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| Mikhail Baryshnikov |
Life’s Work: An Interview with Mikhail Baryshnikov
Mikhail Baryshnikov began studying ballet at age nine in his native Riga, Latvia, then part of the Soviet Union. By his early twenties, he had been described by one critic as “the most perfect dancer I have ever seen” and was the star of the famed Kirov Ballet. In 1974 he defected to Canada, then settled in the U.S. at the American Ballet Theatre, where he later became artistic director. He left in 1989 to cofound a modern dance company and take on film, theater, and TV roles. He is now the artistic director of the Baryshnikov Arts Center and, at age 63, still performs.
Your career has been all about reinvention—classical to modern dance, stage to film to TV, performing to managing and back again. Why?
It’s instinctive. There’s an internal clock that dictates what interests me at any given time. Change in any person’s life is propelled by an almost primal need to explore, to test boundaries. I just follow that urge. In some cases, I look at what others are doing and stubbornly go in the opposite direction. Sometimes it works, sometimes I fail. There are no guarantees.
How hard was the transition to management?
I’ve had the good fortune to work with very structured dance companies, and I could see early on what a huge responsibility managing one would be. When I took it on, it was a growing-up experience. It forced me to make artistic decisions unrelated to my own career and to think more seriously about creating opportunities for others. I think what I’ve been best at is sticking to a vision for whatever group I’m leading, making the tough decisions that might not favor the people I like but that make sense for the organization as a whole. When I’m working with other artists I can be an obedient puppy, but in an office situation I like to think I’m the big dog. I don’t want to take direction. I haven’t always been as patient as I should have been, expecting too much, too fast, and getting frustrated with how long it can take to build support for new ideas. But I’m still learning.
You’ve worked with the legends of dance—Alexander Pushkin, George Balanchine, Twyla Tharp, Jerome Robbins, Alvin Ailey. What can you tell us about effective mentoring?
I don’t consider myself a mentor; I’m more of a cheerleader. But the best lesson from all the people I’ve worked with is to understand who you are as a person on stage. Whatever new craft you learn has to go through your own psychology, your own body and mind, in order to come out as something revealing and interesting for the audience.
How about effective teamwork?
I’ve always liked the camaraderie of group performance. To really collaborate, you have to figure out how to work with anyone and give 100%. It’s about spitting out your ego and becoming a foot soldier when necessary. The creative process isn’t a human rights march. Some things aren’t fair. Creators can be temperamental, but they have to be forgiven in this business. If you can’t deal with that, you should step out.
You learned 26 new roles in your first two years as principal dancer at the ABT. At the New York City Ballet it was 20 in a year. What’s the key to mastering new roles quickly?
There is no one secret. It takes positive energy, talent, a lot of hard work, and a willingness to absorb everything possible from the people you’re working with. And some luck surely helps. I don’t think I always mastered everything. Sometimes I took on too much. But it was a young person’s appetite. In retrospect, I think the failures might have been the most important experiences.
Can you give me an example?
Why are you trying to make me remember things I’ve worked so hard to forget? Seriously though, failures are the best school you can get. But let’s not go into details.
How do you handle pre-performance jitters?
There’s no magic pill, but by the time those nerves hit, there’s nowhere to go but forward.
You’ve hinted at retirement. But at 63 you’re still dancing. Have you gotten better with age?
I don’t know how much longer I’ll dance, but I’ve certainly learned how to pace myself. I’m not sure it’s up to me to decide what, if anything, has improved. I can only say that age forces you to pare things down to what’s essential.
I’ve read that you hate critics.
Well, that’s an exaggeration. It’s just that there’s no easy way to be completely objective as a critic. And most artists don’t want to be subjected to someone else’s opinion of their work anyway.
Do you have an inner critic?
You absolutely have to have one—maybe a whole stable of them.
What type of recognition do you value most?
I don’t really put a lot of value on recognition from others. I mean, it’s always nice when people are appreciative. If they’re still thinking of something they saw me do in a performance somewhere, that’s great, but I just try and do my best. That’s all I can do.
What have been your most satisfying professional experiences?
Meeting all the bizarre, weird, beautiful people in the arts. They are divinely obsessed, and that has made my life so much more interesting than I could have imagined.
Who has been most inspirational?
I like to kiss, but I don’t tell.
You’re one of the world’s most famous Soviet defectors. Were there positive aspects to the environment you fled? And do you see any downsides to being a performance artist in the United States?
The Soviet system gave me my occupation, my craft. They schooled me, and that is the biggest present a government can give a young person. When I left, I escaped government control over the individual but inherited total responsibility for myself. That wasn’t so difficult for me because I was already known and had plenty of opportunities. But performers in the U.S. really have to figure out how to survive, how to refine their talent without much support from government—or from anyone else, for that matter. And don’t get me started on the lack of government support for arts education in the U.S. But, you know, even with the negatives, I’d still drop my anchor here in this country if I had to make the choice again.
Why is the BAC a cross-disciplinary organization?
The more you see, the more you know, and—hopefully—the better you get. There is this idea that artists shouldn’t “pollute” their creative instincts by seeing other artists’ work. I think this is wrong. Any place that provides a common ground for artists to learn from one another is a good thing.
Why are you so good at what you do?
Please don’t make me think about this. This is the worst thing one can do: sit around and think about how good you’ve gotten at something. Besides, I’m not always so great—ask my wife.
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