Alastair Macaulay is one of the most influential dance critics of all time—or, as some would say, the greatest of all time (a title he himself disputes, though I wholeheartedly maintain that he is the singular GOAT). His career spans more than four decades across the UK, Europe, and the United States. A Cambridge graduate, he began writing about the performing arts in the late 1970s and quickly became a defining voice in dance criticism.

He has written for The New Yorker, The Guardian, Financial Times, and Times Literary Supplement, and served as Chief Dance Critic of The New York Times from 2007 to 2018—a tenure that made him one of the most widely read cultural critics in the world. He has lectured at Stanford, Princeton, Harvard, NYU, Juilliard, and Oxford, and contributed to leading arts publications across the globe.

Macaulay’s work spans essays on Petipa, Ashton, and Balanchine, in-depth interviews, and major historical analyses, including books on Margot Fonteyn and Matthew Bourne. He is currently Critic in Residence for Slipped Disc and preparing a major critical biography of Merce Cunningham. Across his career, Macaulay has shaped conversations about ballet, modern dance, theater, music, and criticism itself, bringing his deep knowledge, wit, and distinctive perspective to generations of readers, students, and artists.

He is one of my personal dance-writing heroes, and I couldn’t be more delighted to have had this conversation—doubly so to be able to share it with you.

The full podcast conversation is above, with lightly edited excerpts below & for more information here is his website.

Cynthia: How did you get started as a critic?

Alastair:Well, by accident really. I never meant to be a critic, surprisingly, because I now realize I had been training myself in a way, but I didn’t realize it at the time. I knew people who were educated to become critics, but we didn’t talk about that. I just came to London and already had a fondness, at age 21, for dance and music—opera in particular—and theater.

That year, 1976, I got the dance bug and began writing letters, and that was the crucial thing. When I wrote letters about opera, I was probably writing to clever musical friends who knew much more than I did, which meant my letters were probably insufferable, trying to keep up with their level. But when I wrote to perfectly intelligent people about dance, none of us knew much about it. We were just undergraduates trying to share our pleasure, and I was seeing much more dance than anybody else, so I was the one describing the many performances I was seeing after I moved to London.

I’d begun this while I was still an undergraduate. I was reading Classics at Clare College, Cambridge, and one of the women I wrote to—another undergraduate—when I arrived on my last term, she said, “Alastair, I loved your letter about ballet at Covent Garden. I read it aloud to my mother, and we both think you should be a dance critic.”

I was 20, and I apologize to anyone who’s heard me say this before, but I just laughed and laughed. It was as if someone had said, “You should be a male model.” In one sense it was a terrific compliment, but I also thought nobody serious does that for a living.

I went on writing letters obsessively. For almost two years, more and more friends said, “You’ve got to do this for a living,” and for more than a year I didn’t take them remotely seriously. But eventually, when I was 22 and working in bookshops in London, I began to realize that I was obsessed and should commit to the performing arts in one way or another. I wasn’t sure whether criticism was the thing.

To cut the story short, I got a break as a critic in the beginning of May 1978, when I was still 22. The woman who was giving up her job because she had to remain in America called me—very glamorously, I think, from Heathrow—and said, “My dear, you are a dance critic, and you’ve got five days to file your first column.”

It was for a fashion and gossip newspaper called Ritz that came out once a month. You had to make your subjects entertaining, put all names in capital letters, and make it fun, which was very good training in journalism. I wanted to show these fashionable, gossipy readers that I was serious about dance, but I wasn’t above gossip and I wasn’t above fashion.

Cynthia: That comes through in your writing years later. I always read your column in The New York Times, and even when the review was scathing, you always made me want to see the dance. There was room left for curiosity—I always thought to myself, I wonder if I would feel that way too. It was entertaining, snarky, witty, but backed up by love of the art form. The door was still open even if you didn’t like it.

Alastair:That’s good. I’m really glad if that came across. Thank you.

Cynthia: Which critics or mentors shaped your understanding of how to write about dance?

Alastair:I probably began unconsciously by steeping myself in music criticism. I learned so much about opera when I was 18, 19, 20. I used to sit in Cambridge Public Library, go through back issues of The Gramophone, read Opera magazine, and newspapers too.

I had kind of forgotten about that, but I was reading very eminent critics: Desmond Shawe-Taylor, Philip Hope-Wallace, and above all Andrew Porter. I was reading Porter’s British reviews from the fifties, sixties, and early seventies, even after he had moved to New York to become the great music critic of The New Yorker.

I only realized the influence of all that toward the end of my time in New York, when readers would say, “I don’t know anything about dance, and I don’t care terribly about it. You’re the only dance critic I read, for the pleasure of your voice. It reminds me of British music critics.” I thought, oh, something must have rubbed off, even if I didn’t know what I’d learned.

When I became a dance critic, there was a magazine published by the Friends of Covent Garden called About the House. In spring 1974 it published several pages of reviews written by Clive Barnes for The New York Times about the Royal Ballet season at the Met. Suddenly here were these intoxicating reviews by Clive, who later became not a close friend, but a friend. That made a strong impression.

I remember writing to him about 30 years later to apologize, saying I thought I’d filched a point or a good quote without giving him full credit, and he was very gracious. His writing showed me it was worth spending time watching ballet. Friends wanted to go to the ballet when I still wanted to go to the opera, and gradually I got the dance bug.

Friends of mine wanted to go to the ballet when I was still wanting to go to the opera. I moved to London, and the best British newspaper critics were probably the ones I learned from in particular—three of them especially.

I would always try to read John Percival in The Times, Mary Clarke in The Guardian, and before—no, before Mary Clarke—James Kennedy Monaghan, who was a weird name, because he wrote under James Kennedy in The Guardian and under his proper surname, which was James Monaghan, in Dancing Times. I kept thinking, why do these two men keep agreeing with each other, and about everything? I didn’t know then that they were the same person.

And then Clement Crisp in the Financial Times. I was just 21 and I didn’t know anything, but I was learning as much as I could from all three of those critics.

Occasionally, when you are ignorant and new, you think these people know much more than you do. For example, I hated Glen Tetley’s Voluntaries the moment I saw it. To me it was terribly unmusical, and all of them raved about it. So I thought, oh, I must be wrong, and I went on seeing Voluntaries and trying to see what was good about it.

It was only later, when I read Arlene Croce, that I realized it was perfectly fine to dislike the choreography of Glen Tetley to that music.

Then there was Clement, who really was a wonderful critic for sixty years at the Financial Times. Phenomenal. Very witty and very erudite. And it was fun disagreeing, even with Clement, because he just got deeper into the art. He gave you more things to think about. That was a lesson in itself.

Then I began to read Edwin Denby, and then I began to read Arlene Croce. I knew about her a little, but I wasn’t reading The New Yorker yet. About a day after I became a critic, I was introduced to Mary Clarke, who was editing Dancing Times and was just taking over The Guardian review from James Kennedy Monaghan.

She wrote to me saying, “Do you read Arlene Croce in The New Yorker? Her first collection, After Images, is just out—recommended reading for an elderly 22-year-old dance critic,” referring to something I had written in one of my early columns. It was just lovely that this woman had taken me seriously enough to make the recommendation.

I ordered a press copy of After Images, which I still find more thrilling and more broadening than any other collection of Arlene Croce’s writings. Arlene—who just died last December, a year ago—was the biggest influence on me, other than the dead Edwin Denby, whom we all revered.

Cynthia: It’s interesting to note how you feel when you realize that prestigious critics felt differently about a performance than you did. I think this comes up with dance a lot: people are afraid to trust themselves and their own viewpoint on a performance. You hear opinions repeated, and then the opinion itself takes on a life of its own.

Alastair: I’m sure that goes on with all critics, and I’m sure there are people who espouse my point of view simply because they think, “Oh my God, Alastair Macaulay thinks this,” and wouldn’t dare disagree.

Believe me, Arlene Croce was a terrifying person to disagree with, especially in later years. She was fine at first, but later she became more and more entrenched in her point of view. And maybe I’m the same as we get older—that’s what we are.

It takes courage to think, “I like that review by that critic, but it’s not my opinion.” You have to know your own mind pretty well. I think it’s part of growing up. We probably all begin by espousing other people’s points of view.

Cynthia: Do you remember the first review that you wrote that really felt like your authentic voice?

Alastair: This just goes on and on and on. I mean, sometimes in some moods, I would discard everything I wrote for the first ten years, and I really learned. I thought I knew how to write a sentence. I thought I knew how to write a paragraph, and that some aspects of writing I was, let’s say, adequate at. And then after ten years, I worked on The New Yorker, and the editing there was the kind I had never encountered before.

That experience really taught me to write much more precisely, to use a far more varied vocabulary—so many things. It taught me not to take second best—my own second best—as a solution, but to keep rethinking. And it’s a lifelong process, of course. From those ten years—even though some of my writing was very immature—I learned a lot. You also learn from disagreeing, as we’ve already begun to establish.

In 1979 I made my first visit to New York, where there was a competition for young critics in Ballet Review, which existed for about forty years. I decided I was just at the right stage to enter, and I wrote a review of a ballet that I knew was very un-New York, by Frederick Ashton: The Two Pigeons.

I wrote a whole essay about it. I traveled around England looking at performances of The Two Pigeons and trained myself to describe the choreography more thoroughly than I had yet known how to describe anything. I think it is very immature now, but I wrote with a kind of lyrical enthusiasm. That was probably a new kind of breakthrough on my part. It was something where my voice began to emerge.

Later that year, New York City Ballet—which I had seen in New York—came to Covent Garden. I was so angry at the way most British critics wrote stupidly and insensitively about Balanchine. To me, he was wonderful. I loved Frederick Ashton so much, but he and Balanchine were the same age. It was obvious that you should write with the same esteem for both these masters, who were both seventy-five that year. It was astonishing how many British critics wrote with some degree of condescension about Balanchine.

It actually changed my politics. I remember thinking it was shocking that we had to write Mr. Balanchine, Sir Frederick Ashton, and it made me question the British class system—that we should use honorifics that way. I’ve tried ever since never to use them if I can avoid it.

So I wrote an essay for Dancing Times, just letting fly—really letting my voice emerge with a sense of the epiphany I had found watching those ballets and those dancers. I think it should look to anybody who reads it now like the work of a twenty-four-year-old. It was the work of a twenty-four-year-old, but it was a breakthrough for me.

Cynthia: Within the dance world, in the classical styles of training—particularly the Vaganova style—the people trained that way are very condescending and dismissive of the technique and training of all the Balanchine companies. And you’ll see a little of that vice versa: Balanchine dancers will criticize the Russians for their absence of musicality, or for holding poses too long, et cetera. But it’s interesting to hear that there was that kind of dismissiveness from the classical school, even among the writers at that time. I wouldn’t have guessed that.

Alastair: I was lucky because of the critics I knew. I began to know Clement Crisp, for example, who urged me to travel, and I already wanted to. I was so thunderstruck by the writing of Arlene Croce and Edwin Denby that I traveled to New York in January 1979, while I was only twenty-three. I had no money. It was before I’d met most London critics, and I spent three weeks there. I probably only met two New York critics of any importance: Tobi Tobias and David Vaughan. David Vaughan had a huge influence on me.

But really, what I was learning was that I should travel and start looking at dance in different places. You feel differently about the Royal Danes, whom I saw that year, if you go to Copenhagen—you feel it in the context of the architecture, the society of Copenhagen. You start to understand the Royal Ballet London better when you’ve traveled. Once you see it, when you come back to your home city, you certainly feel differently about New York City Ballet when you see it appearing in your home theater or at Covent Garden, having already seen it at a New York State Theater and Lincoln Center. All of those experiences helped my mind to develop.

In 1984, I managed to get to Russia, which was still very much the Soviet Union, to see both the Kirov and the Bolshoi. I didn’t see much of the Bolshoi, but I saw both companies, and all of that was a great education. Your love for all these examples—my hope is there—is because you have a curious mind.

Some experiences were very hard. Looking at New York City Ballet at first was challenging, because it was so unlike what I was used to. I took one look at Suzanne Farrell or Meryl Ashley and I began to surrender to them at once. Then I had to analyze why and what it was that was thrilling, even though it was unlike anyone I had ever seen in London. I was just young enough to do that. I wasn’t stuck in a rut.

I think that openness goes on. As soon as I say it, I feel I should bash myself for sounding complacent, because the truth is I’ve never fully surrendered to the Paris Opera Ballet, to put it kindly. Even though I was thunderstruck the first time I saw the Kirov Ballet in 1982, and again in 1987, many of the reviews I wrote of the Kirov Mariinsky seem to reflect various serious problems I’ve had with them.

What I find fascinating about the Kirov—and I don’t mean today, but certainly up to, say, 2010, 2014, maybe later—is that someone at the Kirov, and maybe the Bolshoi, reads foreign reviews very seriously. The next time you watch that company, it won’t necessarily be better, but they would have attended to that particular problem. I thought, “Oh my God. I think somebody’s been reading my review.” That’s true—they’ve often developed a different kind of problem.

Cynthia: It’s like they’re really taking the correction.

Alastair: But they really are. Whereas you could be moaning about the Royal Ballet or New York City Ballet, and they wouldn’t make, you know, any change at all.

Cynthia: It’s interesting to think about the companies looking different within their own locations. That the art form itself is not just part of the architecture, literally, but the architecture of the society. So then, out of context, it means something else, which is, of course, an issue with archival art forms like ballet in general. In a lot of ways, we’re always seeing it out of context unless it’s a new work, and even those, a lot of the times, are derivative.

Cynthia: Who were the key dancers who influenced your early taste?

Alastair: I’m probably not going to remember any of the most important ones now. Margot Fonteyn, of course, was your ideal. She was in the air; as you grew up, there were books and photographs of Margot Fonteyn. I saw her, I suppose, at the end of her career in ten roles, and I realized she had this legendary musicality.

I probably never saw the musicality at its greatest because I was not seeing her in tutu roles any longer, you know? But God, she existed within and around the music with such clarity, beauty, and complexity. But the two ballerinas who perhaps I saw much more—maybe three, who I’m adding quickly—are Meryl Park.

Meryl Park was probably not the most wonderful in terms of line. I didn’t analyze what was wrong with her line at the time. She had a terrific theater presence, she was a very intelligent artist, and she had the most astonishing musicality. It was the kind of musicality where you could feel her playing with a phrase in the way that one hears Violette Verdi did.

Antoinette Sibley put it to me once. She said, “There are two kinds of musicality. When I dance, when Margot or Monica dances,” she said, “we are the music. But there’s another kind of musicality, and that is what Meryl has and what Violette has—they can play with the music.” And she said, “I wish I was like that.” Meryl was like that.

I don’t think, I dunno, that you could see it at all in any films, but believe me, when you were there live—up to about the time of her fortieth birthday, or a little later, when injury began to change the dancing—it was extraordinary.

But the two ballerinas from whom I probably learned most were Natalia Makarova and Lynn Seymour.

Makarova had the perfect body, very beautiful, highly intelligent dancer. What drove me into shock with Makarova was in the world of which she was most famous, which was Swan Lake. She—and I don’t think any film shows this, but now they’ve all been edited—went after the music in a way I had never known.

I mean, she would follow it a whole bar or two bars later; particularly, she would end two bars later. So if you saw her do Swan Lake, she would always end Odette’s variation seconds after the music could stop. I had never known what seemed to me un-musicality like that. And quite a lot of critics enthused about it. I just went into shock. Why aren’t people clamoring about this?

Then there was Lynn Seymour. Her body was full of arches, lines, and curves in the most extraordinary way, all of which were intensely expressive. I’ve never known a ballerina—and I’m never a dancer—capable of that kind of intensity of expression.

And it came from the center of her being. I was so lucky with Lynn Seymour that I saw her in great roles made for her by Frederick Ashton, and above all, Kenneth MacMillan—which I don’t mean “above all,” I knew above all Frederick Ashton—but he only made three roles on her. I did see her twenty times in A Month in the Country, and I’m very glad I saw all of those twenty performances.

Cynthia: Are there dancers today that you find as exciting?

Alastair: Well, I certainly find some dancers very exciting. I should also have added Anthony Dowell, who probably was the man I wanted to be, had I been a dancer, you know? And then it was so good for me to have him coming to the Royal. He just seemed to surrender himself to so many aspects of Royal Ballet styles.

Having seen those, then—I mean, how lucky I am to have lived to see David Hallberg. Perhaps not what he dances today, but his first years at ABT, and Herman Cornejo—those were two miraculous male dancers. I’m thrilled that I had the chance to write about Sara Mearns in the years in which she came to so many of her great roles at New York City Ballet. How amazing it was to have seen Natalia Osipova when she first emerged. I haven’t quite seen her in recent years, but to see her between her ABT debut in 2009—I think I’d seen her a little bit with the Bolshoi before then—up to about 2015, when she became a member of the Royal Ballet, performing a lot of different roles, was thrilling.

I just remember thinking, well, here I am in 2015, I was sixty years old. I had seen in the late seventies a period when, within a couple of months, I had seen the Giselles of Natalia Makarova, Gelsey Kirkland, Eva Evdokimova—who, for some people, was the greatest Giselle, by the way—often overlooked now. Margaret Barbieri, who many British people adore, Galina Samsova, who gave the most astonishing mad scene, among other things, I ever saw.

All of these were greats, and they happened to me when I was 22, 23—not 21, 22 actually. But here I was in 2012, 2013, looking at Natalia Osipova, Diana Vishneva, and Alina Cojocaru. To watch those three, often on the same weekend during Giselle with ABT, I thought, this is an astonishing thing. These three really are showing me the younger generation, the span of what Giselle can be between them—just as much as those dancers years ago.

You know, I’ve lived through a golden period.

Cynthia: You’ve written about a lot of different styles: classical, modern. Did you have a preference in the beginning?

Alastair: Ballet was really what I knew. It was what was available to me. And frankly, I had no money when I first came to London, so it was cheaper to sit in the cheap seats of Covent Garden than it was to go to Sadler’s Wells to see modern companies or whatever. And I certainly did see the Martha Graham Company in 1976.

Then, in 1979, when the company came back, I saw them lots of times. I began, as soon as I became a critic, I don’t think I’d particularly had any bias between ballet and modern. I just had to see some really great modern work to realize it was as great as ballet. I was aware that Merce Cunningham was taken very seriously by people before I saw his company. I went to Edinburgh in 1979, and my first reaction was, “What’s the problem?” I was just in love with what I was looking at. Then I heard the music, and I realized how strange the music could be.

I think it really was love at first sight with Cunningham, and then a few question marks later on.

Cynthia: As with all great love affairs.

Alastair: Nicely put.

I think I always loved Fred Astaire. There are so many different kinds of dancing. There are always new things to see, and then gradually I began looking at various national forms of dancing.

I forget when I first really began to look at flamenco. Probably about 1980. There was a good company run by Mario Maya, very connected to the political, angry side of flamenco, and that was thrilling. And then Indian dance—I think I began looking at it seriously, probably not at very great examples in the late ’80s. But then I did start to go, maybe at the beginning of the century. There was a wonderful weekend at the Edinburgh Festival in London. We didn’t get the great exposure to Indian dance that New York had, at least when I was at the New York Times. And I was lucky that I had coincided with a great period of Indian dance at the New York Times.

That became a very deep fascination for me. I went twice to India for four weeks, partly because I was middle-aged and wanted to look at temples, and I took the opportunity to see as much Indian dance as I could. And I’m sure I’m extremely ignorant to this day. But I realized I was writing about Indian dance in a way that Indian critics weren’t. I think that helped me, and maybe helped some people in Indian dance.

The general convention in Indian dance was that you looked, and the dancer or choreographer was trying to express and convey, and then you commented on whether they were succeeding or not. I just thought, “Never mind this. I’m not qualified there, but let’s just describe what is going on.” They are using Kathak or Odissi, or whatever, in this way. And I tried to analyze it—very good for the mind—when you were in your fifties and sixties.

Cynthia: Is there a choreographer or maybe a dancer that you wish more people knew about today?

Alastair: Well, it’s sad to me that my home choreographer—Frederick Ashton—is not better known, and that there are more great examples of what was wonderful about Ashton’s style.

I truly mean it when I say that. I think Ashton, much of the time, was as musical as Balanchine, or more musical than Balanchine. And that’s against the law to say now. But I mean it. Whereas, of course, I think Balanchine was actually a greater dramatist, which nobody takes seriously at all—or at least he was a more radical dramatist.

When I began to watch both of their versions of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, I thought Ashton tells the story even better than Balanchine, but Balanchine tells a better story. Once I got into that, I began to realize that was true of all Balanchine’s story ballets. Prodigal Son is a great story—he really tells it so amazingly. Ashton wouldn’t have had the guts to go for the radical sexuality of The Siren, or the humiliation of the final scene.

I mean, in London, I just wish we saw more of Pam Tanowitz, but at least we see Pam Tanowitz, and I very much wish London saw much more Alexei Ratmansky. We have Wayne McGregor in London, and we had Liam Scarlett. I can go on. Basically, London’s choreographers at present, to me, are a disappointing choice and a bad choice on the whole.

The first British choreographer I took very seriously when I was discovering British modern dance was Richard Alston. He began by being a Cunninghamite and working without music. Then he began to use music, and I realized he was acutely musical. Trying to analyze musicality—I think—is about the hardest thing in criticism.

Cynthia: It’s interesting how even the musicality can be cultural. Because in Russia, the ballerina is the queen of the world, and the conductor is expected to follow her. I saw one time a performance with Lopatkina doing Giselle, and it was almost like an argument between her and the conductor. She was truly on her own time, and he was just refusing to respond to her. I thought, wow, that’s fascinating. That would never happen at New York City Ballet. They’d be fired.

Alastair: There was a legend that Svetlana Beriosova had to stop dancing Giselle after Act One for months. So Lynn Seymour leapt into the breach for Act Two and managed to find the point of coming close to the orchestra pit, bourrée-ing, and saying over her shoulder to the conductor, “Too f*****g slow, Ashley,” to the conductor. But I’m sure she was on the music while she said it.

Cynthia: If someone were just beginning their journey as a dance audience member, where do you think they should begin?

Alastair: If you’re just beginning and you think you’re taking it seriously, just look at what you have at home and analyze it—but then quickly, just travel. Look around at what you can. You can’t these days go to Russia, which is something I would always have recommended. I think I was about twenty-eight when I first went to Russia.

I would go to Copenhagen. I think at the moment I would encourage people to go to Amsterdam. When I came to the New York Times, I was already aware there was a lot of important ballet, in particular from outside New York. I’d looked at the Suzanne Farrell Ballet, I’d looked at the San Francisco Ballet. Over the years, I looked at Pacific Northwest Ballet. So I thought, there is so much going on around America, and I should shake up New York by reminding them that New York did not contain all that’s great about American ballet.

It’s still on my conscience that I never traveled to Dayton, Ohio, to look at the Dayton Contemporary Dance Theater, which, when I saw it in Washington, had some of the most fabulous dancing I’ve seen. There were great forms of hip hop. Of course, I wrote a lot about Jookin in the Memphis form—Lil Buck is the famous one—but going to Memphis to see whole battles was electrifying. Then going to Detroit to look at their form of hip hop, which is called jit.

I wish I had gone and spent time in Chicago and San Francisco to look at their local forms. I just never had the time. I think you can see, particularly with something like hip hop, that by looking at a local folk form, you learn so much about this country and its local dialect. It was curious for me to be often the whitest and most European and the oldest person in the audience looking at these things.

It made me laugh when I was watching one Memphis Jookin event. I think I was, whether I was fifty-nine or sixty-one, so much the whitest person in the room, so much the oldest person in the room, and I was having a great time.

Cynthia: You answered fifty of my questions in one—about the myriad of styles and different countries: Indian classical dancing, flamenco, hip hop, ballet.

Alastair: I just think, you know, one of the reasons I came from New York was to grow, to extend myself.

I was giving up quite a lot by coming because I had loved—and over the years had become, above all, a theater critic—and I was having such a good time reviewing the final plays of Pinter and almost the final plays of Tom Stoppard, and so many other great British playwrights, and looking at so much Shakespeare. I had very, very mixed feelings about giving that up to take the New York Times job. I nearly didn’t take it.

So I just thought, if I’m going to come, I really have to feel I’m going on an adventure to new things in my mind and new things in the world. I went back to London quite often and would think I had made the wrong choice. I should have stayed in London, because London theater is yet better than New York dance. Then I eventually shrugged and thought, well, right. It was a mistake, but it was a very interesting mistake—the most interesting mistake of my life: writing about dance in America.

Cynthia: And you know, I feel like so much of the time our lives become about our most interesting mistakes.

Alastair: I hope, I hope.

Cynthia: There’s a lot of discussion that criticism is dead, that there aren’t any negative reviews because it’s all tied in with commercialism. What do you think? What do you feel is the critic’s responsibility to artists, to audiences, and to the art form itself?

Alastair: That’s a really nice question, a good one. And it probably is true that there aren’t enough negative reviews. People have been saying that for a long time, but it’s getting more intense. I do remember that the New York Times, particularly under the long regime of Anna Kisselgoff, you had to decode her reviews to know what was really negative under the apparent surface of praise.

I had imagined that was the style of the New York Times when I was considering the job. Finally, after three months of dangling it in front of my nose without giving me an offer, they offered me the job and said, “You’re going to have the weekend to think about it. Ask us any questions you want during the weekend.” I think I only wrote one question, because I happened to be ill. I was honestly in bed for the weekend.

When I came through from my fever, I remember sending an email to my future arts editor at the New York Times, whom I came to adore. I just simply asked him the question: if I were to take the job, do you have any clue how many negative reviews I would write, or how severe they would be? Because I had imagined the New York scene was much worse.

Sam wrote straight back and said, “That’s what I want from all of my critics. I don’t want any soft-soaping.” I thought, oh, that’s not the way I thought the New York Times expected. So I thought, I can work for a man like Sam. Within my first month, I did see work I just did not like at all, and I thought, I’ve got a choice: I’d either be gentle about the choreographer’s work, who is unknown to me, or I can blast it out of the water.

I deliberately thought, I’m going to test my readership and test the New York Times by blasting it out of the water. I probably would never write quite so severely again, but I really went for it, because I really wanted to see whether the readers, and in part my editors, would support me throughout all of that. Thank God—they laughed. I remember editors coming up to me and just saying, “Why don’t you say what you really think?” They were with me, and they weren’t saying I was going too far.

Cynthia: Did it affect the readership? I would imagine that people became more interested in dance during your tenure. I know I did, and I was already obsessed to begin with.

Alastair: Who can say? I’m sure I lost readers because people weren’t used to that kind of anger or opinionated quality. I hope—I think I did gain readers at the New York Times. I can’t do the sums between those two. I love the readers I had, and I should say that the readers were the main reason I took the job. I loved working at the Financial Times in the nineties, but suddenly, around the year 2000, I remember feeling that the demographics had changed, and then I only really heard from interested parties after that.

I did hear from them when I was often quoted outside theaters and on publicity, but I wasn’t hearing from the general reader, whatever that is, at the moment. I remember the New York Times got in touch in late 2006 to consider offering me the job. I remember thinking they were never going to offer it to me because they’d have to bring me across the Atlantic, and nobody spends that kind of money anymore.

Then, after a week, the man I knew at the New York Times, who had worked with me—Evan, a New Yorker, Chip McGrath—called me and said, “We just want you to know that you are way at the top of the list of everybody we are considering at the New York Times.” That was a surprise straight away.

This was probably the beginning of November 2006. They wanted to know whether I was seriously interested in the job, or if I just couldn’t get a pay rise at the Financial Times. I laughed straight away and said, “Well, I would like a pay rise at the Financial Times.” Since they weren’t mentioning money, I didn’t know what this was about. I said, “I can tell you what would interest me: coming to the New York Times, and that is the readers. My impression is that if I wrote for the New York Times, I would hear from the general reader. I’ve stopped hearing from what I consider the general reader at the Financial Times.”

I remember Chip laughed. He said, “Oh boy, we have readers.” I said, “I’m always grateful for them, but we certainly have one.” And it was absolutely true.

Cynthia: You also had writers writing under you that you commissioned during your time.

Alastair: It’s a very important thing to have an editor taking you as a young writer where you haven’t been before. I didn’t see it much as my responsibility to comment. Most of what they wrote, if they wrote well, I wrote them emails just to say, “Bravo, brava.” But I couldn’t do that every time. I think it was very important for them not to be writing to gain my approval, otherwise that could be very infantilizing. I hope I showed all of them that I did approve of some of their work, that I wasn’t there judging the whole time, and they shouldn’t hang around waiting for me to say the right thing.

Cynthia: Looking back at your career, what do you hope your writing contributed to dance?

Alastair: I think I’m very proud that I covered hip hop and flamenco, as well as ballet and modern dance. I’m very proud that I’ve covered a lot of music and theater, as well as modern dance, and I’m very proud that I’ve held two—or three—top jobs on both sides of the Atlantic. That’s unusual. I’m pleased with that.

When I was moving to the New York Times, I became conscious, especially when I realized I got a thousand words’ power on you, that I should start writing more about music and musicality than anybody had done before. I hope that aspect of my work will stand up.

It was very strange—the power of the New York Times, because it’s actually not always the powerful newspaper you think it is. I could tell you about things I wrote on a Wednesday paper, and you’d go back to see it on Friday, and the audience was not there, so to speak. You didn’t automatically command people to see what you were raving about. But I suppose gradually, bit by bit, I realized I did have some effect. Certainly, the ballet audience read me. I probably did have a big effect on the Merce Cunningham audience. I hope I had the effect on the Mark Morris audience, because he is given to such genius and such awfulness, depending on the show, but truly genius when it works. Those are some of the things—I could go on, couldn’t I?

Cynthia: What advice would you give to emerging critics who would like to build a voice within the current times?

Alastair: Building a voice—it’s such a complicated thing. Well, make sure it’s your voice, and that it’s not just your newspaper’s voice. And while occasionally you find the right critic for the right newspaper, I never felt I was, and that’s fine. Just think you’re swimming against the grain. Use it.

My first newspaper reviews of ballet were for The Guardian. I imagine that everybody around the arts page at The Guardian tended to be pro-modern arts or pro-postmodern or whatever. So I was trying to show why you could take ballet seriously to those readers.

And I probably wrote a lot of modern dance reviews too when I was at the Financial Times, which I was for many years. I never felt I had a financial bone in my body, so I never, and I felt it was generally read by the establishment, and I think I did learn quite quickly that people who read the Financial Times could afford anything you recommended, which I wasn’t used to. So it was a shock to realize I was writing for a different kind of class, shall we say, financially.

But with the New York Times, it was so extraordinarily diverse, and I think I was getting my voice because while I knew that the New York Times was a big deal in the eyes of Americans and the world, I did not know how big a deal. Within a year I remember saying particularly to Claudia La Rocco, you know, when you write for the New York Times, it feels as if half your readers are blaming you for what’s wrong with the world, and half of your readers assume you are the fount of all truth and beauty and wisdom. And of course neither is true.

Cynthia: Is there something you’d hope to see moving forward in the realms of dance writing and particularly education?

Alastair: I just hope people will read the great work of Edwin Denby, Arlene Croce, Joan Acocella, others of my contemporaries, and build on what we achieved. You know, we didn’t do it lightly and we didn’t do it easily.

I hope my reviews seemed fluent and entertaining, but very few of them were written in a hurry. They didn’t just drop off a log, you know. It would be too simple to say that there is a tradition of dance criticism, because, for example, Clive Barnes and Arlene Croce were on the whole at loggerheads and writing in very different ways, but one could learn from both of them. I think I did learn to some degree from Clive and to a very large degree from Arlene. Likewise from Clement and other British critics, you know, just learn what you can and gradually, as you do, you learn your voice.

Cynthia: Dance is really a fringe subject. The amount of people who are, who have a depth of knowledge of its history and its artists over the years, are so few.

Alastair: Well, one of the great joys of the New York Times job was realizing I could ask questions of lots of people. I think I was always aware, as a young critic, that too many critics kept their cards too close to their chest. I thought quite often, we are given special information by press officers or whoever, fellow colleagues—why not share? Share the wisdom wherever you can. Be the student, not just the expert.

Cynthia: Alastair, thank you. Thank you so much. Thank you for all of your work, all of your writing, all of your passion. You have been an inspiration for me since you started at the New York Times. I’m sure it would’ve been before that, but I just hadn’t been introduced to your work. I used to live on the Upper East Side, and I had a membership to the Met Museum. Every week I would take the paper, go to the Met, sit in the sculpture area, pretend it was my living room, and read your reviews.

Alastair: That’s—well, that’s a huge compliment. Thank you very much.

November 17th 2025. I had the great pleasure and luck to meet Alastair Macaulay in person at New York City Center. Where he was moderating a panel on Dutch National Ballet and the work of Hans van Manen as part of City Center’s Studio 5 Series.

Here is the selfie I asked him to take with me. I posted it on instagram letting everyone know that I met the GOAT dance critic (GOAT stands for Greatest Of All Time) and hence began our argument on who should claim the title.

The Dance Lens with Cynthia Dragoni is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

“People say, ‘stay in your lane, you’re just an artist, but art was born out of politics—revolutions, wars, oppression. Tap dance emerged because enslaved people weren’t allowed to make music. Dancers come from communities impacted by inequity—Black, brown, queer, immigrant, women. There’s a direct political dimension to that.” Bridgie Nix

What is the life of a showgirl? It might just be in politics.

Bridgie Nix is not your typical political candidate — she’s a dancer, fire performer, and lifelong creative who’s no stranger to America’s working-class grind. Dancers often assume they live outside the political bloodstream — yet it’s lawmakers with no understanding of the industry who shape realities from the ensemble to the headlining stars. Dance may be the only industry where the majority of workers are women, immigrants, and LGBTQ — making it an arena that is not only notoriously underpaid, but also a direct reflection of marginalized America.

Nix’s views have radically shifted — once a conservative, she has taken a sharp turn to the left. After a decade in LA working across entertainment and organizing, and later building her own production company in Nevada’s growing film industry, she’s stepping into politics with a perspective forged onstage, backstage, and in the cracks of America’s safety net. Now she’s channeling that lived experience into a campaign for Lieutenant Governor.

“I’ve always been politically passionate,” Nix says, “I grew up watching Fox News, identified as conservative—but social issues weren’t openly discussed. Moving out of Texas, freelancing, facing the realities of the American system…2016 was my turning point. I realized the Republican Party as I knew it was no longer the one I believed in.”

Her campaign for Lieutenant Governor is fueled by that realization. In Nevada, the Lieutenant Governor’s role is both ceremonial and pivotal: tie-breaking votes in legislation, stepping in when the Governor is absent, and overseeing tourism. “The role varies by state depending on the dominant industry,” Nix explains. “In Texas it’s oil, in California it’s film and TV, and in Nevada it’s tourism. As an entertainer who also experiences Vegas as a consumer, I feel really suited to help fix tourism issues and expand nature-based tourism here too.”

But Nix’s vision extends beyond the Strip. Her platform emphasizes creating a new creative economy in Nevada, diversifying the state beyond casinos and tourism. Central to this is the Hollywood 2.0 initiative: building permanent production studios in Las Vegas to sustain local employment and establish long-term industry infrastructure. “International tourism—the backbone of Vegas—has collapsed. Gen Z doesn’t gamble like that. Entertainment isn’t just actors; it’s hundreds of local jobs,” she says.

Her advocacy is rooted in lived experience. Having danced, taught, and produced, Nix has seen firsthand the inequities faced by creatives. She draws parallels between the precariousness of the performing arts and the broader labor landscape. “Dancers risk their health and careers daily. No one is buying tickets to see the executive director perform. Priorities are upside-down,” she observes.

Nix’s political awakening also emerged from civic activism. In 2020, she organized protests and registered over 200 voters across three states. Following the overturn of Roe v. Wade, she was struck by how many performers were unaware of its implications. “People believed their vote didn’t matter.” That realization propelled her toward candidacy, revisiting programs like Vote Run Lead and learning how surprisingly accessible running for office could be—especially in a state like Nevada.

Her campaign, however, is not just about policy—it’s about bridging two worlds: art and politics. “People say, ‘stay in your lane, you’re just an artist,’” Nix laughs. “But art was born out of politics—revolutions, wars, oppression. Tap dance emerged because enslaved people weren’t allowed to make music. Dancers come from communities impacted by inequity—Black, brown, queer, immigrant, women. There’s a direct political dimension to that.”

For Nix, the message is clear: performers and creatives cannot remain in a bubble. Politics shapes the structures that determine whether they survive in their fields—from healthcare access to workers’ rights. “Start local,” she advises. “City council, state representatives—they directly impact your life. Go to meetings, ask questions, understand budgets. Even small advocacy work matters. And don’t underestimate your voice on social media. Performance is influence.”

Nix believes that women and nontraditional candidates must take up space in politics. “Our current political class is aging, disconnected, and unfamiliar with the modern world. People want leaders who understand their reality. It’s time for older politicians to retire, relax, and pass the baton.”

Nix’s candidacy, in many ways, challenges the notion of what leadership looks like. Her campaign is grassroots, focused on door-to-door engagement and community connections—particularly within the creative sector she knows intimately. She wants to inspire a broader cultural shift in political engagement, demonstrating that governance is accessible, and that lived experience, problem-solving, and creativity are valuable assets in public service.

“From dancers to veterans, from teachers to service workers—those voices need to be in the room. Politics is about people. If you’ve had to hustle, if you’ve navigated unstable industries or systems, you know how to advocate.”

As she knocks doors and posts updates on Instagram, Bridgie Nix’s message is clear: politics isn’t just in the Capitol—it’s everywhere, even backstage. And for performers across America, her candidacy is a call to recognize that their votes, voices, and perspectives are not only relevant—they are necessary.

For more information on Bridgie Nix’s platform and campaign, visit:

https://www.bridgienix4nevada.com/ or follow her on social media @bridgienix4nevada

FULL PODCAST ABOVE

Dance and the military might seem worlds apart—but their histories are surprisingly intertwined. Some of the world’s oldest ballet schools were tied to state military academies, and Napoleon himself organized the Paris Opera Ballet’s uniforms and promotion system that is still in place today. The physical rigor, the hierarchy, the discipline—the dancer and the soldier have much in common in their daily experience. But the paths diverge—the physical and psychic injuries of war lead us away from our true nature and dance offers us a way back, a way in, a way home.

Black Box Dance Theater a North Carolina-based modern dance company works extensively with veterans and active duty service members, in educational spaces, therapeutic spaces, performance spaces—often they are one and the same.

In this episode, we interview Michelle Pearson, Artistic Director and founder of Black Box Dance Theater, and Alfredo Hurtado, dancer, founding company member, and Purple Heart–decorated Combat Wounded Warrior who served three tours with the 118th Military Police Company, 82nd Airborne Division.

A documentary on Black Box Theater’s work: “We Lift Each Other” is premiering on November 10th in Asheville NC.

Find details for the free Nov 10 screening HERE and the documentary trailer HERE. Below are excerpts (lightly edited) from the interview:

Alfredo: Before dance, I was like 260 pounds, barely moving. I was on all these medications, and dance wasn’t the love story it is now. I had to grow into it and really dig because, with injuries and everything, sometimes I wouldn’t even show up to rehearsal.

I remember someone—Mindy—called me once and said, “Hey, I get that you’re in pain, I get what you’re going through. But just come by. You don’t have to do anything. Just sit there, relax, and be a part of this.” And I was like, oh, she made it sound so easy. I showed up. I just kept showing up. Then this woman right here would push me in a way that made me realize I could do things. I just needed time and effort, like anything else.

Being in the presence of the most amazing dancers on the planet gives me the best seats in the house—but in order to have those seats, I have to move with them. I have to flow with them. One of my greatest joys is being in this little world on stage with these people who move in ways that leave me in awe—and they trust me, and I really trust them too.

Alfredo Hurtado Courtesy of Black Box Dance Theater & Arts Impact Collaborative

Michelle: Now Alfredo’s on zero medications. That’s not right for everybody—I’m just saying. He’s overcome short-term memory loss, depression, balance issues—there’s all kinds of things that come with TBI (traumatic brain injury). And now he’s in the core company, which comes with knowing at least three hours of intricate choreography. At any moment, I might say, “Face that direction instead,” and you have to execute it in a canon. You could actually get kicked in the face if you’re one second off—which has happened.

Alfredo: I’ve learned that’s not gonna happen again.

Michelle: The heart, stamina, and rigor of it—it’s pretty awesome. I wish you could come to rehearsal one day and see.

Michelle Pearson and dancers courtesy of Black Box Theater and Arts Impact Collaborative

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Alfredo: You’re definitely welcome anytime to watch the process.

Michelle: Especially with the military—we love to show dancers that pairing. They really appreciate that discipline, that body discipline.

Alfredo: We share the stubbornness of being a dancer—sometimes ignoring our bodies when we shouldn’t. Like, “Oh, my knee’s a little funny today,” but I’m still gonna do it. But now I know my body so much better than in the past. I don’t always need to have my feet perfectly high. I can adjust. I don’t need to, but I do. And who does it?

Michelle: I try to watch and adjust your movements, your arms, your legs…

Alfredo: Trust me, I’m at home kicking my leg over the counter so I can get it as high as I need to.

When we’re with our military newcomers, one of my favorite lines is, “You all know anything can happen as soon as you sign that dotted line. You could get sent to war. So you’re afraid to do a little plié? Come on.” It puts them in perspective—they’re okay.

Michelle: And when he talks about dance, bootcamp’s got nothing on modern dance.

Still from “We Lift Each Other” Photo: Lou Pepe

Alfredo: Still. I’ve jumped out of planes, played Division I soccer my whole life. It’s intense, physically demanding—but there’s something about dance that lets you dig deep inside yourself. It’s a collective, whole-company thing. Soccer taught me plays, kicking the ball in the army—jumping out, doing things—but learning choreography, trying not to hurt anyone while lifting or spinning, it’s another level. You practice a lift 10, 15 times to get the mechanics right—then you execute it perfectly with your partner. Dance has so many layers beyond scoring goals.

Michelle: Our work with active-duty military really launched us into this. Then our curiosity led us toward veteran groups, which opened a whole different reality, a whole different lived experience. Over the past three to four years, particularly with the Patriot Project, we’ve worked with veterans of all ages—men, women, from different wars, with varying levels of emotional and physical trauma. We’ve learned so much about what it means to create dance in that community.

We still have our little arc, but it looks very different now. It’s about staying open, paying attention to how people are in the room, knowing the right push.

FULL INTERVIEW PODCAST ABOVE.

Find out more about Black Box Theater’s work and how YOU can get involved here.

American Ballet Theater has really interesting season coming up in March, from Othello and Firebird to Mozartiana and Raymonda’s Grand Pas Hongrois. More on this later but tickets start at $35 are available HERE.

Ahmad Joudeh’s phenomenal path is the subject of a new Documentary “The Dancer”, which premiere’s at San Francisco Dance Film Festival on November 8th.

Born in a refugee camp in Syria, Joudeh literally risked his life to study dance in secret and eventually became a dancer with Dutch National Ballet. He’s now a member of Golden State Ballet in California alongside being an international activist for refugee rights and the arts. Joudeh’s path is truly miraculous and a reminder that with dance (and the internet) all things are possible.

Below are a few excerpts from the conversation. Watch and listen to the full interview above.

Cynthia: In your situation, because of your experiences, your work is inherently political. Even if you’re doing Sleeping Beauty or The Nutcracker or whatever—it becomes a statement.

Ahmad: Yes.

Cynthia: For artists in general, even if they don’t have that kind of background, what do you think their role is in times of conflict or collective difficulty?

Ahmad: We fight for culture and art because culture and art are very important. I always say that artists have the same duty as soldiers—we fight for culture, for art, and for our countries. Because a country without culture and art is a country not worth fighting for. I think that explains what I do and what I wish every artist would do. We are the window—people look through us as artists. Our platforms are not only ours; we represent a lot more than we think.

I was born in a refugee camp for stateless refugees in Syria. My father is a musician and artist—he taught me, my brother, and my sister music. Singing was my part. At the end of each school year, the best performances from different schools were chosen for a big celebration in the city center of Damascus. From our camp, they selected our school’s performance, and they liked our song.

Then the next performance was from the girls’ school—they did a small piece from Swan Lake. There were about six little girls dancing, and I was fascinated. It was the first time I heard classical music, and when I saw how they moved with it, I thought: why am I playing music with an instrument when they’re playing music with their bodies? So I started moving like them. I thought ballet was only for girls, so I practiced secretly in my room until my mom found out.

My mother’s uncles are from Palmyra, and when we visited them, I used to watch the dervishes—their rituals with the drums and whirling. I was fascinated, but I thought it was something purely religious. Later, I realized I was drawn to that same sense of movement. When my grandmother saw my Eurovision performance years later, she said, “When you were a little kid, you used to do that with the sheets—so what’s new about it?”

I was sixteen when I joined Enana Dance Theatre in Syria. The company’s training was based on the Vaganova method, taught by our ballet master Albina Belova from Russia. So yes, I was trained in the Vaganova method in Damascus—which surprises people. They say, “Really? You had a ballet company in Syria?” And I say, “Yes, we had an opera house and an amazing ballet company.”

Cynthia: What’s going on with the dance company and the dancers in Syria now? Are they still able to work or train?

Ahmad: Yes. The Opera House is still there, and we still have the Higher Institute for Theatrical Arts. It has several departments — it’s kind of like our version of Juilliard. But right now, people there are very scared. They don’t know what’s allowed and what’s not allowed.

In Syria, there are many different religions — some that people outside the region may never have heard of — and for a long time, we all lived together peacefully. But now, things are becoming more extreme, and that’s very concerning.

Personally, I can’t go visit my family, even though technically Syria is “free” now. But the dancers there are still training. I try to support them however I can. Sometimes the teachers call me to ask about specific movements — for example, how to teach the flic-flac or other ballet steps — and of course, I explain everything.

When I studied at the Dutch National Ballet Academy I wrote all my notes in Arabic because I wanted to create a resource — something like a ballet manual in Arabic — so that dancers and teachers there could read it and really understand the technique.

FULL INTERVIEW ABOVE (VIDEO & AUDIO)

AHMAD JOUDEH WEBSITE

Ahmad Joudeh

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Ahmad Joudeh in front of the ancient theater in Palmyra

PSA: Thanks so much for your patience while we get organized for the live talks and interviews. There were a couple of delays but we are getting ready to restart!

NEW YORK CITY BALLET NEGOTIATIONS SET TO RESTART NOV 11. Stay tuned for more updates and a deeper dive on what’s really going on.

MORE SOON!

At CARVALHO, New York gallery in Brooklyn, Cuban choreographer and interdisciplinary artist Claudia Hilda turns the experience of migration into a moving meditation on memory and belonging. Her new installation, Neither Here, Nor There – The Migrant Body, expands the language of dance into a 24-foot projection where silhouetted figures emerge and fade, moving as memory does—sometimes vivid, sometimes lost.

In this immersive environment, choreography gives way to apparition. Figures rise from the dark, press their palms against a glowing wall, and dissolve back into shadow. Beneath them, a pool of ink-black water reflects their fleeting gestures, evoking rivers, seas, and the crossings that define so many migrant stories. A 40-minute soundscape weaves together interviews and testimonies from Latin American migrants across the U.S. and Europe. The work’s physical and sonic layers speak to the psychic weight of exile and the fragmentation of identity—what it means to inhabit the “in-between,” a space that is neither here nor there.

Claudia Hilda:Neither Here, Nor There – The Migrant Body, site-responsive video installation, CARVALHO, New York, 2025. Courtesy of the artist and CARVALHO, New York

Hilda, a former Principal Dancer with the Cuban National Company of Contemporary Dance, has spent the past decade translating the body’s unspoken history into movement. Her practice—shaped by recent residencies at BAM and Paris’s Cité Internationale des Arts—blurs the boundaries between performance, video installation, and sculpture. The result is work that is at once deeply personal and politically charged: choreography as cultural memory and as archive.

Her work represents the Cuban artists’ paradoxical world: the country’s state-supported arts education is among the most rigorous and respected globally, producing some of the finest dancers, musicians, and performers in the world. Yet this excellence is accompanied by severe scarcity—limited access to medicine, food, and basic resources—conditions shaped by decades of political regimes, economic embargoes, and global geopolitics.

All artists and their work—however original and unique—necessarily emerge from their times and collective circumstances. In Neither Here, Nor There – The Migrant Body, the gallery becomes a liminal space where the body remembers even if we try to forget. Here, movement carries the weight of displacement—and the hope of belonging.

Below are excerpts (lightly edited) from an interview with Hilda. Listen to the full conversation in the podcast above.

Cynthia: Can you speak to what first sparked the idea for this work?

Claudia: I think the idea really came from the process that felt almost like mourning and identity. I mean, when you migrate, it’s very similar to losing someone. You go through denial, anger, sadness, resistance, and then little by little you start accepting the new reality and you start surrendering yourself to this new environment.

You create a rhythm with it. And as migrants, I’ve been in constant negotiation with myself and my identity. A process that I already started living in London and I continue when I moved to New York. And it’s interesting because after maybe five year now I was ready to approach this experience, be open about it, and translated it into an art piece, and I guess with neither here nor there with the installation I wanted to speak about this process, about memory and displacement, that in between spaces here, their past present and what truly means living between that gray area.

Cynthia: It really comes through and merges choreography, sound projection in an immersive installation.

It’s like we walk into this dark cave and we see these bodies on another side of a screen reflected in a pool of dark water. It’s like very interesting, very surprising. Can you talk to us about your process? In creating the piece.

Claudia: I think there’s a thin layer between control and spontaneity in the work. The move to speak about the movement itself, there was no fixed choreography. Instead, I guided each performer through a process. Rooted in physical and emotional memory. Inviting them to recall sensations of crossing and transitioning, um, belonging.

I was really interested in activating those memories and lived experiences and through them, translating them into movements. So I wasn’t interested in choreography itself but more of a lived body movement. Something that felt more real. The movement had to feel lived and not choreographed.

Sometimes it’s pedestrian, sometimes chaotic, sensual. Fragile. So I filmed behind a translucent screen. That’s the way I found to approach to this idea of metaphorical and physical border and create this space between absence, time, memory. The gestures and the body movement of the dancers appear and the solve, just like memory itself.

And the work carries this anthropological dimension, not only through the movement, but through the oral history component. All the interviews we created, we interviewed a large number of Latin American migrants, not only in the United States, but in Europe, and they were all true stories.

It was so beautiful to reach out to this extended family and extended community and get to the understanding as performers and also as just humans, that our bodies are cultural bodies, right? So we carry not only our experience, but the memory of others in our own movement.

Cynthia: I think it’s so interesting the arc that your work is on, because your background, you were trained in Cuba at the Cuban National Contemporary School and a principal dancer in the company. And your work has been presented by BAM, Brooklyn Academy of Music and in Paris and this is so multifaceted, was this kind of mixed media work always a part of your dreams for yourself ?

Claudia Hilda:Neither Here, Nor There – The Migrant Body, site-responsive video installation, CARVALHO, New York, 2025. Courtesy of the artist and CARVALHO, New York

Claudia: I think with time I’ve been getting closer and approaching my ideal practice, let’s say.

Everything has informed the kind of practice I create today. The 10 years working for the national company and then the masters that I did in Arts and choreography in London, which really helped me to approach a more multidisciplinary practice since I worked there with opera singers, theater directors, I collaborated and assisted directing operas over there.

So I really connected with all this sense of cross pollination in arts of how theater, the visuality on stage, the music component, everything came together to create one piece and I fell in love with it and I, I always say I translate and I translate ideas that come to me and they always come to me in a different way.

And they demand to be brought into this world in a different medium, let’s say. So I try to be super disciplined and, and to translate them as close as they are. I felt at the beginning when you are a dancer, your mind is closer to the thinking of am I doing it right?

As a dancer, you pursue the technical aspect. You are pursuing perfection. But then I think also with age, you become more courageous. You are more brave to let that perfection go a little bit and come closer to the creator’s mind. I feel more calm letting that go and coming closer to intuition and everything comes together somehow, you gotta trust that process.

LISTEN TO FULL INTERVIEW ABOVE (PODCAST/VIDEO)

Claudia Hilda (b. Cuba) is a New York–based interdisciplinary artist working across choreography, performance, and visual installation. Her work explores migration, identity, and the politics of the body, informed by her decade as principal dancer with the Cuban National Company of Contemporary Dance and residencies at the Brooklyn Academy of Music and the Cité Internationale des Arts in Paris. Her installation Neither Here, Nor There – The Migrant Body is on view at CARVALHO, New York gallery through November 1.

In This Edition:

PODCAST: Alec Knight on Balanchine, Dreams, and His Western Symphony Debut

In this episode of The Dance Lens podcast, we sat down with Alec Knight, Soloist at New York City Ballet, on the cusp of his debut in George Balanchine’s Western Symphony. From early frustrations training in Australia to chasing the Balanchine dream across continents, Knight takes us through the unlikely path that brought him to Lincoln Center.

He speaks candidly about tackling Western Symphony’s fourth movement, the ghosts of a brutal knee surgery, and the ways every debut reshapes both dancer and ballet. Knight doesn’t shy from the industry’s messier edges either: the risks of typecasting, the fragile alchemy of partnerships, and the pressure to carve out individuality within a towering legacy.

He talks about how an artist can bring fresh energy to a Balanchine classic, how resilience fuels artistry, and why Western Symphony for him is a reckoning between grit, glamour, and survival in ballet’s most exacting arena.

Alec Knight Photo: Jean Claude Billmaier

‘Western Symphony’ is a ballet that at first glance looks like a raucous exercise in camp, but it is actually deeply rooted in the classical lexicon and all the accompanying difficulties. Choreographed by Balanchine in 1954, it is a true homage to American folk music and dance. Set on a street in the wild old west, the music is classic American folk songs, including “Red River Valley,” “Good Night Ladies,” and “Oh Dem Golden Slippers” all orchestrated by Hershy Kay.

Emily Kikta and New York City Ballet in George Balanchine’s Western Symphony. Photo credit Erin Baiano

In This Edition:

-INTERVIEW Podcast With Ballet Conductor Garrett Keast.

—REVIEW: The Art World & Dance: Meaningful Collaboration or Performative (literally) Fluff? OBSERVER REVIEW

-DEEP DIVE Episode 1 of Our August Swan Lake Deep Dive: The Story

INTERVIEW (full podcast above)

Garrett Keast, an American conductor whose career spans both opera and ballet across international stages, has emerged as one of the most dynamic figures guiding ballet orchestras today.

Garrett Keast. Photo: Kiran West

While the conductor's role in opera is often highly visible, ballet conductors operate largely out of the spotlight. "You don't get feedback from the performers on stage in the same way as in opera," Keast notes. "But it's vital to take care of the people on stage, maintaining direction and cohesion." Over the years, the boundary between ballet and opera has softened for Keast, as he finds the collaborative demands of both art forms increasingly aligned.

Keast's ballet journey began in earnest in 2013, when he stepped into a decade-long partnership with John Neumeier's Hamburg Ballet. Over the course of more than 125 performances, he immersed himself in works ranging from Bernstein Dances and Midsummernight's Dream to Purgatorio. His repertoire now includes staples like "Swan Lake" and "Romeo and Juliet," conducting for companies as prestigious as Paris Opera Ballet, Royal Swedish Ballet, Royal Danish Ballet and New York City Ballet. Currently he is a regular guest with Les Ballets de Monte Carlo under Jean-Christophe Maillot.

Yet, ballet presents its own unique challenges. Dancers rely heavily on tempo, and each performance can demand subtle shifts. "You have to be flexible," Keast says. "And when you commit to that flexibility, the energy from dancers and directors tends to flow back to you." While opera may center around star vocalists, ballet is a deeply collaborative endeavor—a collective effort where choreography, rehearsal, and performance demand seamless integration.

Garret Keast. Photo: Kiran West

Keast's career has been defined by pivotal moments—including an impromptu debut conducting Mahler’s 10th Symphony at Hamburg Ballet without rehearsal. These opportunities, seized with devotion and preparation, propelled him forward. But challenges remained: from navigating complex scores to adjusting to diverse cultural expectations within ballet companies around the world.

Raised in Houston, Texas, Keast credits the city's vibrant public music programs for launching his journey. He studied at the University of Texas and benefited from mentorships, including with Christoph Eschenbach at Houston Symphony Orchestra.

In 2020, in the midst of the pandemic, Keast founded the Berlin Academy for American Music (BAAM), an orchestra devoted to American repertoire and transatlantic musical exchange. It's another expression of his commitment to bridging cultures—this time between continents, not just artistic disciplines.

As ballet companies worldwide look to expand their reach and relevance, conductors like Garrett Keast are vital figures at the intersection of tradition and innovation. Whether backstage in Monte-Carlo or in the rehearsal rooms of Berlin, Keast continues to shape the sound of ballet with nuance, empathy, and unwavering dedication.

Find out more about Keast’s work at www.garrettkeast.com

Filed Under: Classical Music; Ballet; Christoph Eschenbach; Houston Symphony; Hamburg Ballet; Jean-Christoph Maillot; Bernice Coppieters;John Neumeier; Lloyd Riggins; Stathis Karapanos; Craig Urquhart; Berlin Academy of American Music; Earl Blackburn; Kanzen Arts

Echoes on the Wall by Ingrid Silva at CARVALHO, New York. Image by Quinn Wharton.

REVIEW

This week I wrote an article for the OBSERVER on the validity and the vapidity of the cross pollination between dance and the visual art world. As more and more galleries and museums invite dance into their spaces and programs, they very often do so without a real understanding of what it takes to develop meaningful dance work. That is until a well constructed performance series was created at CARVALHO gallery. Which has supported the work of varied artists: from the conceptually rich Jodie Melnick and Neo-Classical Prima Sara Mearns, to NYC Ballet dancers Taylor Stanley and Alec Knight and most recently Dance Theater of Harlem’s Ingrid Sylva and her dancers.

You can read the full critique HERE in the OBSERVER.

DEEP DIVE

SWAN LAKE THE STORY (ON YOUTUBE)

Beginning our monthly deep dive series that will be 2-3 videos (depending on the theme) and will end in a live lecture and Q&A section.

This month is Swan Lake. Coming off of the beauty and the drama of Gillian Murphy’s final show–I felt there was no other logical place to begin.

In this first video we’re jumping right into the story that has different endings depending on which company you’re seeing.

Special thanks to MARQUEE TV for the incredible footage from English National Ballet, Rudolf Nureyev & Margot Fonteyn and Zurich Ballet with Polina Semionova.

Have a look and let me know what you think. And if you want to join me in real time for the lives you can subscribe below.

SWAN LAKE THE STORY (ON YOUTUBE)

Want to join me for the lives? Subscribe below.

In This Edition:

-Podcast with Karen Valby, author of Swans of Harlem

-A few book recs

With the approaching slow slog of August upon us, it’s a perfect moment to catch up on the books we’ve been meaning to read.

Here are a couple that I really can’t recommend enough and one to look forward to.

Swans of Harlem by Karen Valby

About (and partly by) the founding dancers of Dance Theater of Harlem, whose stories—until this book was created—were mostly, and incredulously, forgotten. I’ve also included an interview I did last year with the author that I think you’ll enjoy quite a bit.

Apollo’s Angels by Jennifer Homans

The most phenomenally researched and written ballet history book of all time, truly the GOAT all things considered. It’s not just for dance lovers either, if you like history and fascinating inspired writing this is for you. And if you are a dancer, you can’t consider your education complete if you haven’t read this.

COMING SOON! Martha Graham 100 Years by Ken Browar & Deborah Ory

Coming out in October is another gorgeous photo book by NYC Dance Project! I love their work, it’s a visual feast and a fun way to get to know dancers and dances.

Starting with Swan Lake in August, I’m going to start doing monthly Q&A lives and deep dives that are for subscribers. It’s always a lot of fun and we can get into things in a way that’s hard to do in prerecorded vids. However there will still be loads of free content, articles, reviews podcasts etc, this is in addition to not instead of:). Details coming in another email.

In This Edition:

-Podcast interview with Yuan Yuan Tan

-Notes on the complexities of artistic exchange and the new work Lady White Snake.

Yuan Yuan Tan, San Francisco’s great ballerina, almost never became a dancer. Her entire career was decided by a single coin toss.

Arguing about whether or not she’d be allowed to study such an impractical pursuit as ballet, her parents said, “The Buddha will decide.” A coin was thrown. It landed in dance’s favor, and her fate was sealed.

Now, 40 years after the Buddha’s coin toss, Tan has been a pillar on American ballet stages for three decades. It was under her tenure—and Helgi Tomasson’s artistic direction—that San Francisco Ballet became one of the best companies in the world.

Tan recently retired from San Francisco Ballet and, not missing a beat, is already the artistic director of Suzhou Ballet. Separately, she is directing and co-producing an inventive and spectacular ballet, Lady White Snake, coming to Lincoln Center on July 26 & 27. Blending Chinese classical dance, Kung Fu, contemporary dance, and ballet, it tells an ancient fairy tale that, like all myths, is surprisingly relevant to our modern experience. The projections are immersive and explosive, wrapping subconscious archetypes within a story of inner conflict—the tension between what we want and what’s expected of us.

Artistic and cultural exchange is always important, but sometimes it’s event more pointed and urgent.

We have many examples in history, particularly during the Cold War, when the arts—music and dance in particular—were used as cudgels of soft power.

Great jazz musicians (funded by the CIA) traveled to the Soviet Union; New York City Ballet and Moscow’s Bolshoi Ballet toured each other’s homelands. Perhaps these tours were meant to flex each country’s assertion that their society was superior, that their cultural and intellectual development would lead humanity forward, eclipsing other economies and philosophies. But what’s left in our collective memory is the beauty of the work—the windows opened to one another’s talents and rare gifts, the knowing that through the arts we connect above space, time, and government tension.

These exchanges bore tangible fruit. The Kennedy Center—America’s national theater—and Lincoln Center, art’s temple in the middle of the country’s cultural heart, were born of Cold War competition with the Soviets. Even if it’s a pity that they arose from jostling for perceived superiority, the creation of these theaters has elevated what we’ve been able to experience and develop artistically—and the way we see ourselves.

Now, over half a century later, history in its cycles and rhymes is again asking us to face ourselves, our systems, each other.

And once again, it is through the arts that we may find a shared language. Yuan Yuan Tan’s Lady White Snake arrives not just as a performance, but as a bridge—between East and West, past and present, tradition and reinvention. In an age of fractures and firewalls, such works remind us that the most resonant forms of communication still come through beauty, discipline, and story.

Listen to the podcast to hear Tan’s journey—from a coin toss in Shanghai to center stage in San Francisco, and now to the helm of an international ballet production—mirroring the very ideals Lady White Snake embodies: resilience, transformation, and the enduring power of choice.

Perhaps the Buddha's coin was always going to land this way.

IN THIS EDITION:

-Podcast & Note On Gillian Murphy’s Career

-Recommended show (Lady White Snake)

-Update on this Substack:)

The career of American Ballet Theatre’s Gillian Murphy has spanned a rare arc. A jewel in the annals of ballet history, she has escorted the changing times and evolving art form for the better part of three decades. And on July 18, the artist makes her final departure from the ABT stage in Odette/Odile — a role that, as Murphy notes in an interview about her career, continues to reveal something new each time.

Murphy burst onto the scene in a then all-too-infrequent recording of “Le Corsaire” (1999), when, still a soloist, she performed as one of the Odalisques, completing a full diagonal of triple pirouettes. Her gifts were again cemented in film eternity when “Dance in America” recorded “Swan Lake” (2005) for the PBS series “Great Performances,” and the performance of the young principal dancer was given to all of us to keep, as long as the VHS tape would hold, and in our collective imaginations ever after. Her rise through the ranks at ABT, and these recordings alone, would have been enough to frame a great career. But Murphy performed far longer than most classical dancers — and, as a result, she both bridged and led the way between the old world and the new.

Swan Lake Rehearsal: Gillian Murphy & Michael de la Nuez.

Photo by Britt Stigler

This edition of the Dance Lens newsletter is thanks to my absolute favorite ARTS ONLY streaming service MARQUEE TV. Where you can find a plethora of recent classical, neoclassical, contemporary dance productions PLUS documentaries, theater and opera. Subscribe HERE.

When Kevin McKenzie stepped into the role of artistic director at American Ballet Theatre in 1992, he was walking in Mikhail Baryshnikov’s wake — and what a wake it was. A wave of glamour and excitement had flooded the dance world with the defections of Soviet legends like Rudolf Nureyev, Natalia Makarova and Baryshnikov himself. Combined with the drama (onstage and off) of American ballerina Gelsey Kirkland, American ballet soil was fertile ground. What followed were some of the most thrilling generations of dancers — defined not by a few standout stars but by a bevy of brilliance: Alessandra Ferri, Julio Bocca, Susan Jaffe, Paloma Herrera, Ethan Stiefel, José Manuel Carreño, Ángel Corella, Julie Kent, Amanda McKerrow, Ashley Tuttle, Max and Irina Dvorovenko, Marcelo Gomes and, of course, Murphy.

It seemed American Ballet Theatre had fully come into its power — not relying on a few imported celebrities but with a voice of its own that was both homegrown and a landing spot for the world’s most compelling talent.

As that group — which seemed like it would last forever — gradually left the stage, ABT began to look decidedly eastward. While the company had exceptional in-house talent, the marketing emphasis began to rely heavily on guest stars from Russia (and occasionally England), and its identity and point of view as a company becoming less defined. A template emerged: rotating classics with an international guest star in the leading role. And yet, a few dancers who had ascended the ranks acted as scaffolding upholding the prestige of the company. Among them, Murphy stood as a luminous pillar.

ABT Company 2003 Photo Michael Thompson.

Left to right: Freddie Franklin, Julio Bocca, Amanda McKerrow, Maxim Beloserkovsky, Ethan Stiefel, Paloma Herrera, Ashley Tuttle, Julie Kent, Gillian Murphy, Angel Corella, Alessandra Ferri, Jose Manuel Carreño, Marcelo Gomes, Irina Dvorovenko, Kevin McKenzie

Meanwhile, ballet was undergoing a global athletic transformation in a post-Sylvie Guillem world. Guillem — the French phenomenon — was instrumental in radically reshaping what we expect from a classical dancer. Extreme extensions (the height of the leg), multiple turns and hang time in the air became the standard rather than the exception. We’d seen exciting technique before, but never at this level — and never so widespread.

We were drunk on our newfound standards, which had heretofore been accessible only to a select few. The rise of cross-training, Gyrotonics, pilates and a deeper, more holistic understanding of how to support technique opened the door for this potential to be reached collectively, rather than relying solely on the blessing of the fairies of inherent ability.

There were other dancers who helped show us what was physically possible: Baryshnikov, with his multiple turns and gravity-humiliating jumps; Ferri, with arches shaped like coat hooks and a delicacy so extreme it became its own kind of strength; and Murphy, with the turning and jumping prowess once seen mostly on male dancers — matched by her translucent beauty, a supreme Titian femininity.

If Botticelli’s Venus had stepped out of the clam, she would have been called Gillian Murphy.

Swan Lake Rehearsal: Gillian Murphy & Michael de la Nuez.

Photo by Britt Stigler

Then came the digital age. Suddenly, the ballet studio — once a protected, sacred space — was transformed. The drive to go viral seeped into even the most private corners of rehearsal and class. Barre work, makeup application, quick changes and formerly closed rehearsals became fair game. At the same time, ballet technique had reached such extreme levels that further development threatened to disrupt classical lines or obliterate musicality altogether (which, it must be said, occasionally happens). And yet, the internet also flung open doors. Thousands could now access an art form long-considered elitist or out of reach. Live performance is inherently exclusive — barred by money, geography and time — but digital platforms offered a way in.

Some dancers have managed to walk the tightrope — preserving depth and nuance while welcoming audiences into their world — Murphy first among them. Thousands of her fans see performance and behind-the-scenes clips, yet we never for a moment lose the feeling that we’re accompanying a serious artist — a dance titan. It’s her world, and we are graciously invited in.

As Murphy prepares for her final performance as Odette/Odile, we are left in a ballet world wholly different from the one she first entered in 1996. Her career stands as an archive of the art form itself. She upheld the traditions of classical ballet while guiding it into the 21st century, adapting without compromising. In this way, she became a living bridge — linking ballet’s past, present and future. She didn’t just survive the shifting tides of taste, technology and leadership; in the tradition of the great ballerinas of old, she helped steer the ship — a disciplined and elegant example of artistic depth, breadth and virtuosity.

Stream the interview “Gillian Murphy: Departure Diary” on the ALL ARTS site.

Gillian Murphy being interviewed by Cynthia Dragoni and filmed by Daniel Yadin (Walkie Talkie NYC) at ABT Studios.

Photo by Britt Stigler

Stay tuned, the next podcast is an interview with another great ballerina: Yuan Yuan Tan.

If you’re in New York I HIGHLY recommend seeing her new production of Lady White Snake at Lincoln Center on July 26th and 27th.

Below is a photo from the performance:

UPDATE: This newsletter will start to be a lot more consistent starting this month. It will include:

-A weekly podcast, some short like today’s & some longer interviews.

-Reviews

-A monthly deep dive into a particular dance work and/or artist

-Show recommendations

-COMING SOON: Live talks and interviews that will be for subscribers only. More on that later, it’s going to be loads of fun.

***If there’s something specific that you’d like to see you can always respond to this email and let me know, I read everything.

Warmest,

Cynthia

Another gorgeous scene from Yuan Yuan Tan & Shanghai Grand Theater’s Lady White Snake.