Suzanne Farrell, teacher: holding onto Balanchine.

Since retiring from the New York City Ballet in 1989, Suzanne Farrell has discovered that teaching can be an adventure that keeps the studio at the center of her creative life and a way of recapturing the excitement of the 1960s when she and Balanchine, as she wrote in her memoir, Holding On to the Air, "broke one rule after the other ... to discover a whole new place to inhabit." Today Farrell lives a few blocks from Lincoln Center in a rambling, unpretentious apartment, with a fluffy brown poodle named Tex. Slender and pale -- Balanchine once called her "an alabaster princess" -- she has the fine lines that come with middle age (she turns fifty-two in August) and the stillness that accompanies a heightened sense of movement. She is thoughtful and articulate, and the flow of her sentences can be hypnotic. The interview takes place in Farrell's bright, eat-in kitchen.

Lynn Garafola: When did you think teaching might be something you wanted to do? Did you ever have fantasies about it as a child? I once knew a seven-year-old who had a school for five-year-olds in a closet.

Suzanne Farrell: Well, now that you mention it, when I was young in Cincinnati, I did organize a New York City Ballet Junior Company. I was the boss because I was the tallest. We all studied at the same studio, and we would do benefits and shows for different organizations. The other ten girls were always the princesses, the snowflakes -- the beautiful parts. I was the snowman, the prince, or whatever, because I was tall and there were no boys.

I had a subscription to Dance Magazine, which in those days published variations from different ballets, and I would try to decode them and teach them to my company. It was a lot of fun. I didn't think of it as work, and I didn't think of it as teaching. I just thought of it as being an outlet and an opportunity to do what I wanted, which was dance.

L.G.: And when did the teaching become a little more serious?

S.F.: When I was a young ballerina with the New York City Ballet, Mr. B asked me from time to time to teach at the School of American Ballet, which, of course, I did because he had suggested it. I took the classes seriously, but it was difficult because I thought of teaching as something you did when you couldn't dance anymore. Also, the students weren't that much younger than I was, so it was a little awkward. But now I think it was wise of him to have me do it, because, although we do come from a silent profession, it is important for us to verbalize what we want to say. As I tell my students, "You could love someone all your life, but if you never say it, how are they going to know?" There comes a point when you have to say what you mean, which makes you scream louder when you dance.

Anyway, to answer your question, I thought more seriously about teaching when I stopped dancing in 1989. Before that, I never worried about what I would do when I retired, because I gave myself to the moment. I never got bored with dancing, so I knew I would stay in ballet. But I was unprepared for how much I would like to teach. I just didn't anticipate liking it that much.

The biggest influence was my dance program, which I started at the Kennedy Center in January 1993 for a very modest four weekends. The center wanted to start a dance program with students from the Maryland-Virginia-D.C. area whom I would audition. They came from a lot of different schools, but there was a unity once we got into the studio -- about what I wanted them to do and what we wanted to aspire to. So it just started from there.

L.G.: What did you want them to do?

S.F.: Things that Mr. B was still trying to get from his company -- Fifth Position, heads, musicality, energy. Not technical things so much -- getting your leg higher or doing more turns -- but things that would set you apart from other dancers. The only way you can be different is to be yourself, which is what he wanted, of course. If you don't find your spirit and reveal it, you just look like every other dancer.

L.G.: How old were the students?

S.F.: Between thirteen and fifteen. They were wonderful. The classes were two hours each. I threw tricky, challenging combinations at them. I was amazed. They were so eager to do what I asked for. And I could see improvement. Not things like the feet pointing more or the leg going higher-those things take time. But the willingness, the energy, the glint of recognition, and the glint of surprise were very exciting.

The next winter we did five weekends. Then, in February, when the program came to an end. the dancers said, "Where can we study next time? We want to continue dancing like this." So I said to Kim Motes of the Kennedy Center's Education Department, "What are our chances of having a two-week summer course?" And she made it happen. So I came back in the summer. I loved being in that classroom with them, experimenting again. It was much like when I was a student experimenting with Mr. B. You just don't know what's going to happen there. I think we know what we can do, but we don't know all that we can do, and it's wonderful to find out.

L.G.: How long is the program today?

S.F.: It's three weeks. I hold auditions in January all around the country. If students can't get to a host city, they can audition by videotape. I did this last year, and it worked fine; although I'm always a little leery about video. I had two boys last year, which was nice, because we were able to do a little bit of adagio. What happens in the course is pretty much dictated by the students themselves. I take it from them. We did raise the age level last year: instead of being from thirteen to fifteen, they were from fourteen to eighteen. There were supposed to be thirty students, but there were a couple I just felt I wanted, so we went to about thirty-five. That was fine the first couple of days, because they were all intimidated. But once we started working -- and we have two two-hour classes a day -- they were just all over the place, as if there were a hundred thirty-five of them!

"Dancing is moving in time and in space," I tell them, "not just standing on one spot." Initially, this is a difficult concept, because many of them come from studios not much bigger than this kitchen, and they're not used to moving. Suddenly, they're in a big studio with someone who says "Move!" and they start to devour space, which is why I have to keep the class small. It's wonderful when they start to move like that. You can always trim it back, but it's hard to make it happen.

It's much like the problem City Ballet had when we moved from City Center to the New York State Theater. Just getting from one side of the stage to the other was exhausting. So Mr. B expanded and developed a whole new way of moving. That was another reason for him wanting such speed. We had whole different territories to chart, so we had to dance differently.

In the Kennedy Center program we also do a lot of intensive pointework. Most students don't get enough pointework. Normally, they put their pointe shoes on at the end of class and do fifteen or twenty minutes. And it's pretty much the same fifteen or twenty minutes all year long. But you have to learn how to walk in those shoes, how to stand in them, how to balance on a flat foot, how to glide, jump, point your shoes in the air -- it's a whole different technique. And it hasn't been explored that much, although Mr. B certainly took it to another level.

L.G.: So most of your students don't take their usual classes on pointe?

S.F.: No. However, when I choose them, I see that they are strong enough to do it. I also don't insist that they do all the class on pointe. But there is nothing so strengthening as doing basic tendus in pointe shoes because you have to fight against the box and shank; when you have to push against something, you get a lot more strength.

I always say, "How is everyone? Is everybody okay? If you have a problem, you don't have to get up on pointe. But start out in toe shoes, and then change, not necessarily to ballet shoes, but to softer pointe shoes." No one ever does. Students who commit themselves to dancing know they have to profit from every step they take. I certainly was on pointe from the moment Mr. B said, "I want you on pointe all the time." Until I stopped dancing I found it fascinating to be on pointe. I still find it fascinating. In our profession, you can't be on pointe enough.

L.G.: How did the 1995 Balanchine season at the Kennedy Center come about? You staged seven ballets with the Washington Ballet and guest soloists. Was it related to the teaching?

S.F.: Well, I suppose somewhat. Kennedy Center was having its twenty-fifth anniversary, and James D. Wolfensohn, who was then chairman, asked if I would be interested in putting on some kind of Balanchine program. I was thrilled. Of course I said yes before I even thought of what I would do and what it would entail. And I thought he had meant 1996, not 1995! But once you make the commitment it almost doesn't matter when it happens, so long as the logistics can be worked out.

You know, once I retired, my life was so much less structured than what it was as a dancer, and that was the most difficult thing for me to get used to. Fortunately, the Balanchine Trust had sent me out to stage ballets before I retired.

The first time was in 1988: it was Scotch Symphony for the Kirov Ballet. I had a great time doing that. I was happy that I wasn't wishing I could be onstage, and I derived a lot of pleasure from getting the work out of other dancers -- against many obstacles.

Then other ballets started coming my way. Of course, I always knew my part, but I had to learn everyone else's part, although I had a very clear sense of the visual and musical world these ballets represented. So that was another kind of teaching. It was just as deep and provocative and elusive as with youngsters, because you're still trying to impart something unknown.

L.G.: What works are in your repertory?

S.F.: I've staged Scotch Symphony, Divertimento No. 15, and Gounod Symphony, an enormous ballet that I was never in and had not really seen. I've done Chaconne, La Sonnambula, Serenade, Concerto Barocco, Tzigane, Mozartiana, Slaughter on Tenth Avenue, Agon, Diamonds, and some others I can't remember. Not Symphony in C.

You see, it, s fun working backwards, and in a way my life has always been backwards. Many of these ballets were done for me, and in many of them I had the principal part. Now when I learn the other parts I see that there is a common thread in all the choreography. The ballerina may take it further than the ensemble, but in terms of the actual steps it's all very related. So while I have to learn what everyone does, I don't have to start from scratch. They're the ingredients of what I'm cooked up to be!

L.G.: And if you're not sure of something?

S.F.: Whenever I can, I go to the originator. For instance, I went to Victor Castelli for Mozartiana; we did the variation right here in the kitchen. I could easily have learned it off a video, but I would have missed the stories that Mr. B told to make the part more than just counts. I have stories like that for my own parts.

I had done Scotch Symphony for many years, but I still went to Maria Tallchief [for whom the ballerina role was created] to ask, "Now did you start this manege into the circle, and then pique out, or did you start out and pique in?" because it's done both ways. I had learned one way and wanted to know if she had done it the same way.

L.G.: What would you have done if she hadn't?

S.F.: I would have taught the ballet one way, then given the dancer an option, because both ways are done. Or I would have made a judgment call on the spot. And then I'd have left it up to George. If he didn't like what I had done, I wouldn't have been able to sleep at night.

Choreography lives through dancers, he used to say, and if they don't look good, I don't look good. It's not that I so dramatically or radically change the steps, it's just that they have to look honest, and they have to look alive and energetic and all those things Mr. B wanted. That way the ballet will be always memorable instead of just a memory.

L.G.: Does working with a non-Balanchine company pose any special problems?

S.F.: No. I like working with dancers. They're a great breed of people. And they really want to dance, so you don't have to beg them to work. However, dancers sometimes build walls around themselves because they are presenting themselves all the time: dancing is very much a confession. The first day with a company is always strange because people have heard of me, so when I go into the studio I get the once-over. What's she going to be like? Is she going to be difficult? Is she going to be a ballerina? Here I am retired, and I am being auditioned!

The first thing I tell the dancers is that at this moment in my life no one is more important to me than they are. So they know that I am in their comer and that everything I tell them is for their benefit. I also say, "Well, I've done it this way, but it, s only a suggestion." Since dancers are pretty much told what to do, this is new for them, and it takes them a while to get used to it, no matter how much they like it. It's a vulnerability they're not used to having. It enables the performance to go beyond just the steps. So the first day is pretty much establishing our relationship -- mine as a messenger and a friend, not as a superior.

L.G.: How long do you generally have to teach a ballet?

S.F.: A week. I usually give myself a week because starting is slow and the first day you have to find who you want for your dancers.

L.G.: How do you do that?

S.F.: Well, of course, I have artistic control over who dances the ballet. At the same time, I ask the artistic director and ballet mistress or master for suggestions, because they know the company better than I do. Somebody might look good in class, but I haven't seen them perform. I don't know how they work-if they need a lot of preparation, are prone to injuries, or are likely to fall apart onstage. I rely on the people who know their dancers.

L.G.: Do you have hunches about people?

S.F.: Sometimes. If I see somebody young who looks promising, I like to have them in the studio. Even if they won't do the ballet, they'll learn it, and that's invaluable. I learned so much from being behind somebody, without the pressure of having to perform. Nowadays, dancers don't want to learn a part if they're not guaranteed a performance. It's very sad, because you deny yourself a lot of growing, a lot of experimenting, a lot of freedom, and a lot of knowledge.

Sometimes somebody will come up to me and say, I'd like to learn Apollo. So I say, I don't see you in this role, but I'm happy you want to come, and I'll certainly help you. And sometimes they come and sometimes they don't. As far as I'm concerned, it's up to them.

You have to make me choose you above everybody else," I tell the dancers from time to time. "You're the one who makes me make my decision. You have to convince me that you're perfect for the part."

L.G.: Do you generally start at the beginning of a ballet?

S.F.: I know the ballets inside out, so it really doesn't matter whether I start at the beginning or with one soloist, or the corps, or principals-although I like to attack everybody the first day. I like to teach a ballet enough in advance of the actual performance that the dancers can work on it, live with it, and have it haunt them when they're in bed at night or walking down the street, and even forget about it for a little bit of time. Then, when you come back to it, it, s not quite as difficult or uncomfortable, and you have a little more to talk about. It's like a relationship. If you learn a ballet one week and perform it the next, you don't know what it is really about, you only learn the practicalities and the logistics.

L.G.: Last November "An Evening with Suzanne Farrell and the Washington Ballet" was presented at D.C.'s Terrace Theater. It was a working rehearsal in two parts, where you taught Divertimento No. 15 to the Washington Ballet dancers. How much time did you have to prepare?

S.F.: I went down on the twenty-first of October and spent a week with the company. I worked two hours a day for five days and taught the entire ballet. I wanted the dancers to know what they were doing, but I wanted the work still to be new to them. I didn't want them to have everything worked out, just so, partly because of the format of the program, and partly because I wanted them to be vulnerable enough to change things.

That's why we worked a lot with the pianist and why I had him play somewhat slower than I knew the tape would be: I wanted to show how you have to alter the musical value or the spatial value or the technical value of a step when tempos are so vastly different. No matter how wonderful taped music can be, it doesn't allow for a performance to go beyond what the tempo will allow. No matter how creative you want to be, there are only so many ways you can expand if you continually dance to the same tempo. I think that's very limiting to dancers.

People learn the steps and what is required to make the steps happen. They don't realize that the anticipation leading up to an event and the euphoria following it are every bit as important as the event itself. They feel that as long as they do what they're supposed to, that's it. But that's only part of it. We should see what you're leading us up to without seeing it. We should see what you wanted us to see, and remember seeing it when you go on to something else. That's your perfume.

L.G.: Several times you told the dancers to create their own "dream" onstage.

S.F.: With Divertimento, yes, because the pas de deux and the variations are very short. You just have a little fragment, but the whole world has to be in that fragment. And you're setting the stage for the next person, so your presence matters. Too often people think only of their own parts, not the whole world of the ballet. In Mr. Balanchine's choreography everyone is important. He respected dancers, and he respected their energy and their time much too much to have them in a ballet if they weren't important. It takes a while to establish your "dream," your atmosphere, and then it's over; but that can be interesting too.

The second Divertimento program was really different from the first. I kept insisting on Fifth Positions and taking things further. I don't think most dancers realize just how far you can go doing the same steps to the same music. To me, it's a never-ending quest. Not for the unattainable, or for some kind of perfection -- for lack of a better word- but to reach different heights, all of which can be valid. Of course, you have to get to a certain height before you can achieve the real heights.

L.G.: Can we talk more about the all-Balanchine season you staged for Kennedy Center's twenty-fifth anniversary?

S.F.: I had a wonderful time doing that program. It was the good old days again. You got no sleep; you worked all day long, you didn't eat, you didn't have time for anything. It was just so invigorating. The dancers were from different companies I had worked with. When you stage a ballet, you don't always get to see how someone evolves in a role, if they do. So I wanted to see these dancers again and what they had done with their parts, because that's where I learn.

Anyway, the dancers liked the idea, and their companies were very kind in letting them come. But it wasn't until a couple of days before we got onstage that everybody started working together. Meanwhile, some of the dancers got injured, and I had to call around the country to get other dancers. In the finale of Chaconne I taught places in the ensemble three different times! All I had were enough people to fill the places- there were no extras. It wasn't easy, yet it was. I wanted it to happen, Mr. B wanted it to happen, people wanted it to happen. You have to be ready for anything, and not worry about what's going to happen until it happens.

L.G.: Does Washington Ballet have many Balanchine works in its repertory?

S.F.: They have some of his ballets. But they're a small company, so they only do the smaller things -- Apollo, Allegro Brillante, Concerto Barocco, and a few others -- so most of the repertory was quite foreign to them. You know, the dancers I worked with on the Divertimento rehearsal were not the ones I thought I would be working with when I proposed the format. But I went into a studio and got to work. That's very Balanchinean in a way. Mr. B did Serenade on students. He didn't wait until he had just the right dancers to do a masterpiece. You have to work with what you've got at the moment, otherwise you don't exist as a choreographer or a teacher.

You know there's always a little resistance when you give a step that, s different or a little faster. I have never thought of class as being just a wake-up or a warm-up. I think of what new can be learned, what to eliminate, what to keep, maybe not for tonight's performance but for the future. One reason Mr. B took speed and slowness to the extremes he did was to keep you interested. If there is no challenge, you get bored or dissatisfied or tired.

I tell my students, "I know it's difficult to move fast. It's the most difficult quality in the world to achieve, and if you don't work on it every day, it leaves you overnight. Your legs will always go up, but speed is something you have to work on constantly. You want to move very, very fast, and you want to move very, very slowly, because then you have all those in-between ways of moving and can dance to all kinds of music, fast as well as slow.

"But if you only want to move a little fast because you're that kind of an animal, or you only want to move slow because it's easy for you and you look good that way and you're happy with that, then look how narrow you've made your world as a dancer and as a human being."

I also think that Mr. B wanted us to move fast so that we could learn to process information faster. When you learn to move fast, you also start to think faster. You have to because you have to send the messages to the body to produce that speed. You can't spend a lifetime deciding whether you want to dance. And when you get out onstage, you have to think on the spot. Yes, you do the choreography, but what if the music is too fast or too slow, or your balance is off or you turn more-anything could happen. You have to think on the spot, because you can't do everything all the time at all tempos.

I don't teach a typical class. I don't teach an orthodox class. I like to have the doors closed when I teach. I want the class to be between my students and myself. I don't want them to be afraid of making a mistake because somebody is looking, you learn so quickly from mistakes, if someone cares enough to point them out and tell you how to correct them.

Also, I'm all over the place when I teach. I don't sit down. I'm on the floor putting them in the right position. I'm in front of them snapping my fingers to distract them so they can work on their concentration. I'll do whatever I have to do to get my point across, even look ridiculous, because the studio is our place. We're making discoveries. We're taking risks and being vulnerable.

You know, each person you teach is different. And each one is singularly important.