In his New York apartment, George
Balanchine
had an Audubon print of a bald eagle. It was in
his living room; you can see it in the famous
photographs of Balanchine playing with his cat
Mourka. In these photos the cat is in the air, fully
stretched yet twisting in the middle, utterly rapt yet
strangely relaxednot unlike Fred Astaire
snapped between steps. Balanchine is often
crouched lower than the cat, urging it on, as if
coaching a dancer in a complicated jeté en
tournant. Behind them, perched in profile, is the
eagle. It is a wonderful triocat, raptor,
choreographerall three evolved in the same
direction, with the same physiological assets:
sharp eyes that miss nothing, trap-like claws for
catching life, and senses attuned to sound, smell,
movement, gesture. For these three creatures
seeing and hearing are kinetic acts, a wiring
beneath and beyond thought.
Balanchine died in 1983, but even when he was
alive it seemed unfair to measure other
choreographers against him. Frederick Ashton
and Antony Tudor were great artists (the influence
of Tudors early Lilac Garden on Balanchines late
Davidsbündlertänze is a fascinating bit of
shadow play, a nod of homage better late than
never). But in the sheer breadth and amplitude of
Balanchines gifts, even these geniuses were
brought down a notch. To hold Balanchine
