with a coach to try and develop it, but a true artist has the ability to express his inner feelings naturally. Some roles bring this out more than others. When I danced the role of Solor in La Bayadère, I was not Fernando Bujones interpreting a role. The minute I put on his turban, I was that Hindu warrior in the palace.”
“How does one make this shift?”
“I don’t think there is a technique for this. It is governed by one’s soul. As soon as I began rehearsing La Bayadère, I felt this character in my skin. The same thing happened when I danced the role of the flamboyant Basilio in Don Quixote. With my Hispanic roots, no one had to say to me, ‘Let me see that Latin fire.’ It was there from day one. I felt it deeply in my soul. And there were other characters, like the Scotsman James in Les Sylphides. James is noble and romantic, a dreamer and a poet. His lyrical nature brought out the softer side in me. Dancing these roles I found within myself the capacity for both fire and poetry. Sometimes I feel so powerful I can break down a wall with my temper, my fire, my strength. At other times I can hand a woman a handkerchief and tenderly caress her. My wife Maria says she fell in love with me because I am half barbarian and half prince,” he added with a burst of laughter.
“You exude a great deal of confidence and self-assurance. I imagine this served you well throughout your career.”
“Some people confuse that confidence and determination with arrogance. I’m not arrogant. I am confident. When I stood on the stage as a dancer, I felt as if I were ten feet tall. How is the audience going to take you seriously if you don’t have a captivating stage presence, one that comes from inside of you?”
“You were criticized in the past for making derogatory remarks about Baryshnikov. What prompted your remarks?”
“I was nineteen when I said in a New York Times interview that ‘Baryshnikov has publicity, but I have talent.’ I had just won the gold medal at the International Ballet Competition in Varna, Bulgaria—the first American male dancer to do so. I was standing up for myself, and for the American dancers. I wasn’t saying that Baryshnikov had no talent. My intention was to point out that the Russian defectors were getting all this publicity, but their talent did not exceed ours in the United States. That statement went around the world like lightning and created a big controversy.”
“Did the two of you become rivals?”
“Yes, Baryshnikov and I had a strong rivalry, like Placido Domingo and Luciano Pavarotti had at one time. After he became artistic director of ABT, many thought I would leave but I stayed for six years. Our backstage rivalry played out on the stage and audiences loved it. It helped sell tickets. We never did become friends. The rivalry always seemed to be in the way.”
“Your dancing career spanned thirty years. It must have been very tough for you to retire.”
“I gave my farewell performance with ABT in 1995 at the Metropolitan Opera House. I was forty years old. It was an emotionally heartbreaking evening for me. I knew that I was closing a chapter of my life and tried to prepare for it. When I made my entrance, the audience burst into applause and bravos for almost a minute and a half. I could hardly hear the music over the din. The evening ended with a twenty-minute standing ovation.”
About a year later, on a hot muggy day in New York City, I met Fernando and his wife, Maria, on the plaza at Lincoln Center, hoping to snap a few photographs of the legendary ballet dancer. Before posing Fernando in front of the Metropolitan Opera House, where for three decades he had mesmerized audiences with his brilliant dancing, Maria patted clear powder on his face to remove any shine that might show up in the photos. He kissed her, stepped out in the sun, and turned on the charm. Wearing a blue shirt, dark suit, and robust smile, he looked majestic before the lens in a pose reminiscent of Don Quixote. I had no idea that this would be the last time he would pose for a portrait. Only a couple of months later, Fernando would be diagnosed with malignant melanoma, which would take his life on November 10, 2005, at the age of fifty. My photograph of him in front of the Met would appear on the opening page of a tribute in the January issue of Dance Magazine, which hailed Fernando as a dancer of spectacular bravura and styling.
Orlando, 2004New York, 2005
Leonard arrived for our session at 10:00 A.M. sharp. I invited him into my kitchen to keep me company while I poured us some coffee and arranged some muffins on a plate.
“I brought something to show you, Rose,” he said, handing me an oversized book entitled Nijinsky Dancing, by Lincoln Kirsten. I took a minute to flip through the pages, stopping to study some of the photographs of Nijinsky in his various roles. If Leonard’s intention was to stir my interest in this dance legend—as famous for his dancing as for the tragic culmination of his life—then he succeeded. I handed him the plate of muffins and led him past my photo studio to the family room.
“Leonard,” I began. “How did you come to dance?”
“My doctor recommended that I take ballet to strengthen my legs. At the age of four I was diagnosed with a form of polio. I was in a wheelchair for a couple of years before graduating to a leg brace and a ‘Frankenstein shoe’—you know, one of those platform shoes. When I turned eight years old, I began studying ballet. It was much harder than it looked and I couldn’t do it to save my soul. This made me angry, so I vowed to master the technique whatever the cost. I stayed with my first teacher, Dorothy La Spina, for about a year. When my family moved to the other side of town, I took classes with Stefan Wenta and a gentleman named George Zorich, a former dancer of the Ballet Russes de Monte Carlo. Zorich had been trained by the Imperial School in Russia—the same training that Nijinsky had. I learned Petroushka and Afternoon of a Faun, two of Nijinsky’s most famous dances, directly from George, who learned them from Leonid Massine, who learned them directly from Nijinsky. The famous dancer Anton Dolin, whom I’d met when he was in his eighties, likened me to a young Nijinsky. Dolin had been Diaghilev’s lover and knew Nijinsky very well. He had even visited him in the insane asylum. Mysteriously, I have inherited Nijinsky’s legacy.”
“That’s amazing.”
“What’s also amazing is that Nijinsky and I were the same size, had the same build with virtually the same proportions. I fit perfectly into all his costumes. He was 5'4'' and wore 6E size shoes, and so do I. We also had similar facial construction. I am part Sioux Indian, which accounts for my high cheekbones and slanted eyes. Nijinsky also had high cheekbones and slanted eyes typical of his Tartar ancestry.”
“Do you think you were destined to dance?”
“Well, I don’t know. I think people make choices in life. But I do believe in following one’s instincts. Long ago, I chose to live my life in dance and I can’t imagine ever stopping—ever. They say ballet is supposed to end at thirty. Not for me it won’t, not unless I suffer some catastrophic illness or accident. But, if I were forced to stop, I’d dance in my mind, like Nijinsky did. After he went insane he danced in his mind the rest of his life—thirty years. Just imagine what he must have envisioned during his years in the asylum.”
“Why do you think he went insane?”
“Nobody knows exactly what insanity is, not even doctors. They can’t tell you what causes someone to snap, to break. Artists deal with emotions and are sometimes consumed by them. When this happens, their emotions dictate behavior. I think this
