Dance teachers I have known: Natasha Boskovic
[NOTE: This is part of a series I’ve done. So far I’ve featured dance teachers Stanley Holden and Finis Jhung. There are plenty more I could write about.]
Last night I was musing about the changes in dance in my lifetime, a topic I’ve written about many times and which boils down to the sacrifice of art to gymnastics. Three of the most astounding ballet dancers I’ve ever seen – and I’ve seen many – are Violette Verdy, Carla Fracci, and Galina Ulanova, all of whom I’ve written about and all of whom had a transcendent essence that could not be captured on film. Verdy was the most fleet and musical dancer I’ve ever seen, Fracci the most charming and other-worldly – like an old ballet lithograph come to life – and Ulanova the best at naturalistic believability with a gossamer and fluid technique to support it. There’s no one today anything like them. The entire aesthetic that trained and elevated them is gone.
But I remember, and so do a lot of other people who aren’t young.
Which brings me to a dance teacher I’ve known: Natasha Boskovic. At the ages of fourteen and sixteen I attended an arts camp in Canada at which she was the ballet mistress. I spent many hours under her tutelage every day but Sunday, and even some Sundays when extra rehearsals loomed. She was a colorful old-world figure, with a cabin of her own that included a trunkful of memorabilia and old costumes, and many scrapbooks with wonderful clippings from around the world and marvelous photos of her with famous people in the ballet world of the 1930s.
Natasha had a Slavic accent (it turns out she was originally from Yugoslavia, although I was unaware of it at the time). Her favorite phrase when exasperated was German, however: “Gott in Himmel!” – and considering her task, which was to teach nearly every day and organize a huge end-of-summer dance production with students whom it would be kind to call amateurs, she had plenty of cause for exasperation. But most of the time she was wonderful to us all, although demanding.
Natasha was somewhat crippled, like so many of my early ballet teachers. She wasn’t young but she wasn’t very very old, nor were the rest of them. Dance had injured them way back when, and the injuries never quite healed. This was the case for Natasha, whose partner had dropped her several times (that’s what I recall her saying, anyway), and she had danced through the injuries and paid the price. Now she couldn’t really demonstrate steps but instead indicated them – and of course used the French nomenclature that every ballet student must learn. Sometimes she had one of the more advanced students demonstrate. But her own legs never went higher than a couple of inches off the floor, if that, and she walked with a limp.
One day she was engaged in teaching a friend of mine the Russian Dance from Act III of “Swan Lake,” the ballet we were performing that summer. The third act features dances from around the world, and the Russian variation is one. My friend was having trouble learning the style, which should appear effortless but was hard to pick up, and Natasha got out of her chair to demonstrate.
She hardly bothered with the feet, which didn’t feature pyrotechnics (and the dance was not on pointe; it was meant to be a character dance of the folkish variety). She was showing the arms, head, position of the body, and style.
But first she did the most extraordinary thing. I remember it still, very vividly. She turned on a spotlight inside herself.
I have never seen anyone do that before or since. Suddenly she glowed, although nothing external to her had changed. She radiated some tremendous power that was charismatic and enchanting and made you forget whatever was missing with her feet, or her considerable age. It was riveting, and no one – including the near-professional dancers in our midst – could begin to imitate it.
I have searched online for a video or photo of Natasha and can’t find even one. I doubt photos could capture what I’m talking about anyway. I did find some videos of more recent dancers performing that Russian Dance, but they’re not worth watching. They’re stiff and strange – at least to me – and they dance on pointe which I’m pretty sure was not the original way the dance was done. They strike pretty poses and wave their arms around, but it is nothing – and I mean nothing – like the transcendent artistry I saw in that room on that day.
Here’s the best one I’ve found. This is probably from the 1980s – I see Princess Diana is in the audience – and the dancer is Russian and not all that young. So it’s a bit more old-fashioned than other renditions you’ll see. Some even eliminate the obligatory handkerchief.
Please note the little hand waves that begin at 1:38. They were incredibly hard to perform naturalistically, and Natasha was especially masterful at imbuing them with charm. At around 2:58, note the funny hand rolls that make little sense; in Natasha’s version this was a forceful clap with the hands a la folkdance tradition:
Some years later when I was in my early 20s I attended some weekend classes at Natasha’s New York City studio. The classes were large and featured everyone from the likes of me to professional dancers, attracted by her knowledge and in particular the fabulous combinations she gave in the last half of the class, more like little ballets. I recalled that she had a notebook full of them to which she sometimes referred, but usually she did it completely from memory.
I was there in the summertime, and summer in Manhattan can have heat that’s brutal. Summer in Manhattan in a dance studio could be especially brutal – no air conditioning, ventilation only on one wall, and a room full of sweaty dancers. One day it was so hot that even before the class began we were all sweating. I took a moment, while we waited, to go into the hallway for a little more air.
As with many New York dance studios, this one featured a long long climb “up a steep and very narrow stairway.” At the bottom, I saw Natasha, but she didn’t see me because I was partially hidden by the door. She climbed very laboriously, a few steps at a time, looking alarmingly worn and tired. She frequently stopped to rest and get her wind back, and I believe she may have muttered “Gott in Himmel!” a few times.
I stepped back even further but I could still see her. But then, not many steps from the top, I saw her turn on the floodlights within again, just as I had years earlier. I ducked back into the entrance to the studio as she swept in, a huge smile on her face, looking twenty years younger and glowing from within, as the students applauded. Only I had witnessed the spectacular transformation.
Natasha Boskovic died just a couple of years later. Here is her obituary in the New York Times; it’s short. But in my memory she looms large.
The summer we did “Swan Lake,” I danced a few roles and among them was the Neapolitan Dance, another ethnic offering in Act III. She loaned me an old costume of hers for the occasion, a beautiful thing and easily the most wonderful costume I’ve ever worn, with satin appliques on a wide skirt. Here I am at sixteen:
RIP, Natasha, and thank you. You were rare and wonderful.
Neo, with all due respect to your nom de blog, shouldn’t that other ethnic dance be a Neapolitan Dance? (In any case, I can’t blame you at all for enjoying your star turn in that splendid costume!)
Beautiful neo without the green apple!!!!
PA Cat:
That’s a funny typo. Thanks; I fixed it now.
Ira M. Siegel:
Thanks.
It helps to be 16, though. 🙂
Thank you for sharing these stories.
I have never studied dance, but years ago, when I was in college, I took a class called History of Theater from an actor named Eugene (“Gene”) Saraceni. He was an inspired lecturer because he was “on” as soon as he stepped in front of an audience. Every lecture was a performance, just for us, and of course he was marvelous when reading from a play. I was the only English major in that class–everyone else was a theater major, because it was a required course–and I am so glad that I took that class.
Ah yes, old school. Mine was Ms Sherman at KU, ’70. She used a riding crop to ‘tap’ the correct muscles to get your flex right. That’ll get your arabesque up there.
Neo: your deep love and respect for your dance teachers, and for the dance they taught, are humbling. It is wonderful to read your words and, through them, glimpse the beautiful fire of this art. Thanks.
A great story about a former performer and teacher who could turn on the charisma at will. Wouldn’t we all like to be able to do that?
We all have mostly fond memories of those who taught us. Mine are of coaches – all men in those days. Men who patiently taught us to block and tackle; to run and jump; to ski slalom and cross country; but most of all, how to be men. None of them were famous, but all were good men with high ideals – the salt of the earth.
What a wonderful set of memories you have of this woman, such a significant figure in your life. Clearly a powerful personality with electric charisma. You were lucky to encounter her as you did.
And as a bonus to your faithful readers, that flattering photo of Neo at sixteen. Ah, we all looked better at that age than we do now. I may have looked better then but alas – I never looked anywhere near that good.
I suppose it’s messing with the magic, but would that we could have some sort of a polygraph hooked up to a person who could turn on the GLOW.
Ah, Neo, you keep outdoing yourself. This heartfelt tribute to Natasha Boscovik is such a rare piece of writing — full of a fond warmth yet so keenly observed and expressed. When someone shares an exquisite moment where outward observation combines with inner discovery it’s a lovely thing. The weary climb of those stairs, the transformation and “sweep” into the room, the “spotlight inside herself.” Wherever you choose to meander across the culture, it’s such a delight to tag along.
You are an excellent writer, Neo.
Thanks for posting these remembrances and critiques. They are an uncommon treat for those, like me, who don’t know dance at all. Beautiful just like you at 16!
Natasa Boskovic Bradna:
https://artsandculture.google.com/asset/nata%C5%A1a-bo%C5%A1kovi%C4%87-sreten-stojanovi%C4%87/sAF1-1bb_XrkUA?hl=en
I’ll ask around, see if anyone can find some pictures. There will be resources, she was quite famous in her time.
This has nothing to do with the great Boskovic and everything to do with balletic grace. Look at the male carnatic dancer from South India from 30 to 50 seconds. His movements are captivating.
I neglected to include the address.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dEQmXCxVnQ8&t=72shttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dEQmXCxVnQ8&t=72s
That was fantastic, Bob!
@ Neo > “I saw her turn on the floodlights within again”
My first year in college, I took an Introduction to Philosophy class, because everyone had to take some variety of “liberal arts” in addition to their major (Math at the time in my case; I ditched the theory for the practice once I discovered computers).
The professor was very old, on the edge of retirement, and I settled in for the usual droning recitation of the text he had written (funny how many profs assigned their own works….).
I don’t remember now who or what the subject was, but his face started to glow, and his voice became animated, and he talked about Plato (or perhaps Aristotle) as if he had just seen him that morning for coffee.
Quite extraordinary, and not a daily occurrence, but awesome when it happened.
A long time ago, I read a reminiscence of Marilyn Monroe, doing the same, on the streets of New York. She was walking with another acting student, not attracting any attention at all — and then she turned it “on” and magically became Marilyn, not just another unremarkable attractive woman. That gave me a notion for a scene in one of my Luna City books, where a young woman who is an actress, demonstrates being her ordinary self, and being “on”.
“Amy laughed. “I’m not being a movie star,” she explained, with an air of indulgence. “I’m Marigold Amy Yasbeck, my very own self. I’m not ‘on’ – there’s a difference.”
“What are you, when you’re ‘on’?” Berto inquired, honestly puzzled.
“It’s when … oh, heck, Berto, it’s easiest to show you. Hold these and watch.”
They were passing the front of the Café. … There was a good crowd at the tables, inside and out. Amy pulled off the gauzy shirt and handed it to Berto, along with her glasses, and the elastic band from her pony-tail. She took a deep breath, ran her fingers through her hair, which instantly became a thick, glamorous mane and before Berto’s very eyes, Amy transformed. Her posture and bearing changed. She appeared to glow from within, as she stalked into the Café like a panther on the prowl – lissome, dangerous and drawing every eye to her, as if she was suddenly the most luminously gorgeous and confident woman in the world. Berto could swear that conversation in the Café paused momentarily, as Amy asked for two coffees and two of those lovely frosted cookies. She came out of the Café in the same manner, her hands full. She handed Berto the cups and the cookies, took back her shirt and in the same unsettling manner of her transformation, put on her glasses, and bound up her hair.
“See?” she said, biting into a cookie with ravenous appetite. “That’s ‘on.’”
“Wow!” Berto exclaimed. “That was totally awesome. You wanna do it again?”
“Nope,” Amy replied, completely her every-day Amy-self again. “Wears out the batteries.””
Joel White: what a great piece of sleuthing. Well done.
“That was totally awesome.”
Wonderful story from 70`s.. and beautiful photo of you, dear Neo! Thanks for sharing, that was really interesting <3
My parents were too far removed from the old country, but I recall their stories about their parents or grandparents who used to exclaim, “mein Gott im Himmel.”
Sgt. Mom:
“Wears ou the batteries.” That’s excellent.
Thank you for this wonderful tribute to Natasha Boskovic. I studied with her for approximately 8 years, both in Canada at the arts camp you were at and in NYC. I, also, was enchanted by her radiant presence and her courage in dealing with her pain from her injuries, not to mention her extraordinary knowledge of and love for ballet. She knew so much about not only ballet technique and repertoire but also about lighting, scenery, etc. and how to enhance the performance of her dancers using this knowledge. More than anything, I remember her humanity, her kindness and generosity, her love of laughter and great sense of humor, her love of people and all living creatures. I was one of many who loved and admired her. She helped me more than I ever could have dreamed of as a dancer and in my career. So tragic her brilliant career as a dancer was ended by the accident of her partner dropping her and the disruption caused to it by WWII. When I stopped dancing, I tried to pass on the knowledge of what she had given us to my students. As a young dancer she studied with Preobrajenska in Paris and wrote down Preobrajenska’s classes by a method she, Natasha, created. She taught us these classes at one point and allowed us to copy her notebooks of Preobrajenska’s classes. Many professionals who worked in NYC came to her classes, which were filled with students of all levels. After classes, she would invite us all to coffee, and she often gave parties at her home where she made delicious Russian pastries for everyone. She spread joy wherever she went.