we went to Tibor Rudas and Sugar Baba. And we tapped and acrobatted ourselves away there, while I was still doing ballroom and modern dance and working during the day. Across the way, we saw a jazz class that was absolutely wonderful. I said to Alan, we’ve got to join that class, thinking of Fred Astaire and all those people. The woman there said you’ve got to do one classical class to do one jazz class. I said, “No, thank you,” went back up and did shuffle, step, shuffle, step and kept looking. Eventually I went back, talking for both of us, “We will do it, on the understanding it’s a private lesson and we don’t have to wear tights.” So, we did our first classical ballet lesson – I was 21 – in shorts at ten o’clock at night with Valrene Tweedie. That’s how it all started.

What did your forebears do, what were some of their occupations?

My father was a printer and my mother was a housewife. My grandfather on my father’s side was a baker. I don’t know what my grandfather on my mother’s side did, but that’s where the German side of me comes in, their name was Waghorn.

I’m still intrigued by your ability with computers because it tends to be a generational thing. Everyone under 20 lives on the internet and computers are an integral part of their lives but many middle aged people and even some younger ones, whom I know, are completely lost with that technology, yet you’ve taken to it so easily…

I think this is part of my nature. I’ve got this dreadful streak that I must be self-sufficient. For instance, I must be able to sew up trousers on a machine, I must know how to bake a cake, wash a floor and do all those things. I live by myself, so I’m entirely self-sufficient. And if I’m going to work with one of these things (he indicates his computer), I want to know exactly how it works and how much I can do with it. That’s why I play the piano. I thought, if I’m going to be a dancer, and you read that all these great choreographers and dancers are always musicians, I thought I’ve got to learn music, too.

Do you still play, do you practise?

I play but I don’t practise. And I only play pop; I don’t play classical any more.

When you say “pop”, what do you mean?

I mean (bursting into song) “Daisy, daisy, give me your answer do.”

On that cheerful note, I think we will wrap it up. Thank you Colin.

My pleasure.

Blazenka Brysha

Futher information about Colin Peasley may be accessed via the National Library of Australia web site