think is relevant. Right?”
“Yes, absolutely.”
“I call this architecture. So when you introduce dance to children, it’s attractive to them because it encompasses all these things. All you need is a dance space. Dance can be practiced in a hallway, on a rooftop, or in someone’s backyard. The minute you create a dance space it becomes sacred.
“Listen, I’ve got to get going. Why don’t we talk some more when I get back from China? ‘Pozhalysta, [Please],’” he called out to Sophia, “‘I need the check.’ Looks like we won’t have time for that portrait you wanted.”
“Let me just take a few reference photos, if that’s okay,” I said, pulling a loaded camera from my bag. “We can do a formal session another time.” He agreed, so we walked outside. Reminding Jacques to stand up tall and look dancerly, I got off a few shots but felt a little funny about photographing the great Balanchine dancer next to a sign that read LEAN PASTRAMI.
As we approached the institute, Jacques recognized a group of hip-hop dancers standing near the entrance. “Hey, man,” he said, giving them a round of high fives and pats on the back. I thought if I could photograph him with these dancers, I might be able to capture his natural enthusiasm and signature smile. At just the right moment, I called out, “Jacques, look at me.”
New York City, April 2004
“Now, after forty-one years, your time with the Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater has come to an end. What’s it like looking back?”
“Oh, these were the most fabulous years of my life. I only wish that every time I danced Revelations I had put twenty dollars in a savings account. I’d be a wealthy man today. We performed Revelations in almost every program for over forty years and sometimes twice a day. Honestly, I can’t even estimate how many times I danced it. But what a joy it was. What a joy! And the piece is indestructible. I’ve seen so many casts come and go, and it just continues to shine. It’s an absolute masterpiece. In the forty years that I performed it, and I danced almost every single male role, Wading in the Water, Daniel, Cinnaman, you name it, I never, never, never got tired of it. I never once said, ‘Oh God … we have to do Revelations.’ I always looked forward to it and found meaning in it. Alvin gave us what I call ‘jazz soul meat.’ You could dive in whether you were a modern dancer or a jazz dancer. Alvin’s choreography allowed you to completely express yourself. I’ve always been grateful to him for what he gave me and feel really good about the fact that I told him so before he died.”
“What prompted you to confess your appreciation?”
“We were in Los Angeles performing at the Wilshire Theater when for some reason he and I started reminiscing about the past. And then he said all of a sudden, ‘Dudley, I’m going to die, soon.’ ‘Oh, Alvin, we’re all going to die,’ I said jokingly, having no idea that he was delivering me a message. Suddenly, out of the blue, I felt the urge to thank him for everything he had done for me. ‘Alvin,’ I said. ‘I want to thank you from the bottom of my heart for giving me your stage and for the possibility of doing all these wonderful, wonderful ballets.’ It meant a great deal to me that he knew that. He was already sick at the time, but none of us knew it. He died shortly thereafter in 1989.”
“Will you ever stop dancing?”
“No, that would be like cutting off my air supply. I would just fade away and die. I’ve only started to feel this way recently—when I turned sixty-five and started getting Social Security. You see, I have no desire or intention of ever stopping.”
“What is it about dance that has such a hold on you?”
“It’s what I’ve loved all my life, and it’s what I do best. I can’t think of anything I love more than the challenge of getting inside a choreographer’s head and bringing his vision to life and creating a dialogue that can be shared with an audience.”
“How do you bring movement to life?”
“Well, that’s not something I care to reveal.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t want to encourage imitators. I don’t want others to dance like me.”
“Do others try to imitate you?”
“Yes, of course they do. They try, but they can’t.”
“Why can’t they?”
“Because imitators don’t know where my movement comes from. They think it’s muscular action. Yes, I use my muscles, but my movement originates in my heart. I can’t teach others what’s in my heart. My heart speaks through interpretation of a beautiful choreographed moment. I have never tried to imitate anyone else’s dancing. I found my own way of expressing myself, and that’s what I think others should do. Be your own performer.”
“I’ve been told that Alvin always encouraged his dancers to show themselves.”
“Yes, he did. He never liked cookie-cutter dancers. When he opened the door for me to interpret his moves, I jumped right in. For example, when he choreographed Field of Poppies for me, I decided to hold the penché arabesque for as long as I could before moving on to the next part. One day he comes over to me and says, ‘Oh, Dudley, don’t hold that penché in Field of Poppies.’ ‘But Alvin,’ I said, ‘I’ve been doing it like this for ten years.’ ‘I know, I’ve been meaning to tell you,’ he said and walked away. I just had to laugh. He let me get away with that for ten years and then suddenly changed his mind. But Alvin was very sensitive to his dancers. He would ask them if they wanted him to change things based on their individual training. Some had come from studying ballet; others, from Lester Horton. I was schooled in Martha Graham’s technique. Alvin took that into consideration when he choreographed on me. In all my years of dancing, I’ve never worked with another choreographer who so respected the individuality of his dancers.”
“Dudley, how important is technique in achieving artistry?”
“Well, I’m still trying to figure out who I am. Every dancer has days when they don’t feel like dancing, especially after months and months of touring. I remember Alvin used to tell us, ‘If you don’t feel like dancing, then just do the technique. But know that you can’t get away with that all the time.’ And the truth of the matter is that once you’re on the stage and the curtain goes up and you start moving, you realize you can’t just run through the steps. Something happens inside of you. You have to put some emotion into it, and as soon as you do that, you forget that you didn’t feel like dancing. I can’t put into words what takes over. I think part of it is that you don’t want to make a fool of yourself on the stage, so you rise to the occasion. I remember this one time when we were performing one of Talley Beatty’s pieces in Morocco. I was feeling ill, so I just did the steps, didn’t really invest anything of myself, but got through the performance. Afterwards I felt very depressed.”
“I think once you stop getting depressed about things like that—you’ve lost the commitment.”
“Yes, I felt bad about that because I didn’t put any heart and soul into it. The other side of that is that after forty years of dancing on the stage, I have yet to do a perfect performance. I’ve never walked off the stage and said, ‘that was it.’ There was always something in every piece that went wrong for me. But even when I gave an excellent performance and wanted to repeat it the next night, I couldn’t. I’d try to do all the same things. I’d eat the same food, go to the bathroom at the same time, do all sorts of crazy things, but as soon as the curtain went up—I’d realize I’m a different person today than I was yesterday. There is no way to duplicate a performance.”
“Do you think maybe you’re