The Dancer Within. Rose Eichenbaum

I don’t know where they are. They’ve probably disintegrated by now. I don’t think I could find them even if I tried. To me, that means they’re gone.”

      “I was five years old in 1958 when you made your first TV special with Fred. I’d really love to see it.”

      “I have all four specials on tape.” Barrie dug into a storage area under her big-screen TV, slipped in the tape, and forwarded it to the “St James Infirmary” number.

      Barrie came up on the black-and-white screen—a young ponytailed beauty wearing black ankle-length tights and a tight black sweater. On her feet were the Greek-style Hermes sandals she made popular for Capezio. Fred appeared in a short-sleeved shirt and slacks with a sash around his waist.

      “Wow! Look at you!”

      “Yes, I was young,” she said matter-of-factly. Barrie danced the role of a seductive beatnik girl who spurned Fred’s advances. The sexual energy they exuded was palpable.

      “I can’t believe he was almost sixty at the time,” I said.

      “He was at an advanced age in all the specials, but it was not until our last, when he was seventy, that I realized how frail he had become. Here, let me show you that one.” She ejected the tape and inserted another one. “This was Fred’s favorite number—’Oh, You Beautiful Doll.’ I am now the age he was then, and I think he was a lot weaker than I am now. In this show he seemed to have no power.”

      A more mature Barrie appeared on the screen in color. She wore a miniskirt, and her strawberry blonde hair was cut short. “Here, watch this part,” she said. “See how I’m lying on the floor? Fred is supposed to pull me up. I give him my hand, but there is no strength on the other end. I have to make it look like he is pulling me up. That move completely wrenches my abdominal muscles. There’s another section too where he is supposed to lift me—I jump it so he won’t strain himself.”

      “Did he let on that he was weakening? Did he ever say anything?”

      “No, we never spoke about it. I would never mention it. After our last show he developed an inner ear problem that affected his balance. He couldn’t dance any more. I knew it was very hard for him. When I retired from dancing he said to me, ‘Barrie, it’s one thing to give up dancing because you choose to. It’s another if you have to.’ I knew he was referring to himself. I found it so very touching.”

       Venice, California, 2005

       Ethan Stiefel

      Considered by many to be the finest American-born male dancer in forty years, Ethan Stiefel’s technical brilliance, athleticism, and captivating presence have called into question the predominant view established by George Balanchine that ballet is woman. While Stiefel may not have set out to change the image of ballet, he and talented dancers like him have helped usher in a new era for classical dance—one where ballet is man and woman.

      I taped the first of several conversations with Ethan a few months after he underwent double knee surgery, sidelining him for the entire American Ballet Theatre 2006 season. He told me that he’d been looking forward to dancing again, especially after working so hard to get back in shape from two earlier, less invasive surgeries. I asked him how he’d injured himself.

      “I was in rehearsals for the upcoming season when I felt something break in my left knee. I had it checked out and was told that I had a fractured bone spur about an inch long floating around inside my patella tendon. It caused severe tendonitis. I was given cortisone injections to relieve the pain. Then two weeks later the same thing happened to the other knee.”

      “What went through your head when you realized that these injuries might keep you from performing?”

      “I didn’t panic. I kept rehearsing. The season was opening in five days and I tried to grit it out and dance with the pain. I continued performing for the next five months including the engagements for Kings of the Dance, which was a project Angel Corella and I conceived for four male dancers.”

      “How were you able to get through it?”

      “I tried to be as prepared as I could by warming up extensively before dancing but in all honesty, it came down to, ‘Okay, I have to just go out there and try to block out the pain.’ I was on anti-inflammatory medication every day just to make sure that I could get through it.”

      “Did the injury distract you while performing?”

      “When you’re on the stage your adrenaline and mental toughness kicks in and whether it’s physical pain or something going on in your personal life, somehow magically it dissipates and you’re focused on the moment and what’s before you. That’s one of the reasons why I love to perform. Dancing offers you a different plane to function in—where life is almost stress-free. Unfortunately toward the end of Kings, doing a run of seven or eight performances in a row, the pain was fully present and when the medical reports indicated that my injuries required surgical treatment, I had to accept this reality.”

      “Once you’ve recovered, do you think you’ll be able to dance at the same level as before?”

      “I don’t know. I hope so. I don’t know how long it will take to get back into condition after not dancing for four to five months. I think all these things change you. I think I’ll be different. I’m thirty-three and have been a professional dancer since the age of sixteen. That’s seventeen years of wear and tear. As you get older you have to make adjustments—not that I’m at any kind of breaking point yet. I look at athletes in their forties and realize that one’s training and mental approach has to be different. They maintain a particular regimen, diet, and work ethic, even in their off-season. It may come to that for me.”

      “Did you realize at the beginning how demanding and consuming a professional career in dance could be?”

      “When I was a boy growing up in Wisconsin, I didn’t know any professional dancers, so I didn’t realize that the profession is so hard, that there would be obstacles to overcome.”

      “What were some of the obstacles you had to overcome?”

      “If you’re a boy going into dance, you open yourself up to ridicule. People can be negative and ignorant. You find yourself asking, ‘Why are people making fun of me for something that I enjoy?’ When you get older you realize that your obstacles change. You become aware that you have a limited amount of time to achieve your goals and fulfill your ambitions. In dance, the clock is always ticking. I am well aware of the fragility of the dancer’s life and that my career could be over tomorrow.”

      “Can you recall a moment of clarity when you knew that you wanted to go all the way in dance?”

      “Yes, when I was around fourteen I came to study with Stanley Williams at the School of American Ballet, where I was exposed to some of the great male dancers of our time and could see what you had to do to be successful. I told myself, ‘You’ve really got to focus and work if you want to achieve greatness.” I knew that I had the tools to be good, hopefully very good, but needed to apply myself differently than before. That’s where Stanley Williams really made a difference. He created an atmosphere and method for teaching that required that students be stimulated intellectually and take his corrections through their own individual process. He understood that a dancer is not just a physical and technical machine, but someone who has to confront life and develop their own individuality.”

      “What keeps you going, Ethan?”

      “The possibility for greatness. It’s not about vanity; it’s about testing the limits of humanity—being a vessel to reach great heights and inspire others to do so as well. I think I have a great deal of untapped potential left in dance. But if I don’t give myself the opportunity to see what’s possible, I’ll never know.”