Position on the point justly claims attention as an acrobatic wonder, when it is taken barefooted. And a dancer who, barefooted, can perform steps on the point, supporting herself easily with one foot off the floor, is simply hyper-normal in strength of ankles, feet, and legs. Miss Bessie Clayton is such a one, and very likely the only one. It is a feat whose absence from formal dancing is not felt, though its use would be effective in some of the re-creations of Greek work. There is evidence that the early Greeks practiced it, as before noted. In our own times, there is only one instance, among the stories ever heard by the authors, of barefoot work on the point being done in public; and that performance, oddly enough, took place in precedent-worshipping Spain. The occasion was one of those competitions that Spaniards love to arrange when two or more good dancers happen to play the same town at the same time. Tremendous affairs; not only does rivalry approach the line of physical hostilities among the spectators, but the competition draws out feats of special virtuosity that the dancers have practiced secretly, in anticipation of such contingencies. La Gitanita (the Little Gipsy), one of the competitors in the event referred to, had, for some years, put in a patient half-hour a day on the ends of her bare toes, without the knowledge of any but the members of her family. When, therefore, at the coming of her turn in the competition, she threw her shoes to the audience, and her stockings behind a wing, and danced a copla of las Sevillanas on the point, the contest was settled. Most of the spectators never had heard even of the existence of such a thing as toe-work, because it does not exist in Spanish dancing. The experience to them was like witnessing a miracle; so it happens that La Gitanita, many years dead, is still talked of when Spanish conversation turns to incredible feats of dancing.
With such rare exceptions as the above, however, the person who is happy in seeing difficulties overcome is best repaid by watching the manner instead of the matter. There is hardly a step but can be floundered through, if real execution be disregarded. The difficulties that take years to master, that keep the front rank thin, are those of nobility, ease and precision of action. Naturally, it is harder to preserve these qualities through a renversé than in a pas de Basque; but there is no merit in exhibiting a renversé badly done. The latter is a pertinent instance of things difficult to do well. A fouetté tour “inward” is not safely attempted by any but the most skilful; nor is either a fouetté or a rond de jambe, finishing in arabesque. To keep the movement continuous, imperceptibly slowing it down as the arabesque settles into its final pose, requires ability of a rare grade.
As the little alternating steps furnish the means of regaining equilibrium after a big pas or tour, it follows that their elimination from an enchainement represents a tour de force. This is especially true if the big steps be taken at a slow tempo (as an adagio, so called); and difficulties are compounded if the artist performs the entire adagio on the point. Few there are in any generation who can attempt such a flight.
But there are many qualities justly to be demanded of any artist who steps before an audience. Crisp, straight-line movements should be cleanly differentiated from the soft and flowing. An entrechat not as sharp-cut as a diamond represents incompetent or slovenly workmanship. The same applies to other steps of the staccato character—as battements, brisés, pirouettes sur le cou-de-pied. Each dancer rightly has his own individuality; and the movements of one will be dominated by a liquid quality, while another’s will be brilliant, or “snappy.” But a dancer who is truly an artist has, within his scope, a good contrast between the several types of movement. Lack of such contrast may cause a sense of monotony even in very skilful work. Elevation also is important in preserving a sense of variety. Not only plié and rise are made to serve; raisings of the arms add immensely to the sense of vertical uplift when height is sought.
A certain conformity to geometrical exactness is necessary to the satisfaction of the spectator’s eye, and is observed by all but the incompetent. Not that movement should be rigid—very much to the contrary. “Geometry” is a sinister word; interpreted in a sense in which it is not meant, it would be misleading. An example is sometimes clearer than attempted definitions or descriptions.
If, having given an order for a grandfather’s clock, the recipient found on delivery that it did not stand quite straight, he would be annoyed. Suppose then that further observation revealed that the face of the clock was not in the middle, that the centre of the circle described by the hands was not the centre of the face, that the face was no more than an indeterminate approximation of a circle, and that the numerals were placed at random intervals; the eye of the clock’s owner would be offended. Various æsthetic and psychological arguments might be applied to the justification of his feeling, but they are not needed. The futility of near-circles, approximate right angles and wobbly lines is felt instinctively. Yet the eye rejoices in the “free-hand” sweep of line correct in placement, though not subjected to the restrictions of straight-edge and compass. Asking for acceptance in such sense of the terms “geometrical” and “precision,” we may return to our discussion of the ballet.
The decorative iniquity of the hypothetical clock attaches to all dancing that fails to give to precision the most rigourous consideration. The imaginary circle described in a pirouette for example, is divided into halves and quarters. Let us suppose the pirouette to end in arabesque, stopping on the half-circle, bringing the dancer in profile to the audience: a very few degrees off the half-circle are, from the ballet-master’s point of view, about of a kind with a few centimetres separating the misplaced clock hands from their proper situation in the centre of the dial. The petit rond de jambe has its imaginary quarter of the great circle in which to play, and which it must fill. In a fouetté, the sweep of the foot starts at the quarter-circle (marked by an imaginary lateral plane through the dancer’s body), and reaches back just to the half-circle (defined by a similar plane, drawn longitudinally). The lateral elevations of the legs are likewise subject to law, the imaginary vertical circle described by the leg as radius being divided into eights, to allow the leg to use the angle of forty-five degrees; experience shows that this diagonal, half a right angle, is pleasing to the eye and not disturbing to the senses.
The hands and forearms are turned in such a way as to eliminate elbows, the coincidence of a contour of the arm with an arc of a big (imaginary) circle being always sought.
The convention of “toeing out” has as an object the showing of ankles and legs to the best advantage. On the flat foot the advantage is not so apparent; but experiment shows that pointing out and down greatly helps the appearance of a foot in the air. The supporting foot and leg also show the benefit of the device as soon as the dancer rises to the ball of the foot or the point. Moreover, it is obvious that the pointing of a supporting foot forward would necessitate changes from the classic form of many steps.
Recent years have brought out a volume of protest to the effect that the classic ballet’s restriction of movement too severely limits expression. The protest is right or wrong according to point of view, and point of view is a matter of historical period. The French school comes to us from a time when men kissed hands and drew swords in exact accordance with accepted forms, and the favoured house-decoration was a tapestry designed on lines purely architectural. The present is a moment of much concern about freedom of the individual, and its expression. Curiosity is at boiling-point. Narrative is sought. We want something to happen, all the time. And those who fail to see the actual occurrence want the story of it to be graphic. Moving pictures are very satisfying to the majority. Acres of popular pictures are painted in boisterous disregard of order or harmony of line and form. It would be very pleasant for those who enjoy optical beauty, if public taste required beauty as a first requisite for popularity. Nevertheless, popular pictures as they are do no particular harm, probably, either to those who like them or to those who do not.