We Move – But First, We Breathe

Fourteen years after dancing the children’s role Mozartiana, I stand before a group of JKO students at American Ballet Theatre’s studios in New York City. I recognize in their posture and eager faces a familiar curiosity and readiness. Now in the role as Children’s Rehearsal Director for the ballet, I undertake the transmission of George Balanchine’s final masterpiece alongside former New York City Ballet principal dancer Maria Calegari, responsible for staging the work for the George Balanchine Trust.

Mozartiana, choreographed by George Balanchine for the New York City Ballet in 1981, was his final major work before his death two years later.  I begin by introducing the significance of Balanchine’s last great work, Tchaikovsky’s transcription of Mozart’s glorious music, and the opening scene of Preghiera.

The curtain rises in silence to reveal five figures centered on an empty stage for the Preghiera (The Prayer).  Backlit in Balanchine’s preferred blue, the ballerina is framed by four girls, all dressed soberly in a Baroque black.  With her eyes lowered, the ballerina awaits the lingering sets of sustained notes before the dancers take their first steps. A peculiar stillness silences the theater.  With a swell in the music, she slowly lifts her eyes. The children’s purity encircles her inner spirituality.

Ballets must be transmitted directly from dancer to dancer, one generation to the next. I recall many long hours at the School of American Ballet in rehearsal with our ballet mistress, Garielle Whittle. Garielle was present at the ballet’s creation, as an understudy for one of the corps ladies. I discover this detail (not disclosed to us children) while rereading Balanchine’s Mozartiana- The Making of a Masterpiece by Robert Maiorano and Valerie Brooks. I dust off my Christmas copy– it was how my mother revealed I had been cast for the role — and gather information to prepare for the four performances for ABT’s 2026 Spring Season.

Learning the children’s intentional steps in the Prayer remains as some of the most important rehearsal moments I had with Garielle Whittle. Although she brought granular attention to every detail in each of the works she taught to us, for Mozartiana, there was something different: a delicacy and spirituality that had a tone different from the other productions. “One day you will understand,” she said.

As I begin to speak to the girls, I recall all the teachings, rehearsals, and the performances. My voice shakes. Preciously stored impressions of  Mozartiana flood me with memories. The music transports me back.

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I am eleven years old. I carefully find my mark with three other SAB classmates. I glance at the ballerina, and set myself in place. I check my position from head to toe. Is my head tilted, with my ear towards my shoulder? Is my chest lifted? Is my ribcage closed?”

Mozartiana, New York City Ballet
Wendy Whelan (center), Katherine Finch, Lilia Hamdy, Callie Rieff, Leah Chen (left to right)
David Koch Theater, Lincoln Center, 2011
Photos by Paul Kolnik

I understand something, but I cannot explain it. I follow my arms and extend my sightline beyond the audience seated in the Fourth Ring. Their eyes shimmer in the dark house; they seem to hold their breath. We are suspended in the silence.

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To transmit all this, we begin as I had learned. Our first rehearsals we spend as with Garielle; we learn how to walk. Careful synchronization with soft bending of the knees, while taking intentional steps, proves challenging to explain. I notice how I must always ask for a change in movement and then cycle backwards. “Not too much!” The students are sharp, they apply each correction carefully. After a few rehearsals of assembling the movement, I resign to a chair to watch them in silence. What is missing, I realize, is not purely technical, it is thematic.

“Before we move, what happens first?” I ask a group of puzzled faces.

“We breathe!” I cannot retain my realization. The Prayer, made up of sequences of walking, running, and posing in formations, requires a connecting element – otherwise, it becomes static.

I transmit my idea by referring to a balloon planted deep in their chests. They now have an image for their lungs. Each movement stems from the expansion of their balloon, so extensively as to push their upper arms, then chins, then faces, upwards, until they can no longer hold their balloon down. Only then, they must surrender to their next movement. The tension between this balloon expanding, and its deflation into the next sequence, provides the quality of dynamics I am seeking in their movement.

These moments are at first singular as we identify them, but when connected to the music, they interrelate. I point out how The Prayer “builds.” Crescendos gradually intensify, directing the incentive to control and channel the levels of their energy into each section, as reflected in the score.

I see the girls starting to understand. They turn to face me. Entranced, with a slight furrow of their brows, and a gaze beyond their sightline. Their “balloons” deflate in “preparation,” and inflate more carefully than ever.

They peel open arms slowly from their center as petals, their chests swelling like seeds. I see a vision of a microcosm of death and rebirth. As three long notes are held, I witness their discovery a new connection to music and movement. I, too, begin to understand more about the work and the mystery of all it can convey.