Every Step You Take (28 page)

Finding and exploring these many paths is what I have been trying to do since retiring as a dancer, and I am happy to report that if you are alert and open and interested, you can find many opportunities for creativity and meaningful expression every day in this long dance called life. On June 20, 2005, the morning after the day I retired, I began my classes at the Institute of Culinary Education and a year later I had my degree in restaurant business management—just as I had planned. I have always enjoyed cooking, but now more than ever I understand the ways in which the disciplined and applied art of cooking resembles that of choreography and dancing. All three are about the quality of the ingredients used, the creativity that goes into the way they are combined, and the timing and precision with which the prescribed actions are executed. All of them involve performances that have a beginning, a middle, and an end—as does the career of a dancer. Of course, the parallels between cooking and dance are not unknown. Balanchine's love of food and his dedication to the art of cooking were renowned. When Mr. B's fourth wife, Tanaquil Le Clercq, published
The Ballet Cook Book
, she quoted Balanchine on the qualifications of a true cook: “No matter what he does, he must not rush, yet he must not be late, and the finished product must be exquisite. You need patience, and finally you have to appease your public's appetite. Besides this, it should be inexpensive enough to be accessible, and, in itself, the whole must be pretty and there must be a lot of it.” The same qualifications, of course, might easily be applied to the challenge of creating a successful ballet company!

For Luis and me, working together in the kitchen has become a kind of secondary partnership—a performing partnership. We love entertaining our friends—it knits our worlds together—and we do some catering when our schedules allow it. In September 2005, shortly after I retired, we catered Wendy Whelan's wedding to David Michalek. It was a complete joy. That same year we threw a New Year's Eve party for twenty-two in our tiny walk-up studio. I remember it being quite a party, with five courses and an array of fine wines. We asked each of our guests to bring a bottle of Veuve Clicquot—we all laughed when little Yvonne Borree brought a magnum, almost too big for her to carry, and tall, handsome Amar Ramasar brought a split—and we put all twenty-two bottles in an ice chest. At about 2 a.m. we folded the tables and put them aside so that we could all dance. I can still picture Wendy jumping up and down on my couch wearing a big New Year's top hat.

Teaching my ballet classes at SAB is another major path that allows me to participate in the kind of creative alchemy that I experienced when dancing. My classes with my students always excite me—I am continually amazed and thrilled by their talents and accomplishments, and I am always learning as much as they are. Ironically, I often find myself using cooking metaphors to critique their exercises. “Don't stir her like a pot of soup! She is not a pot of soup!” I screamed at one poor boy the other day. “Don't stand there like a frozen fish stick,” I told another. When an ensemble exercise with eighteen boys was horridly executed I stopped them and scolded: “You're not supposed to look like popcorn!” “This is a drumroll, this is a magic act,” I often remind them. “It has to look like something, and every step you take has to mean something.”

I am struck more and more these days by how privileged I was, and am, to be a part of this school that was Lincoln Kirstein's beautiful idea and George Balanchine's dearest dream. It all begins in the classroom, and all of us who teach at SAB believe it is our duty to carry on and expand the legacy of Balanchine's vision and art. Peter Martins and Kay Mazzo believe this. Darci Kistler, who was Balanchine's “last ballerina,” and who retired as a dancer in 2009, believes it. Andrei Kramarevsky, who once taught me, and who is in his eighties and still teaching, believes it. I believe it. Witnessing the beauty of this continuation, as students learn to perform with dignity and pride, is always an emotional and deeply moving experience, and I find watching them perform in choreography workshops, where students work with students to create new pieces, particularly inspiring. It is wonderful to see the innocence and joy they bring to every moment of their performance, and to know that nobody can ever take that feeling away from them.

I sometimes try to explain to my students that they are all at SAB for a reason, and that this is the starting point of an incredible journey that can transform them into true artists. It all begins in the classroom. Dancing can't have an ego, I tell them, and it will not make them millionaires. But they will have an opportunity to share and touch a part of Balanchine's legacy—or, as Darci sometimes says, the “fairy dust.” As a teacher I sometimes get to watch a talented student or young company member metamorphose, in the course of a single performance, into a real artist. It can happen onstage in an instant. It's amazing—boom! Suddenly she is a full-blown ballerina, or he is a brilliant principal. What a thrilling and magical process to witness. Miraculous, even. It is moments like this that make me realize how blessed I have been.

As I look back now over the years since I retired, I am actually pleasantly surprised by how many different paths to different stories I have already explored. In addition to my cooking and my full-time teaching at SAB and making the documentary
Water Flowing Together
with Gwendolen Cates, I have been invited to give talks on various dance topics, conduct workshops on partnering, and travel to different places as a visiting artist. In 2006 I went to London for three weeks to stage
Afternoon of a Faun
for the Robbins Foundation with the Royal Ballet; in 2007, to my great delight, I got to work once more with Peter Martins—probably the most important and influential man in my life besides Luis, and one who still calls me his “second son”—choreographing a new ballet. I played Lord Capulet to Darci's Lady Capulet in NYCB'S new
Romeo and Juliet
. I have begun to choreograph a few pieces, both for the school and for other forums, and every year I get the special treat of traveling around the country to audition kids for the school. It is always so thrilling to spot new talent, and it always takes me back to those days long ago when I myself was a little boy with big dreams.

One of my most interesting projects since retiring—and an experience that brought me back full circle to my own heritage—came when I was a guest teacher at the Banff Centre for the Arts, teaching classical ballet to Native American dancers. Most of my students had never had any experience with classical ballet, and I was impressed by how eager they were to learn—they did not have a single shy bone among them. I was also impressed by the amazing natural rhythm they had, in their bodies and in their souls. It was palpable. It has always been a dream of mine to find a way to help young Native Americans understand that it is okay to leave the reservation—that it is possible to have big dreams and to pursue them and to change your life.

Since my mother's death, the process of reexamining my life and reaching beyond the world of Lincoln Center has taken me on so many journeys, and opened me up to new experiences and new ways of thinking that I would never have expected to encounter. I have been asked, for instance, to host assorted arts events for a local television network, and recently two film producers followed Luis and me through the steps of one of our catering jobs (we honored our puppy, Tristan, by naming our company “Lucky Basset”) to film a pilot for a potential cooking show. Another example of the new frontiers I am exploring involves what has previously been an awkward topic for me—spirituality and faith. For a time when I was little my parents used to drop Kiko and me at Sunday school every week in Arizona, but they never stayed to attend the church services themselves. (I have always assumed this was their way of getting some private time to have sex.) In my years as a free-roaming ballet wolf cub in New York I certainly never attended church, and Balanchine was the only god I ever acknowledged. For years I made the sign of the cross every time I was about to go onstage to perform, but that was more about superstition and repetitive motion than religion. But now, in my midforties, I feel I am gaining some perspective on a deeper and more spiritual way of life. I find I have a greater desire to share my thoughts and feelings with others, to communicate with and understand others—in my job as a teacher and in my outside life as well. “'Bout time,” Mom would probably say.

We have finally finished building the house in New Mexico—“Mama Jo's house,” as we all call it—thereby gaining initiation into the mixed bag of thrills and horrors that comes with home building and home ownership. The more time I spend at this house the more I am struck by the exceptional skies and landscapes that surround it—the dramatic mixes of storm clouds and rainbows, the gushes of wind that set the brilliant yellow aspen trees dancing, the shimmering shiny blue and dark blue tapestry of the lake surface, which changes texture constantly throughout the day. I know it is odd for someone like me, who has spent his whole life running away from the reservation and my Navajo heritage, to be looking out at the same land now with such curiosity and passion. But everything looks so alive—I feel I could watch it forever. When I am out there I love taking long hikes and steeping myself in the natural beauty of the surrounding mountains; every expedition tells me a different story, even if I am walking the same trail. I have begun to make friends with my neighbors in this tiny town, and they are all kind and fun and full of fascinating information about experiences from all over the world. For the first time I am opening up to the comforts and joys of an alternate home base in a place far away from New York City.

In the first months after Mom died I felt like the world had gone on intermission, and I was passively waiting for the performance to start up and come to its conclusion. I feel that way much less often now, and there are many days when I feel that I am back onstage and a part of a vibrant performance. Possibly my mother herself is guiding me to this spiritual place, but step-by-step I am learning how to live without her for the time being—I know I will be with her again someday. And day by day my father has begun to play a more important role in my life. I make frequent trips to the house, where we spend time together, and whenever I go to Albuquerque to audition students for the SAB summer course, I see Pop. He picks me up at the airport and drives me to the Eagle Nest house. I cook for him and organize his things and make his room comfortable. All those years that he drove me to ballet class and bought me ballet shoes and tights—he deserves some rest and relaxation.

Losing my mother has undoubtedly been the greatest trial I have had to bear so far in my life, but it has brought important lessons. The first of these—that we are all mortal, and that our time here is our most precious possession—is the most obvious. My mother's long illness, stressful and sad as it was, had the upside of drawing many of the far-flung members of my extended family together; our shared love for her will continue after her death. Kiko's sons, Trevor and Bryce, are in constant communication with all of us now, and for the first time ever my father and I are growing close.

Recently we buried Mom's ashes at the foot of a beautiful pine tree that stands in front of the Eagle Nest house—a tree in honor of my mother, in a land my mother honored. I imagine this tree growing to be the tallest tree in the valley. I remember reading that Native Americans believe trees are vibrant with energy and call them our “standing brothers.” This tree will be my standing mother, overlooking the valley and protecting us the way she always has. Next year, when I host a family reunion at Mama Jo's house in Eagle Nest, I will make sure that all of her siblings attend. This will be my family hoop dance—getting all of us in one place together, with my mother watching over us from her little nest beneath the pine tree.

I
T HAS BEEN
more than three years now since Mom died, and more than five years since I left the stage. On the morning that marked the second anniversary of Mom's death—March 25, 2010—I was making coffee in the kitchen when I heard the music from Balanchine's
Brahms-Schoenberg Quartet
(the Brahms Piano Quartet in G minor, as orchestrated by Arnold Schoenberg) on the radio. I may have been a little sentimental because of thoughts of my mother, but the sound of the music brought me to tears—and it brought back such beautiful memories. I danced three of the movements of that piece when I was in the company. I was lucky enough to be cast by Peter to do the third movement with Darci when I was very young. Later on, I danced the second movement with Patricia McBride, and then with Heather. And, finally, I danced the fourth movement with Monique Meunier and Kyra Nichols. Each of these roles was different in its way, and each was danced differently with each partner each time we performed. The astounding beauty and freedom and opportunity embraced by this one ballet—it all seems to me as wide as the universe. All of this beauty and freedom is what I had wanted for as long as I can remember. And thanks to my parents and a cast of brilliant teachers, choreographers, dancers, and students, all of this I received.

As I look back on a story that meanders from a remote region in the Arizona desert through three turbulent decades in Manhattan and the world at large, I am overwhelmed by the passion and gratitude I feel for the experiences I have had, both as a dancer with the New York City Ballet and as a member of my family. I can see that both experiences have been a crucial part of who I am today, and I am more and more comfortable with the decisions I have made in my life. I did leave the reservation; I did separate from my family at a young age to pursue a personal dream—but this is okay. I have had a wonderful life thus far, and there is still much more to come. Again, I wish there was a way I could tell every little boy and girl—not just those out on the reservation where I grew up, but everywhere—that it is okay to dream, and to dream big. The paths you can follow through life are as infinite as the stars that populate the desert night sky. And while I may be the product of a confusing mix of influences, with every day that passes I feel more confident and proud of that mix: I can now say with complete confidence that I am one very happy, very lucky Navarican-Puertojo-desert-born-New-York-bred-gay-recently-engaged-part-time-cook-fledgling-choreographer-proud-first-time-home-owner-recently-published-author-retired-dancer-ballet-teacher. Oh—did I mention that I have a first name of Hebrew origin and the last name of a man who is not my grandfather? To celebrate all my happiness and my good fortune and my bright hopes for the future, I am thinking of printing up a new business card that reads: