#vaganova method

Kovaleva’s daily class at Vaganova; Sofia Valiullina center barre.

Maria Khoreva overview of Vaganova Academy focusing on years 1-5

My very not perfect translation:

Perhaps in this video, I’ll be able to debunk some of the untrue myths—and bring the true ones to life, one way or another.

Today, I want to share my learning experience with you. I studied at the Vaganova Academy from first through eighth grade, completing the full course of secondary vocational education. After that, I enrolled in the correspondence bachelor's program at the Faculty of Performing Arts, where I studied for three years. And now, this year, I’m finishing my master’s degree in the Faculty of Pedagogy.

I’m incredibly grateful—to the city, my family, my country, the circumstances, and all the people who supported me—for giving me the opportunity to gain such unique knowledge at the Vaganova Academy. To be able to touch this place steeped in history has truly been a gift.

Now, I’m excited to talk about how certain events influenced my life—and how different moments during one’s training can shape a student’s future in general. In our pedagogical master’s program, we study how to properly design a ballet training curriculum, how to combine physical and psychological aspects, and how to approach administration. Looking back now, especially at my time in the performing faculty, I see myself in a very different light—hopefully, a more accurate and kind one.

So today, I’d like to revisit those memories with you. I think it will be very interesting. Let’s get started!

(By the way—speaking of which—it might be a good idea to make a separate video someday about the whole admission process to the Vaganova Academy. It’s a big topic on its own. But for now, I’ll skip that part.)

I want to start my story with the school’s opening ceremony—our “line,” as we call it. If I remember correctly, it took place on September 7, not the 1st, because the Academy doesn’t always follow the standard rules of regular schools. Of course, Vaganova combines both general academic subjects and specialized ballet training, but I’ll talk more about that later.

So, our ceremony was on a rainy, cold day. There's a tradition at the Academy: a strong, stately boy graduate carries a tiny first-grader on his shoulder, and she rings a bell. This ritual is known as the “First Bell.” Every little girl in our class probably dreamed of being the one to ring it—including me. About 30 ambitious girls were admitted to our class, and from day one, everyone wanted to be first. I wasn’t chosen for that honor, unfortunately—but that’s okay. More was to come.

At first, I thought the hard part was over once I got in—but that wasn’t quite true. The first lessons were... strange, and to be honest, a little boring. I remember my very first classical dance class. We started doing slow movements, facing the barre. The teacher talked about “supporting legs”—the ones we stand on—and “working legs,” the ones that move. She said they “work,” like workers in a factory.

I was placed at the side barre, on the first line—not a prestigious spot. The central barre positions were the most desirable. We were placed randomly at first, and I remember standing there, staring out the window, far more interested in what was outside than in the slow, repetitive movements we were doing again and again.

In fact, during our very first classical dance class, I don’t think we did anything besides those tendus. It amazed me.

Before joining the Academy, I was involved in rhythmic gymnastics—I had already done some fouettés, a few jumps, and choreography classes were part of our training. So, when I started at Vaganova, I couldn’t understand why we were going back to such basic, seemingly simple movements. It all felt too easy to me.

But I couldn’t have been more wrong.

My first classical dance teacher—who, in ballet, is considered one of the most important figures in a dancer’s life—was Elena Georgievna Alkanova. A truly wonderful, soulful woman, who still teaches at the Academy. She brought a remarkable balance of discipline and love for the art into our classroom. She was meticulous with us, especially when it came to the most foundational elements of classical dance.

To me, being the head teacher of an elementary-level class is the hardest job in ballet. Children arrive either knowing nothing or, worse, having learned things incorrectly. Some come in with fixed ideas of what ballet should be, while others are simply bored. The teacher’s role isn’t just to teach proper technique from the very beginning—it’s also to light a fire in their hearts, to instill genuine love and motivation for the art. And doing that with young children is no small feat.

The method of Agrippina Vaganova—after whom the Academy is named—emphasizes a gradual progression: from the simplest ballet movements to the most complex variations. This means that in the first few years, there's no place for imitation of adult performance. Vaganova herself was a unique figure—a brilliant dancer who became a visionary theorist. She laid the foundation of the Russian ballet tradition that has amazed the world for generations.

In her writings, she stresses that the most important thing is to master the very basics—battement tendu, for instance, which is simply extending the leg along the floor to the side, or demi-plié, which is just a bend in the knees, but in a turned-out position. These movements may seem minimal, but they’re absolutely essential. From these foundations, all future grace, strength, and precision are built.

She even warned against assigning overly complex combinations too early in training. Why? Because when you skip the basics, students lose the ability to control their technique during more advanced movements. Ballet is built on perfect geometry—every line, every position must be precise from the very beginning. Without this, true mastery is impossible.

And yes, for all the beauty in Vaganova’s meticulous method… it could feel mind-numbingly boring. The exercises were slow, corrections were constant, and as young students, we didn’t yet understand why we had to "suffer" through such repetition. That was probably the biggest challenge of the first year.

Eventually, the movements became more difficult and more interesting. But to execute them correctly, we needed to rely on a growing internal mechanism—like mental gears slowly turning. I could feel new neural connections forming as we learned to process and apply the technique.

One correction from first year I’ll never forget: I was asked to lift my leg to the back, but keep my hip bones completely straight and motionless. I couldn’t wrap my head around it. How could that be anatomically possible? I was supposed to maintain a perfectly square alignment of my shoulders and hips while raising the leg behind me. But that’s exactly what classical ballet demands. We had to memorize this “geometry” so deeply that it would become second nature—even in the most advanced movements later on.

Looking back, classical dance lessons were without a doubt the most vivid, unforgettable part of my time at the Vaganova Academy. They were also the longest. Every day, we had what we called simply classics, and each session lasted around an hour and a half—though in reality, it was often longer. That's because we always ended up eating into our breaks for the sake of classical class. Typically, we had two double lessons: like real university-style sessions, with a break in the middle, and then another break before the next subject in the schedule. So, when you factored everything in, our “hour and a half” of classical dance often stretched quite a bit longer.

Now, I’d like to share how training is generally structured at the Vaganova Academy, especially the combination of academic and ballet subjects. Children enter the Academy after completing the fourth grade in general education. From there, they continue their academic studies alongside intensive dance training. Subjects include math, history, physics, chemistry, social studies, geography, and others I may not even remember now. We had etiquette lessons. We had English and French. French, in particular, was crucial because ballet terminology is still entirely in French. We had to learn not only the names of movements but also basic grammar and sentence construction to understand the meaning behind those terms—what exactly we were being asked to do in each movement.

There’s a common belief that in specialized institutions like music or ballet academies, general education is weak. But honestly, that wasn’t the case at all in my experience. Our academic standards were very high. In our cohort, there were two classes—A and B—and ours was an all-girls class for the first few years. Oh, how we all tried to be straight-A students! The competition was fierce—not just in the ballet studio, but also in our academic classes. We even competed in math! I’ll never forget mental arithmetic. It was terrifying. Our class teacher, Aleksandrovna Putina, and our math teacher—who was firm but progressive—used a very particular method. She would hand out a sheet of paper, quite small in size, and dictate math problems out loud, one after another. If you didn’t finish solving one before she moved to the next, your whole plan could fall apart. These were complex tasks too—definitely not easy. We trained our brains as much as we trained our bodies. Especially in those first few years, the workload was intense. The combination of general education and ballet was a huge challenge.

Our daily schedule typically started at 9:20 or 9:30 in the morning and ended around 6 p.m. Most days included a classical dance lesson in the middle. Lessons at the Academy usually began either at 9:00 or 11:00, depending on the class and level.

But one thing was certain: classical class always had to come early in the day. That’s because classical dance serves as the foundation and warm-up for the rest of a dancer’s training. It prepares the body, sets the tone, and tunes the mind and muscles for everything that follows—whether it’s rehearsal, another discipline, or a performance. That daily ballet class is essential—not just physically, but mentally. It’s the core of academic classical dance, and everything else builds from it. To properly integrate into the rhythm of academic classical dance, it made no sense to schedule ballet lessons later than early afternoon. That’s why classical classes were always set for either 9:00, 11:00, or at the latest, 1:00 p.m.—to accommodate all the various student groups, levels, and teachers across the Academy’s many halls.

Naturally, not everyone could take class at the same time. So, we were split across those three time slots, and our class almost always got the 1:00 p.m. slot. Only in the first year did we study at 9:00 a.m.—and I remember clearly how much I disliked it.

Imagine this: it's 9:00 in the morning, you’ve just rolled out of bed, and you’re already heading through the cold, damp streets of St. Petersburg—which somehow feel chilly even in summer, and downright miserable in winter. You arrive half-awake and have to immediately start moving your legs, performing precise ballet movements.

And what were we wearing? Well, in first grade, the uniform was just a simple leotard and socks. No warm-up gear, no tights covering the legs—completely bare. It was always cold and terribly uncomfortable to begin the day like that.

Later on, starting at 11:00 or 1:00 felt far better. We never had lessons at 11:00 during our entire time at the Academy—and I always thought that would have been the perfect time. I was so happy when I finally joined the theater and had the luxury of taking class at 11:00 every day.

As for the ballet studios themselves, the Academy had a quirky naming system. At first, I remember the “first top” and “second top” halls. Then after a few months, we started using names like “first bottom,” “second bottom,” “third A,” and so on. Only two studios had special names. One was “the hall,” where all senior exams were held. The other was “the large hall,” where major rehearsals for our graduation performances took place—the same performances that traditionally took place on the prestigious stage of the Mariinsky Theatre.

So, classical dance classes were slotted into that central daily space, and everything else—academic subjects—was arranged around them. We studied Russian, Piano, music, math, chemistry, physics, social studies, and so on. We started physics and chemistry a little later in our studies, like regular students in a typical school.

We even took the Unified State Exam like everyone else in Russia. We struggled through practice tests, official exams, and written assignments across all our subjects. We really did try to keep up with academic life and took it seriously.

At the same time, we had ballet-specific subjects—both practical and theoretical. As I mentioned earlier, we had etiquette and French from the first grade. I think French ended around the fourth grade, though to be honest, I don't remember exactly. We also had a course called “musical game,” which later evolved into music history and cultural education.

These cultural classes gave us inspiration, helping us become more educated and artistically aware—especially within the context of ballet and the broader cultural world.

All of this—the combination of general subjects and specialized classes—helped us grow into educated specialists in the field of ballet, culture, and dance. One of the first special disciplines we were introduced to in the first grade was historical dance. It’s actually a very interesting subject. We were taught ballroom dances, courtly steps from different eras—it was a completely different rhythm compared to the slow, mechanical exercises of classical dance. Historical dance gave us a chance to actually dance a little, to start feeling our own movement coordination, to get a sense of our organic relationship with dance. That’s so important at the beginning, because classical lessons at that stage were filled with endless repetitions of the most basic mechanics. So this subject gave us a breath of fresh air—something playful and expressive to balance things out. It was also one of the rare classes where we got to stand in pairs with boys, laugh, feel awkward, and slowly learn to overcome that awkwardness. Of course, that discomfort would eventually disappear in our later years at the Academy, and especially once we entered the world of theater—but in the beginning, it was a whole experience in itself.

Our teacher was Nina Viktorovna Ivanovna(?)—a very beautiful woman, always graceful in how she demonstrated movements during historical dance classes. Sometimes she’d raise her voice, but always with warmth, never in anger. We only had historical dance for 45 minutes, twice a week, but even so, those lessons had something truly magical and engaging about them.

I wonder what image you have in your mind right now. What do you imagine when you think of the Vaganova Academy? What do you see when you picture the primary school students? Little girls with neat ballet buns and perfect posture, already imagining themselves as future ballerinas?

Well, let me tell you—we didn’t have a strict school uniform, but we definitely had a set uniform for ballet class.

While we were in our general education classes, there was a sort of unofficial dress code—something black and white, ideally a white top and black bottom. But in reality, it was hard to stick to these rules because we constantly had to change clothes—before and after classical dance lessons. And we always ate into our breaks, so we had very little time to switch outfits. Before class, we also had to warm up properly, so our clothing needed to be functional and warm. In the corridors and classrooms, it could be quite drafty—which, honestly, seems inevitable in any school in our cold northern city. So of course, we all tried to adapt as best we could. Our moms tried to dress us as cozily and warmly as possible.

At one point—I can’t quite remember which grade it was—we were even allowed to wear special tracksuits, custom-made by the Grishko company. These were lilac-colored and specifically designed for students at the Academy. We wore them over our ballet uniforms, with our leotards underneath.

In first grade, the uniform for classical ballet class was all white: white leotard, white skirt, white socks, and white soft ballet slippers. Actually, in the very beginning, we weren’t even allowed to wear skirts—we had to be in just the white leotard. At the time, we didn’t really notice how uncomfortable that was… but looking back, it definitely was.

Now, as an adult, I’d never go into a ballet class wearing just a leotard from the start. I need warm-up clothes at the beginning of a lesson to properly heat up my muscles. Then I can gradually peel off layers—take off my woolen warm-up gear—and be left in just the essentials, which allows for better visibility of muscle work during the lesson.

Over time, the Academy’s ballet uniform evolved a bit. For the younger classes, the leotards were turquoise. Then, starting in 4th and 5th grade, they became lilac. From 6th to 8th year—what we called the “courses”—we wore coffee-colored leotards, like a latte shade.

And speaking of classes, there’s an interesting detail about the naming of grades at the Academy. You enter the Vaganova Academy after finishing 4th grade in a regular school. So, in terms of general education, you're starting 5th grade. But at the Academy, that same year is considered first grade. So the sequence goes like this:

1st year at the Academy = 5th grade general school

2nd year = 6th grade

3rd year = 7th grade

4th year = 8th grade

5th year = 9th grade

6th year = 10th grade

7th year = 11th grade

8th year= 12th grade

So, while we were studying general school subjects like 10th and 11th grade students elsewhere, we were also receiving a professional secondary education in ballet.

Girls were allowed to start wearing special ballet leotards from the second year. So we got used to all of this from a young age.

Now, about this eternal debate: “a leotard—necessary or not?” Ballet uniforms are an essential part of a dancer’s wardrobe—not just in class, but also on stage.

I remember going through a bit of a rebellious phase when I first started working at the theater. I stopped wearing leotards and tights to ballet class. It felt like now that I was a real artist, I should be as free as possible. I thought, “I’m not a student anymore; I don’t need to follow these rules.” So for a while, I didn’t wear a leotard in class. And yes, in some ways it really was more convenient—you didn’t risk ruining a leotard or tights that you might need for a performance.

But after a few years in the theater, I came to realize that ballet leotards and tights are, in fact, one of the defining symbols of an artist’s discipline. And now? I wear pink tights every day for class—because I want to see my legs exactly as they’ll look on stage, in front of an audience.

I also remember that for quite a long time, I was totally lost trying to navigate the Academy’s corridors—I was constantly confused about where everything was. Although to be honest, compared to the Mariinsky Theater, the structure of the Academy building is actually quite simple.

The building itself is beautiful. It was designed by the Italian architect Carlo Rossi, and it stands on a stunning street—one of those perfect architectural imperial ensembles. The street ends at the Alexandrinsky Theater, and the entire row of buildings is painted a soft, pale yellow that gives the whole area an imperial, majestic feel.

I remember being told in class that the street’s length is 220 meters, its width is 22 meters, and the height of the buildings lining it is also 22 meters. Even the numbers speak to a kind of beauty. And the love for beauty wasn’t taught only in ballet lessons, but also in our general education subjects. It was in everything around us—even just walking down the corridors.

Portraits and epigraphs hung on the walls—images of legendary ballet dancers, iconic figures of our art. And of course, all of that couldn’t help but inspire you.

Even now, when I return for exams during my master’s program, I look at those portraits with deep respect and admiration. Now, of course, I understand so much more. I can truly appreciate who these people were—and that’s exactly why they leave such a strong impression on me.

But even back then, something was being built inside of me—a foundation for a lifelong love of this art. A love that’s stayed with me for my entire career... and for life, really.

But after such an enthusiastic monologue about how wonderful, beautiful, and inspiring it all was, it’s only fair to move on to a harder topic—an alarming one, and for us students, the scariest of them all.

Even now, I still remember, with a flutter in my chest and a kind of inner shiver, the classical dance exams. It seems strange to talk now about how anxious we were, but honestly—there are no words to convey the fear. It was pure horror.

And you had to fight that horror—right up until graduation. For some reason, this exam remained the single most terrifying part of our lives as students at the Academy.

The thing is, each year the Academy holds exams in all of the core dance disciplines. But the classical dance exam? That’s the most important one. Sixty students were admitted to our class. By graduation… maybe only half remained. Every year, students are weeded out—those who didn’t manage to master the program. Because the Academy simply can’t produce that many ballet specialists. The training process is grueling and intense.

And here, of course, we have to talk about something heartbreaking—not just the academic challenge, but the physical toll. The tragedies that come from the body not cooperating.

Sadly, and to my deep regret, it happens: some students enter the Academy, study for years—even just one year is a lot, especially for a fragile child’s mind—and they can’t imagine any other path than becoming a dancer. They’ve become totally immersed in this life, in these ideas, in this system—a beautiful system, yes, but also a strict one. And suddenly… the body fails.

Maybe like a weightlifter, your body becomes too muscular. Maybe you begin to grow too fast, or you lose strength. And it’s a tragedy, because that child has no control over it. It’s just genetics. It’s some cruel mix of factors that can’t be influenced or predicted.

Ballet is an aesthetic art. And unfortunately, the jury sitting at those classical exams must assess not only performance, but whether a student matches the visual and physical ideals of the art form. Those who don’t fit that standard... are expelled.

I hate that word—expelled. Expulsion. “You’ll be expelled.” We heard it constantly—from teachers, from classmates. That word burrows into your subconscious. It has a kind of dark, heavy power.

And yes, precisely because of that word—and not only because of it—but because of everything around it, those classical exams were so frightening. It felt like everything—absolutely everything—depended on that one day. How you looked that day. Whether you could nail certain pirouettes or other elements. Whether your turnout was enough on that day. Whether your skirt was correctly aligned with your leotard on that day. It seemed like your entire future would depend on the commission’s evaluation of that day.

But in truth, that’s not how it works at all.

What really matters is how well you know the material. How attentively you’ve listened to your teachers. How engaged and present you’ve been throughout your training. And strangely enough, how much you can remain yourself—not following anyone else’s instructions except your teachers', not trying to mold yourself into what you think the system wants, but working diligently, persistently, with your hands, your feet, your whole being—on yourself.

That’s what truly determines your path.

But at the time, we were convinced the whole world hinged solely on those exams: on that one moment—on that exam.

The anxiety would start building at least a week in advance. A whole week where I could barely breathe. I couldn’t even take a full sigh. And oddly enough, it felt like you had to keep yourself wound up before the exam, just to stay sharp—to make sure you didn’t forget anything, to boost your concentration.

Even now, before performances, I don’t get as nervous as I used to before those exams. And our teachers? They were just as nervous as we were.

After I passed the classical exam, all the others—even those in other special disciplines—never seemed quite as terrifying.

For example, in the fourth year at the Academy, in addition to historical dance, we had a subject called character dance. On stage in classical ballets, this includes dances like the Hungarian, Polish Mazurka, Russian, Spanish, Gypsy dances—all the national folk styles. In ballet, these are called character dances.

The exam in character dance was also challenging and unpredictable. We were definitely afraid of it—but not as much as classical.

I remember starting this whole story with how bored I used to be—just standing there, watching people move their strange little feet, doing strange movements with no meaning. But that boredom faded very quickly. The teachers’ demands grew, and we slowly began to understand what was expected of us. We started to realize how important it all was.

And then came this enormous sense of responsibility. Responsibility to ourselves. To our families. To our parents who supported us through all those years at the Academy. Their support—honestly—it was immeasurable. I don’t know… it seems to me they were far more nervous than we were.

And you’d think, “How is it even possible to be more nervous than we are?” But I’m sure of it—our parents were.

That responsibility—to all those who believe in you—starts to sink in. You must get a good grade. You must make your teacher proud. You must prove to everyone that you can.

That understanding hits quickly. It hits when you see how your classmates are managing certain movements—when you notice that you can’t do something someone else can. Or vice versa—when you suddenly can do something others can’t. And then your name is used as an example, and you feel like, “Okay, I have to do even better. Even better.”

And of course—it was unbelievably interesting. That’s when our journey as ballerinas truly began. Every one of us thought so.

I won’t say it was easy. But I can’t help but admit—it was genuinely fascinating.

Speaking of fascinating moments: one of the most fun parts of our training was stage practice. Especially in the first few years, stage practice was pure joy. Because it happened on the stage of the Mariinsky Theater.

The thing is, in many classical ballets, there are roles for very small children—little ones, who look almost like babies on stage. And that’s where first- and second-year students came in. We were those “babies.”

I don’t even know why it worked that way—but somehow, we really did look much younger than we actually were. Maybe it’s the costumes, maybe it’s the magic of ballet.

And you know what? That illusion of youth continues all through Academy training. Ballet girls and boys… somehow always end up looking older later, and younger earlier.

They seem to mature later. Maybe because of the immense workload. Maybe it’s the refined atmosphere inside the Academy. Who knows?

So, on the stage of the Mariinsky Theatre, we probably didn’t go out right away—but the Academy’s students did, in various performances. There was the Waltz in Sleeping Beauty, the children’s dance in Shurale, the elves in A Midsummer Night’s Dream—and that one was one of my absolute favorites. I got to perform in it as a child, on the stage of the Mariinsky Theatre.

I even took part in the premiere of that ballet. The directors came from the Balanchine Foundation to stage it. It was a completely new experience for us—we weren’t dancing classical choreography, but something fresh, modern, and unfamiliar. George Balanchine’s choreography was introduced to us for the first time as students, and it had us doing these unusual, fascinating movements on stage.

We got to try on new costumes—sewn just for us. Brand new elven headdresses. This whole elven fairytale world of A Midsummer Night’s Dream was magical.

By the way, this ballet—Midsummer Night’s Dream—if it ever comes back to Russian stages, I highly recommend seeing it. It’s like a gentle fairytale, but also a breathtakingly beautiful visual story set to Mendelssohn’s music. It makes you think about things. It makes you marvel at the beauty of Shakespeare, the brilliance of Mendelssohn, and the elegance of Balanchine’s choreography. If you ever get the chance, do watch it.

There were some standard roles for the youngest children in stage practice—like the children kidnapped in the Waltz from Sleeping Beauty, or the children's dance in Shurale. But I didn’t get cast in those parts—I was a little taller than what was needed for those roles.

So instead, in my first year, I danced… a dwarf.

Yes, a dwarf! It was actually a really funny part because kids were supposed to look cute and endearing—and we wore these enormous masks. Honestly, I don’t even know what they were made of. Maybe papier-mâché? The dwarf masks looked amazing from the audience—adorable and just fun. But inside the mask? Honestly… you could barely see anything. At least in mine. I danced that dwarf part several times in a row, in different casts—but I still don’t understand how I managed to dance properly in that mask. It was like moving through a fog. At the Academy, we’d rehearse everything in the studio without the masks, super carefully—but as soon as we put them on, and went out on stage, it was chaos. And then, right as we entered as dwarfs, the lightning and thunder effects would start. In the darkness, with those masks on, we couldn’t see a thing. We bumped into each other, missed our marks—it was kind of a disaster, but also kind of hilarious.

That ballet is still performed now, by the way, at the Minsk Theatre. It’s a beautiful production, a fairytale again—this time about a bird-girl and the arrival of evil spirits. It gets very dark on stage during those scenes—so, naturally, we couldn’t see anything then either. And, as little kids, no one really tells you how to handle that kind of thing. Still, it was a fascinating experience. I think it was actually more exciting than some of the standard children’s dances.

I danced dwarfs in Shurale. I danced elves in Midsummer Night’s Dream. And I also participated in the annual Nutcracker production.

The Nutcracker was performed entirely by the Academy. The graduating students danced the lead roles—Masha and the Prince. Students a bit younger danced the snowflakes, the waltz of the flowers, the parents at the Christmas party—and the youngest children performed as kids at the tree. Every age had their part. In third grade, I danced the pas de trois. And I also danced the doll. It was always an immersion into another, completely magical world. My warmest first memories of the Mariinsky Theatre come precisely from those days of stage practice.

I recently wrote about how even the apples and cutlets in the Mariinsky Theatre buffet left the brightest and most delightful impressions. Just getting to rehearse and perform there was special—but those little details made it unforgettable. Sure, we could dance these same parts in the Academy’s rehearsal halls, and we did, for a long time, over and over. But to actually get to the Mariinsky Theatre… to feel it not just with your hands and feet, but with all your senses—that was a different kind of magic. The cutlets, the cottage cheese casseroles—I adored them. They even gave us those big liter juice boxes for a while, and it all felt so amazing. It seemed to us that someone cared so much about us there. At the Academy, of course, people cared too. But it didn’t feel the same. At the theatre, we felt like royalty—just because we were given such delicious food. Afterwards, we would dance, rehearse, and walk around with joy—completely absorbed in the enchantment of ballet.

That’s probably all I can share with you today, if I try to keep this in the format of a regular conversational video—10 to 20 minutes. Otherwise, I could go on for tens of hours. I could honestly talk about this endlessly.

I am infinitely grateful to all the teachers who guided us through that journey, to everyone who surrounded us at the Academy. I’m grateful to my classmates. To the older students who helped us. To the younger students who stressed because of us.

“The Golden Age” Bolshoi Theatre

Synopsis

Time and place of action - seaside town in the south of Russia; the 1920’s. This was the period of the New Economic Policy (NEP) which allowed private enterprise and trade and, as a result, shady operators and petty criminals flourished. The Golden Age Restaurant is their favorite haunt - here a young dancer, Rita, who appears under the name of Mademoiselle Margot, and her partner, Jacques, in point of fact Yashka, leader of a local gang of bandits, entertain a mixed public of "fast livers". Helping Yashka with his ’jobs’ are his bandit cronies and his friend, Lyuska.  During the town festival and general rejoicing Boris, a young fisherman, member of the satirical agitprop theatre for working youths, meets Rita. They begin to fall in love. But, suddenly, Rita disappears into the crowd, Boris rushes after her. Boris’s search brings him to The Golden Age Restaurant. To his astonishment, he recognizes the dancing Mademoiselle Margot to be Rita, the girl he is looking for.  Boris and Yashka fight over Rita. She is attracted by both young men, by the sincerity and depth of their feelings for her. Boris’s young fishermen friends start a brawl with members of the gang of bandits. Yashka tries to make a run for it, but he is caught. Rita is free: leaving the restaurant forever, she goes off with her beloved Boris to start a new life.

Act I

Scene 1  The town festival. Among the crowd of revelers is Rita. The performance by the agitprop theatre of working youths gets underway. The actors are young fishermen, one of whom is Boris. Rita and Boris are getting to know each other when the former suddenly disappears. Boris hurries off in pursuit.

Scene 2  His search for Rita brings Boris to The Golden Age Restaurant, which is patronized by Nepmen. A variety show is in progress at the center of which are the music-hall stars Mademoiselle Margot and Monsieur Jacques. To his astonishment, Boris recognizes Mademoiselle Margot to be the girl he is looking for. Their joyful reunion doesn’t go unnoticed by Jacques.

Scene 3  The gang of bandits, led by Jacques - Yashka, agree their next ’job’. Lyuska lures two drunk Nepmen, whom the bandits attack and rob.

Scene 4  Returning to the restaurant in his guise of variety artist, Monsieur Jacques catches sight of Boris and Rita dancing. He picks a quarrel with Boris. Rita boldly throws herself between them.

Scene 5  Boris and Rita remain alone. They declare their love to each other.

Act II

Scene 6  Not used to suffering defeat, Monsier Jacques tries to win back Rita, but she rejects his advances and runs off.

Scene 7  In their den, the bandits are ’living it up’. Yashka is inciting them to undertake a new ’job’. He is furious at being turned down by Rita and longs for revenge.

Scene 8  Fishermen are at work on the seashore. Rita turns up in search of Boris. The loving couple are left on their own. The gang of bandits suddenly appears and surrounds the two young people. Yashka’s mates throw themselves at Boris who is outnumbered. Rita runs off for help. Friends come to the rescue and, together with Boris, they go after the bandits.

Scene 9  At the restaurant, the usual clientele of Nepmen are relaxing. Rita’s thoughts are with Boris. She finds the restaurant atmosphere unbearably oppressive, but she has to go through with her number.

Scene 10  Rita decides to leave The Golden Age Restaurant for good. But Monsieur Jacques bars her way, demanding her love. Lyuska overhears their conversation. Seething with jealousy, she throws herself at Yashka knife in hand. Yashka kills her.

Nutcracker “Waltz of snowflakes” danced by Vaganova students for a New Year's concert program, 1980.

Diana Vishneva as Odile, 2006

Ekaterina Maximova in Anyuta (Tarantella)