Tanaquil Le Clercq, A Great American Ballerina.

Tanaquil Le Clercq died of pneumonia on New Year's Eve, 2000, at 71. She had created thirty-two roles in ballets by Balanchine, Robbins and others during the ten years she danced with the New York City Ballet and its precursor, Ballet Society. Contributing editor Allegra Kent remembers. (For photos, see Dancescape, page 18.)

Tanaquil Le Clercq was 12 when she captured George Balanchine's attention and he gave her a scholarship to the School of American Ballet. When I saw a now-famous photograph of her, holding onto the barre while auditioning, I was touched by her early aspirations. Looking toward her fingertips and beautifully pointed instep with a childlike sincerity and delicacy, "Tanny" showed her lithe line and shining spirit. Here was a little ballerina-to-be with her own individual stamp, the birth of something exceptional. While she was still in her teens, two or three years before the New York City Ballet was officially formed, Balanchine was inventing principal parts for her. By 1946, with her spellbinding presence, exquisite length of limb and crystalline technique, she had become Balanchine's newest muse.

I first saw this beautiful ballerina when I arrived in New York at the age of 14 in the fall of 1951, also hoping to receive a scholarship at the School of American Ballet. Out west in Los Angeles I had read nothing about Tanny--she was too young to be included in the library books on ballet available to me.

On my first visit to NYCB at City Center, Tanny was in La Valse, with music by Maurice Ravel. She was only 21 when Balanchine choreographed this great work for her. During the first segments that preceded her entrance, the mood was dark and ominous. The women's costumes were long and full-skirted, of gray tulle with tight gray satin bodices, but the underskirts had warm tones of crimson, cherry, flame and wine red. With a lift, an extension or a swirl, the colors escaped and thrilled my eyes. At last, Tanny, all in white with long white gloves, entered from one side, Nicholas Magallanes from the other, in a long diagonal of desire. From this first moment, I was captivated by this ballerina's beauty. Her quality of movement was at once fluid, abrupt, and sophisticated. I was transfixed by her dramatic power onstage.

After Tanny and Nicky danced, the corps entered and waltzed. The program notes spoke of "dancing on the edge of a volcano." During an eerie moment at the ball, Death made an entrance and beguiled Tanny, offering dark jewels and a black transparent gown and gloves. The young vulnerable beauty recklessly acquired these new possessions, obsessed with the somber reappointment of her apparel. After that performance, Tanny became one of my idols. The vision of her in La Valse is forever impressed on my memory.

One year later, in 1952, Balanchine invited me to join the company as an apprentice. I could see ballet almost every night. Now I could watch Tanny from the wings as well as from out front. In The Pied Piper by Jerome Robbins, she could be the gum-chewing girl from next door in black tights pulled up like pedal pushers. Jerry adored her.

Tanaquil had no limit to her range and artistry: poetic lyricism in Symphony in C, sensual beauty in Afternoon of a Faun, fey daffiness in The Concert, and insouciant sexiness in Western Symphony. Given turquoise wings in Metamorphosis, she showed herself to be an expert in aerodynamics with a gift for soaring.

Flying was not her only accomplishment. One day before pointe class began, I saw Tanny at the barre with a bandage across her nose. I asked her what happened.

She explained, "I kicked too high in a grand battement."

In awe, I replied, "Will you be all right?"

"Oh yes, I'm fine."

The power and limberness of that kick was an extension of her frolicsome quality that Mr. B captured in his choreography. During the pas de deux in Balanchine's Bourree Fantasque with music by Emmanuel Chabrier, I watched her exuberant leg swing to the back and nearly knock out her partner, Todd Bolender. I heard the thud over the music. After being kicked, Todd looked behind him, bewildered, wondering who was practicing baseball in the theater. Like the Royal Canadian Mounties, Tanny always got her man.

She also got her man of the moment offstage, choreographer George Balanchine. On New Year's Eve, 1952, in a burst of romance, Tanny and Mr. B married.

On my first European tour, in 1953, I always noticed who attended class. Sightseeing was a big draw, and competition in the company was not as severe as it is today. Sometimes there were only seven or so at the lesson. But Tanny was in class every day. I know. I was there also.

In 1954, when Balanchine decided to create the first full-length ballet--The Nutcracker--for his six-year-old company, Tanaquil was cast as Dewdrop, leader of the Flowers in their waltz. What a shimmering, delicate thing to be, I thought. A slender rainbow of a girl, ready to glisten. How romantic. Mme. Barbara Karinska, perceptive interpreter of Balanchine's inner life, translated choreography into costume when she designed a mere lightly boned corset with a tiny bit of fluff in the tutu area for this dewy creature. The costume was a confection of palest pink mesh with sparkly sprays of rhinestones. Balanchine's Nutcracker became a part of dance history. On opening night, Tanny flew across the stage with double rond de jambes en l'air, incandescent and perfect.

At one performance of The Nutcracker that season, a young Candy Cane dropped her hoop on stage before exiting. The audience's focus was riveted on the large ring of wood sitting front and center, an invitation to disaster. Everyone had their eyes glued on the hazardous object, including the dancers and stagehands in the wings. A few Flowers, ladies of the corps, made ineffectual stabs at displacing the object when it was underfoot. Tanny looked unconcerned. During one of her solos, when she was hovering close by, she kicked the hoop cleanly off stage with precise musical aim, not missing a beat in the choreography, and she brought the house down. A small, inscrutable smile beamed on her face for a second or two while she continued her work.

Tanny only danced for another two years. At the end of our 1956 European tour, at the age of 27, this elegant artist contracted polio and was paralyzed from the waist down. She spent the next forty-four years in a wheelchair, living with grace and dignity, occasionally teaching at Dance Theatre of Harlem and sometimes coaching young dancers who later performed pans she had danced. Among her many accomplishments were writing (her two books are Mourka: The Autobiography of a Cat and Ballet Cookbook), photography and creating crossword puzzles.

Tanaquil Le Clercq had the courage and bravery associated with a tree heroine. I admired her in every way and feel privileged to have known her and to have seen so much of her glorious dancing.